The dawn came too early, as dawns always did when you'd barely slept.
Jason woke to the sound of the khalasar stirring—forty thousand warriors preparing to move, horses being saddled, tents being struck, the organized chaos of an army on the march. For a moment he lay still, disoriented, feeling the warm weight of Daenerys against his side and trying to remember where he was.
Then memory crashed back like a freight train: Pentos. The wedding. The fight. Drogo's throat opening under his blade. Becoming khal of the largest khalasar in recent memory.
*Right. That happened.*
"Fuck," he muttered.
"That's not a very kingly thing to say," Daenerys murmured sleepily against his chest.
Jason looked down, surprised. "You're awake."
"Hard to sleep through forty thousand men preparing for war." She smiled up at him, silver-gold hair tangled from sleep, eyes still heavy-lidded. "Though I tried. You're very comfortable."
"I'm six-foot-five of scar tissue and bad decisions."
"Comfortable scar tissue." She stretched like a cat, then sat up reluctantly. "We should prepare. The bloodriders will expect us to be ready at first light, and the sun is already rising."
Jason sat up as well, his body cataloguing the previous night's damage with professional efficiency. The cut on his ribs was now just a pink line—Lazarus Pit working overtime. His nose had set itself mostly straight while he slept, though it ached. Various bruises from Drogo's hits were already fading to yellow-green.
Accelerated healing was convenient, but it never stopped being unsettling to watch your body repair itself like time-lapse footage.
"Jason?" Daenerys was watching him with concern. "Are you alright?"
"Yeah. Just..." He gestured vaguely at his torso. "Still getting used to healing this fast. In my old life, a fight like last night would've put me down for a week, minimum."
"The Lazarus Pit's gift."
"Curse," Jason corrected. "But yeah."
The tent flap opened without preamble—apparently privacy wasn't a huge Dothraki concern—and Jhiqui entered, arms full of clothing. She stopped when she saw them sitting together in the furs, Jason shirtless and Daenerys disheveled, and something like approval flickered across her face.
She spoke in rapid Dothraki, too fast for Jason to fully parse, but the gist was clear: the khal and khaleesi needed to dress and present themselves. The khalasar was waiting.
"Tell her I'll need armor," Jason said in his halting Dothraki. "The red armor. The one I fought in."
Jhiqui nodded and departed, calling for the other handmaids.
Daenerys stood gracefully, seemingly unbothered by the lack of privacy as she began selecting riding clothes from the chests that had been moved into the tent. Jason tried very hard to look anywhere else—a losing battle when you were sharing a tent with someone—and focused on finding his own clothes.
"You can look," Daenerys said, amused. "I'm your wife. It's permitted."
"You're sixteen," Jason said flatly, pulling on the linen pants from last night. "And I'm trying to be respectful."
"In the Dothraki way, respect is shown through strength and protection, not averting your eyes."
"In the Gotham way, respect means not being a creep."
Daenerys laughed—genuine and bright, the sound transforming her face from merely pretty to genuinely beautiful. "I like your Gotham way. It's kind."
By the time Irri and Doreah arrived with breakfast—dried meat, hard bread, and something that might have been cheese but smelled like feet—Jason was mostly dressed and trying to figure out how to put his armor on without help. The Red Hood's armor had been designed for solo operation, but three years of use had added complications.
"Let me," Daenerys said, stepping close. Her fingers were deft and careful as she helped adjust straps, tighten buckles, make sure the layered leather sat properly. "I watched Viserys's armor get fitted enough times. I know the basics."
"Your brother wore armor?" Jason tried to picture the whiny drunk in anything practical.
"He insisted on it for formal occasions. Said a dragon prince should look martial." Daenerys's voice was carefully neutral. "Though he never actually fought anyone."
"Smart man. Fighting hurts."
"You seemed to enjoy it last night."
Jason paused in strapping on his gladius. "I didn't enjoy killing Drogo. I did what was necessary."
"I know." Daenerys's hands stilled on his armor. "I'm sorry you had to. He was a warrior, I think. Honorable, in his way. But he would have—" She stopped, took a breath. "Thank you for stopping what would have happened."
"Always," Jason said quietly.
The moment hung between them, weighted with things neither could quite articulate. Then Jhiqui returned with the skull-face helmet, freshly polished, and the moment broke.
