Reignition of The Dragon

The sun was a molten disk sinking into the horizon, bathing the Pentoshi coastline in deep hues of red and gold. The scent of spiced meats and burning incense thickened the air, blending with the briny winds rolling in from the sea.

The Dothraki had arrived.

Their riders spilled into the city like a tide of bronze and leather, their horses stamping against the cobblestone roads, their guttural laughter echoing through the grand halls of Illyrio's manse.

Among them rode their Khal.

Khal Drogo.

From the balcony, Daenerys watched as he dismounted in one fluid motion, the long braid of his unbroken victories swaying with the movement. He stood taller than any man around him, his copper skin gleaming in the dying sunlight, muscles taut beneath the weight of his armor. His black eyes were unreadable, taking in the world with quiet command.

He did not glance up at her.

Good.

Let him see her when she chose to be seen.

She stepped back from the balcony, her mind a storm of thought. She knew what was expected of her—submission, silence, obedience.

She would give them none of it.

She would play this game her way.

---

The Price of a Queen

The great hall of Illyrio's manse was lit with hundreds of torches, their flickering flames casting wild shadows upon the gathered guests. The feast had begun, the air thick with the scent of roasted lamb and honeyed wine. Dothraki warriors gorged themselves, their voices loud, their laughter booming.

Daenerys sat at the center of it all, adorned in flowing silk that clung to her form, the pale lavender hue a deliberate choice—soft, delicate, an illusion of fragility.

Beside her, Viserys reeked of impatience.

Across from her, Khal Drogo feasted in silence.

Illyrio spoke first, his oily voice filling the space between them. "A great union," he declared, lifting his goblet. "Fire and blood, joined with steel and strength!"

Viserys, ever the fool, barely contained his excitement. "You see, sister?" he sneered. "The Khal is pleased. You should be grateful."

Daenerys ignored him.

Instead, she studied Drogo.

He had not spoken a word to her, nor had he looked at her for more than a fleeting glance. But there was no dismissal in his gaze—only assessment.

He was waiting.

So she gave him what he expected.

She rose from her seat, the silk of her dress whispering against the stone floor. The hall fell silent.

She walked toward Drogo, slow and measured, her heart steady. She stopped before him, meeting his gaze with unwavering lilac eyes.

Then, she spoke.

"You are Khal Drogo," she said, her voice smooth, carrying in the hush of the room. "The Great Rider. The man whose name is feared from Westeros to Asshai."

A ripple of murmurs spread among the Dothraki.

Drogo finally looked at her.

She stepped closer.

"They say you have never lost a battle," she continued, tilting her chin slightly. "That your strength is unmatched, your warriors loyal beyond death."

Drogo's lips curled slightly. A smirk.

"They also say you take what you want," she added, her voice softening into something silkier, edged with something sharper. "So tell me, Khal—did you choose me because you wanted me?"

The murmurs became a roar of laughter. The Dothraki loved boldness, and she had given them a spectacle.

Drogo's smirk widened.

Then, he stood.

Towering over her, his presence was a force in itself. But she did not step back.

He reached for her, not roughly, but with deliberate intention. His fingers brushed against her silver hair, trailing lightly, testing the feel of it.

Finally, he spoke.

"Yes," he said simply.

The hall erupted into cheers.

Daenerys exhaled, not in relief, but in victory.

She had made herself seen.

And more importantly—she had made him choose her.

---

The Dothraki Way

The wedding that followed was chaos.

Dothraki warriors drank and fought, their wild celebrations blending bloodshed with joy. Women were taken in the open, screams of pleasure and protest alike mixing with the roar of the crowd.

In her past life, Daenerys had sat frozen, horrified by the brutality, helpless to stop it.

This time, she was not helpless.

She moved through the crowd with quiet authority, her presence shadowed by the stirrings of curiosity. The Dothraki expected their Khaleesi to be a meek thing, a prize on display.

Instead, she was watching.

Learning.

When a particularly vicious fight broke out between two warriors, one of them pinning a woman beneath him, Daenerys acted.

She did not shout.

She did not plead.

She simply walked forward, calm and unshaken, and placed a hand on Drogo's shoulder.

The Khal turned his head slightly, his dark eyes questioning.

She leaned in, her voice just for him. "Does a strong warrior take a woman who does not want him?"

A test.

A challenge wrapped in careful words.

Drogo's gaze flickered with something unreadable. Then, with a single command in Dothraki, the warrior was pulled back, his prize slipping away into the crowd.

A small victory.

But one the Dothraki noticed.

She saw it in their glances, the subtle shifts in posture. They did not expect her to hold influence over their Khal.

Now, they would wonder just how much influence she had.

And that was the first step toward power.

---

The First Night

The sea stretched endlessly before them, moonlight casting silver waves that crashed against the