Jason took the helmet, studied it. The hollow eyes, the painted red slash across the face, the promise of inhuman violence. It was good psychological warfare—wear the mask, become the nightmare, make them afraid before the fight even started.
But Daenerys had seen his face last night. Seen the man beneath the monster. And he wasn't sure he wanted to hide from her anymore.
"I won't wear it," he said suddenly. "Not today. Not around you."
"The Dothraki expect the Red Hood," Daenerys pointed out gently. "The nightmare that killed their khal. If you show up as just a man—"
"I killed Drogo as a man. They saw my face when I did it." Jason set the helmet aside. "I'll wear the rest of the armor—they need to recognize me, need to see the khal. But I'm done hiding behind masks. At least here."
Something complicated flickered across Daenerys's face—surprise, pleasure, maybe even hope. "Then we'll face them together. Man and dragon princess."
"Khal and khaleesi," Jason corrected with a slight smile.
"That too."
---
The camp was organized chaos when they emerged from the tent.
Jason had seen armies before—the Titans assembled for battle, the Justice League coordinating against Darkseid, even Bruce's carefully orchestrated operations in Gotham. But the Dothraki were different. They didn't march in formation or follow rigid structures. They *flowed* like a living organism, each warrior knowing their place through instinct and tradition rather than shouted orders.
Forty thousand mounted warriors, maybe fifteen thousand horses beyond those being ridden, supply wagons that looked like they'd been looted from every city between here and the Jade Sea, and an organizational structure that seemed to consist entirely of "strongest warriors lead, everyone else follows."
It was simultaneously impressive and terrifying, like watching a natural disaster prepare to move.
"Khal Jason!"
One of Drogo's former bloodriders—*his* bloodriders now, gods help him—approached on foot, leading two horses. The man was massive, even by Dothraki standards, with a braid that fell past his waist and scars that suggested he'd survived things that should have killed him.
His name was Qotho, Jason remembered from the brief, chaotic introductions last night. One of Drogo's most trusted warriors, which meant he was probably deeply unhappy about serving the foreigner who'd killed his khal.
But Dothraki tradition was absolute: you followed strength. Qotho might hate Jason personally, but he'd follow him professionally until Jason showed weakness or someone stronger came along.
"Khal," Qotho said in Common Tongue, his accent thick but comprehensible. He gestured to the horses. "For you and the khaleesi. The black was Drogo's. The silver was his gift for his bride. Both are yours now."
Jason studied the black stallion and immediately understood why Drogo had been so confident. The horse was *huge*—probably eighteen hands, all muscle and barely-contained aggression. Its eyes had the look of an animal that would happily kill you if you showed even a moment's weakness. War-trained, battle-tested, and absolutely not interested in some strange human climbing on its back.
*Great. A horse with an attitude problem. Just what I needed.*
The silver mare, by contrast, was smaller, more elegant—still a warhorse but built for speed and endurance rather than raw power. She had intelligent eyes and a coat that seemed to shimmer in the morning sun, like moonlight made solid.
"She's beautiful," Daenerys whispered, moving toward the mare slowly, hand outstretched.
The mare regarded her calmly, didn't shy away when Daenerys touched her neck, and something passed between girl and horse—an understanding, a recognition. The mare lowered her head slightly, allowing Daenerys to stroke her muzzle.
"She likes you," Qotho observed, surprised. "That is good. A rider and horse must know each other's spirit."
Jason approached the black stallion more carefully. The horse's ears went back, nostrils flaring, body language screaming *back off or I'll kick you into next week.*
"Easy," Jason murmured, using the same tone he'd used on crime-scene witnesses in Gotham—calm, authoritative, unbothered. "I'm not here to hurt you. Just need to ride you across a continent. Simple stuff."
The stallion snorted, sounding deeply skeptical.
Jason had learned to ride from Talia al Ghul, who believed in throwing students into the deep end and letting them figure out how to swim. She'd put him on increasingly difficult horses until he either learned or got thrown enough times that stubbornness carried him through.
This stallion reminded him of those early lessons: pure challenge wrapped in horseflesh, testing whether he had the will to master it.
He kept his movements deliberate, non-threatening, but also completely confident. Let the horse know he wasn't afraid, wasn't hesitant, knew exactly what he was doing even if that was mostly a lie. The stallion stamped once, considering, then allowed Jason close enough to check the saddle.
Dothraki saddles were different from what Jason was used to—lighter, more minimal, designed for warriors who lived on horseback and needed freedom of movement. He adjusted the stirrups for his longer legs, tested the girth, made sure everything was secure.
"You ride well," Qotho observed, watching carefully. "Many westerners cannot control Dothraki horses. Too much fire, not enough..." He searched for the word. "Understanding."
"I had a good teacher," Jason said. He swung up into the saddle in one smooth motion, felt the stallion tense beneath him, ready to buck or bolt or both. "Easy," he repeated, keeping his seat low and his hands steady on the reins. "We're going to get along fine. You're going to run, I'm going to not fall off, and neither of us is going to embarrass ourselves in front of forty thousand witnesses. Deal?"
The stallion considered this, then apparently decided Jason was too calm to be properly thrown. He settled, muscles still coiled but no longer actively hostile.
"Good horse," Jason muttered. He looked down at Qotho. "What's his name?"
"Drogo called him *Jaqqa*. Means 'hunter' in Old Dothraki."
"Hunter." Jason patted the stallion's neck, felt the incredible strength coiled beneath the skin. "Yeah, that works."
Irri and Doreah were helping Daenerys mount the silver mare—no small task given the height difference and Daenerys's inexperience, but they managed. The mare stood perfectly still, patient as a saint, as if she understood her rider needed gentleness.
"She's wonderful," Daenerys said breathlessly, settling into the saddle. She sat well despite clearly being a novice, back straight, hands light on the reins. "What's her name?"
"Drogo did not name her yet," Qotho said. "She was to be gift. The khaleesi may choose."
Daenerys thought for a moment, one hand stroking the mare's silver mane. "Nerissa," she said finally. "It means 'sea' in High Valyrian. She moves like water."
The mare whickered softly, as if approving.
"The khalasar is ready to depart," Qotho said, all business now. "We ride west and north, toward Vaes Dothrak. The journey is long—many weeks, perhaps months depending on the weather and the grass. You will need to prove yourself as we ride, Khal Jason. The warriors accept you because you defeated Drogo, but they do not yet *follow* you. That must be earned."
"What does that involve?" Jason asked, though he suspected he knew the answer.
"Strength. Leadership. Wisdom. The ability to make decisions that keep the khalasar strong." Qotho's scarred face was unreadable. "And the willingness to kill those who challenge you. There will be challenges, khal. Some of Drogo's bloodriders did not take the knee easily. Some warriors believe you are weak because you are westerosi, because you fight with a straight blade instead of an arakh, because you show mercy to the silver-haired woman."
"I'm not weak," Jason said flatly.
"Then prove it." Qotho mounted his own horse—a bay stallion that looked like it ate smaller horses for breakfast—and gestured toward the head of the massive column. "The khal rides at the front, with his bloodriders and his khaleesi. The rest follow in order of strength and honor. Come. The sun rises higher, and we have far to ride."
Jason guided Jaqqa forward, Daenerys and Nerissa falling in beside him. The silver mare moved like poetry, like she'd been born knowing how to carry a dragon princess. Jaqqa, by contrast, moved like barely-controlled violence, each step a reminder that he could kill you if he really wanted to but had chosen not to. Yet.
As they approached the front of the khalasar, Jason saw the other bloodriders waiting: Haggo, who was built like a tank and had a laugh that could shake walls; Cohollo, quieter but with eyes that missed nothing; and several others whose names Jason was still learning.
And slightly behind them, looking deeply unhappy, was Jorah Mormont on a serviceable brown mare.
"Khal," Jorah said formally, though his eyes held a glimmer of amusement. "Khaleesi. Ready to lead an army you met yesterday?"
"Absolutely not," Jason said. "But I'm doing it anyway. You coming with?"
"Someone needs to keep you from accidentally starting a war through cultural misunderstanding." Jorah glanced at Daenerys. "Also, I swore to protect the princess. That includes protecting her from her own husband's well-meaning incompetence."
"I'm right here," Jason pointed out.
"I know. That's why I said it where you could hear."
Despite everything, Jason smiled. It was good to have at least one person in this mess who'd be honest with him.
The bloodriders regarded Jorah with mild disdain—he wasn't Dothraki, wasn't properly part of the khalasar, existed in this weird space of being useful but not quite trusted. Jason made a mental note to fix that somehow. Jorah was the closest thing he had to an advisor who understood both Westerosi and Essosi politics, and Jason was going to need all the help he could get.
"Where is Viserys?" Daenerys asked suddenly, looking around.
As if summoned by his name, the former prince appeared, riding a horse that was far too good for him—probably one of Illyrio's gifts that he'd claimed as his due. He was dressed in fine silks that were already collecting dust, his silver-gold hair gleaming in the morning sun, and he looked absolutely furious.
"Sister!" Viserys called out, his voice carrying that particular blend of entitlement and rage that Jason had learned to recognize from Gotham's trust-fund criminals. "I would speak with you!"
Daenerys's entire body tensed beside Jason, her hands tightening on Nerissa's reins.
"Stay close," Jason murmured. "You don't have to face him alone."
"He's my brother," she said quietly. "I've always had to face him alone."
"Not anymore."
Viserys urged his horse forward, trying to push past the bloodriders to reach Daenerys. Qotho's horse shifted, blocking him casually—not aggressive, but absolutely clear that Viserys didn't get to approach the khaleesi without permission.
"Move, savage!" Viserys snarled. "I am the Dragon! I will speak with my sister!"
Qotho looked at Jason, one eyebrow raised: *Do I kill this fool, or do you want to?*
"Let him approach," Jason said in Dothraki. "But watch him."
Qotho nodded and moved aside, though he stayed close enough to intervene if needed.
Viserys rode up beside Daenerys, his handsome face twisted with anger and—Jason recognized this with the instinct of someone who'd grown up around Crime Alley's addicts—the particular desperation of someone who'd been cut off from their fix.
He'd been drinking heavily during the wedding. Now, sober or at least more sober, reality was catching up.
"What is the meaning of this?" Viserys demanded, gesturing at Jason. "You were supposed to marry the khal, give me my army! Instead this... this *thing* kills Drogo and claims the khalasar as his own! Do you know what you've done? Do you understand what you've cost me?"
"I've cost you nothing," Daenerys said, her voice quiet but surprisingly steady. "I was never yours to give away, Viserys. I was never your property to trade for soldiers."
"You're a Targaryen!" Viserys's voice rose, hysteria creeping in. "You're *my* sister! Your duty is to me, to our house, to the throne that was stolen from us! That barbarian would have given me forty thousand screamers to take back what's mine! Now instead I have..." He looked at Jason with pure hatred. "This foreign killer who doesn't even speak proper Dothraki."
Jason had been studying Viserys since they'd left Pentos, cataloguing threat patterns the way Batman had taught him. Viserys Targaryen was an addict—not to any drug specifically, but to the fantasy of power, to the delusion that he was somehow important, that the Iron Throne waited for him if only he could find the right army, the right moment, the right leverage.
He was dangerous the way all desperate addicts were dangerous: unpredictable, irrational, willing to lash out when cornered.
"The khalasar is mine now," Jason said, keeping his voice level. "Daenerys is my wife. Those are the facts. What you cost yourself by treating your sister like property isn't my problem."
"Your wife?" Viserys laughed, high and brittle. "She's a child! You're a monster in stolen armor, playing at being khal! The Dothraki will realize their mistake and—"
"And what?" Jason's voice went cold. "Kill me? Try. I'm very hard to kill, as your would-be brother-in-law discovered last night."
Viserys's hand went to his hip, where a sword should have been but wasn't—Illyrio had convinced him to leave his weapons behind for the wedding, and apparently he'd forgotten to rearm himself this morning.
"Are you threatening me?" Viserys's voice shook.
"I'm stating facts." Jason met his eyes directly. "You're here because Daenerys asked me not to throw you out of the khalasar. You're her brother, and she still loves you for some reason I don't understand. But if you threaten her, if you touch her, if you even *look* at her wrong, I'll kill you. Slowly. Are we clear?"
The bloodriders were watching now, all of them, judging this interaction. Seeing if their new khal would tolerate disrespect, seeing if he'd show weakness.
Viserys seemed to realize this too, seemed to understand he was standing on very thin ice. He tried to draw himself up, to find some dignity, but desperation leaked through every pore.
"I am the Dragon," he said, voice shaking. "I am the true king of Westeros. You can't—"
"I just did." Jason's voice was flat, final. "Go ride at the back of the column with the other supplicants, Viserys. Your sister is khaleesi now. She doesn't answer to you anymore."
"Dany—" Viserys turned to her, pleading now. "Dany, tell him. Tell him I'm your brother, that you owe me—"
"I owe you nothing," Daenerys said quietly, and Jason heard steel in her voice he hadn't expected. "You sold me, Viserys. You sold me to Drogo like I was a horse or a sword. Because you wanted an army, wanted power, wanted your throne. You never asked what I wanted. Never cared that I was terrified."
"I gave you a *purpose!*" Viserys's voice was rising again. "Without me, you're nothing! Just another Targaryen bastard with delusions—"
"That's enough," Jason said. He didn't raise his voice, didn't need to. The cold certainty in his tone did the work. "Ride away, Viserys. Now. Before I decide Daenerys would be better off without a brother."
For a moment, Jason thought Viserys might actually try something stupid—draw a weapon he didn't have, take a swing at Jason, say something that would force Jason to put him down.
But Viserys was, underneath the delusions and desperation, a coward. He always had been. So he yanked his horse's reins too hard, making the poor animal stumble, and rode toward the back of the column with as much dignity as he could salvage.
Which wasn't much.
"He'll be trouble," Jorah said quietly once Viserys was out of earshot. "Men like that don't accept loss well. They fester. Plot. Convince themselves they're the victim."
"I know." Jason had grown up around men exactly like Viserys in Crime Alley—small-time dealers who thought they were kingpins, addicts who blamed everyone but themselves, criminals who were certain the world owed them more than they'd taken. "I'll watch him."
"We'll watch him," Daenerys corrected softly. Her hands were shaking slightly on Nerissa's reins, adrenaline crash hitting now that the confrontation was over. "He's my brother. My responsibility."
"He's a threat," Jason said bluntly. "To you especially. Brothers who see their sisters as property don't stop seeing them that way just because circumstances change."
"I know." Daenerys's voice was small. "I've known since I was old enough to understand. Viserys has never seen me as a person, only as a tool to get what he wants. But he's all the family I have left in the world."
Jason wanted to tell her that family wasn't about blood, that sometimes the people who hurt you most wore the same last name, that she deserved better than a brother who'd sold her without hesitation.
But he also remembered loving Bruce even when they were beating each other bloody in alleyways. Remembered defending Dick even when his older brother drove him insane. Remembered that family was complicated and painful and you didn't stop loving people just because they hurt you.
"We'll handle it," Jason said instead. "Together. But if he tries to hurt you—"
"I know." Daenerys looked at him, silver-purple eyes old beyond their years. "You'll protect me. You've made that very clear."
"Good."
Qotho had been watching the exchange with interest, following the Common Tongue well enough to get the gist. Now he spoke in Dothraki, pitched for Jason to hear: "The silver-haired man is weak. Like a foal that should have been culled. Why do you let him live?"
"Because the khaleesi asked me to," Jason responded in his halting Dothraki. "And what she wants matters."
Several of the bloodriders exchanged glances—surprise, maybe respect. Dothraki culture didn't exactly prioritize women's opinions, but a khal who listened to his khaleesi suggested strength, not weakness. It suggested he was secure enough in his power that he could afford to be generous.
At least, Jason hoped that's how they were reading it. He was mostly making this up as he went along.
"The khalasar is ready," Qotho said. "We should ride. The day grows hot, and we have many miles before us."
"Then let's move." Jason looked at Daenerys. "You ready?"
"No," she admitted. "But I'll manage."
"That's the spirit."
Qotho raised one hand, and the signal rippled through the khalasar like wind through grass. Forty thousand warriors began to move—not all at once, but in that strange organic flow that the Dothraki seemed to manage without anyone actually giving orders.
Jason urged Jaqqa forward, and the great black stallion moved into a ground-eating trot. Daenerys and Nerissa kept pace easily, the silver mare seeming to understand her rider needed patience. Behind them, the bloodriders fell into formation, and behind *them*, stretching back farther than Jason could see, forty thousand mounted warriors followed their new khal into the morning sun.
The Dothraki Sea lay ahead—endless grass and sky, dangerous and beautiful in equal measure. Somewhere beyond it lay Vaes Dothrak, the sacred city where the dosh khaleen would judge whether Jason was worthy of the title he'd won in blood.
And somewhere in that vast column, nursing his rage and his delusions, Viserys Targaryen was planning something. Jason could feel it, the way he used to feel when Joker was planning something in Arkham, when the silence before a case broke felt too heavy, when the city held its breath waiting for violence.
*He's going to be a problem,* Jason thought, watching the endless grass ripple in the wind. *Sooner rather than later. Men like that don't accept powerlessness. They lash out.*
But that was a problem for later. Right now, Jason had a khalasar to lead, a wife to protect, and approximately zero idea what he was doing.
*Bruce would say this is when you rely on training and trust your instincts,* Jason thought. *Dick would say this is when you improvise and try to look confident. Tim would have a seventeen-point plan ready to go.*
*I'm going with 'don't fall off the horse and try not to start any wars before lunch.'*
"Jason?" Daenerys had moved Nerissa closer, the silver mare pressing against Jaqqa's flank companionably. "What are you thinking?"
"That I have no idea what I'm doing and I'm terrified I'm going to get us all killed through sheer incompetence."
Daenerys smiled—small but genuine. "That's very honest."
"I try."
"Well, for what it's worth, you're doing better than you think. The bloodriders respect you. The khalasar follows you. And I..." She paused, seeming to choose her words carefully. "I trust you. Completely."
Jason looked at her—sixteen years old, silver-gold hair streaming in the wind, sitting astride a horse that cost more than most people earned in a lifetime, married to a stranger from another world who'd killed for her last night.
She should be terrified. Should be running. Should be anything except looking at him with trust and something that might have been hope.
*I don't deserve this,* Jason thought. *Don't deserve her faith, her trust, her belief that I'm anything except a weapon that occasionally chooses the right target.*
But Daenerys was looking at him like he was a hero, like he was someone worth believing in.
And Jason found he didn't want to disappoint her.
"I'll do my best," he said finally. "Try to keep us alive, keep the khalasar together, get us to Vaes Dothrak in one piece."
"That's all anyone can ask."
They rode on, side by side, as the sun climbed higher and the grass stretched endlessly ahead. Behind them, forty thousand warriors followed, and somewhere in that vast column, Viserys Targaryen nursed his rage and plotted his revenge.
The Dothraki Sea swallowed them whole, and Jason Todd—who'd been Robin, who'd been Red Hood, who'd died twice and been resurrected into anger—led his khalasar into the unknown.
*This is fine,* he told himself. *Everything's fine. You've fought Deathstroke, survived the Joker, fell through a dimensional portal, and spent three years in a fighting pit. How hard can leading forty thousand horse warriors across a continent be?*
Jaqqa snorted, as if sensing his rider's thoughts and finding them deeply amusing.
"Shut up," Jason muttered to the horse. "You're not helping."
Daenerys laughed beside him—bright and clear and alive—and for just a moment, Jason let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, everything would actually be fine.
Then he caught sight of Viserys in the distance, staring at them with pure hatred, and reality reasserted itself.
*Yeah,* Jason thought grimly. *Definitely going to be a problem.*
But that was tomorrow's crisis. Today, he had a khalasar to lead and a princess to protect.
And Jason Todd, for all his faults, had always been good at protecting people.
Even when it got him killed.
—
The tent was warm, lit by braziers that cast dancing shadows across rich fabrics. Daenerys sat on cushions while her handmaids moved around her, brushing her silver-gold hair until it shone like moonlight, massaging scented oils into her skin, transforming her from the dusty rider she'd been all day into something closer to the dragon princess she was supposed to be.
Outside, the khalasar had settled for the night. She could hear the sounds of men talking, horses shifting, fires crackling. And somewhere out there, Jason was with the bloodriders, learning what he'd need to know to lead them properly.
"The khal is very handsome," Irri observed, working lavender oil into Daenerys's shoulders. "When he removed the mask at the wedding, many warriors were surprised. They expected a monster. Instead—a man. Young. Strong."
"He's kind," Daenerys said quietly. "That's rarer than handsome."
"Kind men do not usually become khal," Doreah pointed out from where she was selecting sleeping silks. The Lysene woman had experience that the Dothraki girls lacked—she'd been trained in the pleasure houses, knew arts that Daenerys had only heard whispered about. "They are usually killed by harder men."
"Jason killed Drogo in single combat," Daenerys said. "He's plenty hard when he needs to be."
"But not with you." Jhiqui smiled, working on Daenerys's other shoulder. "He looks at you like you are precious. Like you might break if he is not careful."
Daenerys felt heat rise in her cheeks. "He's being respectful."
"Too respectful, maybe," Doreah said, and there was something knowing in her voice. She came to kneel in front of Daenerys, meeting her eyes seriously. "Khaleesi, may I speak plainly?"
"Always."
"Your husband treats you like a child he must protect. This is sweet, but it is not how a marriage works. A khal needs a woman, not a girl. And you need..." She paused, choosing words carefully. "You need to feel like more than something guarded. Yes?"
Daenerys thought about last night—being held, feeling safe, but also feeling strangely hollow. Like she was grateful but not quite *present*. Like she was something to be protected rather than someone to be known.
"Yes," she admitted quietly.
"Then we must teach you," Irri said matter-of-factly. "Teach you how to approach a warrior, how to show him you are woman, not child. How to make him see you differently."
"I don't want to trick him—"
"Not trick," Doreah interrupted gently. "Seduce. There is a difference. Tricking is dishonest. Seduction is showing him what is already true—that you are beautiful, desirable, worthy of being wanted. Not just protected, but *wanted*."
Daenerys felt her heart beating faster. "He said he wouldn't touch me until I was older. That sixteen is too young in his world."
"Then show him you are not a child," Jhiqui said simply. "Show him the woman you are becoming. Let him decide if he can resist."
Doreah's smile was knowing, almost wicked. "And trust me, khaleesi—when a man looks at you the way your khal looks at you, resistance is already a losing battle. He just needs permission to stop fighting."
"I don't know how—"
"That," Doreah said warmly, "is what we are here to teach you."
She gestured for Daenerys to stand, began showing her how to move—not the careful, controlled steps of a princess trying to be invisible, but the confident grace of a woman who knew her power. How to let fabric cling and flow, how to meet eyes directly instead of looking away, how to touch casually but meaningfully.
"In Lys, we learn that seduction is not about the body alone," Doreah explained, adjusting Daenerys's posture. "It is about confidence. About showing a man that you know what you want and are not afraid to take it."
"What if he says no?" Daenerys asked quietly.
"Then he says no, and you respect that." Doreah's voice was firm. "Seduction without consent is force, and force is what your khal fought to prevent. But I do not think he will say no, khaleesi. I think he wants you very much. He just needs to know you want him too."
Irri brought forward sleeping silks—pale blue, nearly transparent, clinging to curves that Daenerys hadn't quite realized she'd developed. "Wear this. Let him see you. Let him wonder."
"And when he is close," Jhiqui added, "touch him. Small touches. His hand, his arm, his chest. Show him you are not afraid of him. That you *want* to be close."
"Kiss him if the moment comes," Doreah said. "Not like yesterday—quick and nervous. Kiss him like you mean it. Like he is water and you are dying of thirst."
Daenerys felt overwhelmed, terrified, and strangely excited all at once. "What if I do this wrong?"
"There is no wrong," Irri said gently. "Only honest. Be honest with what you want. Your khal values honesty above all things. This we have seen."
Doreah smiled, squeezed Daenerys's hand. "You are khaleesi, dragon princess, last of your line. You have survived your brother's cruelty, survived being sold like property. You can survive approaching the man who killed for you. And I think you will find he is much less frightening up close."
Outside, Daenerys heard Jason's voice—rough and low, speaking halting Dothraki to the bloodriders. He sounded tired but determined, like he'd sound after a long patrol in Gotham, trying to make sense of a world that didn't quite fit him.
Her husband. Her protector. Her... what? She didn't quite know yet. But she wanted to find out.
"Alright," Daenerys said, her voice steadier than she felt. "Teach me."
And her handmaids smiled, delighted, and began.
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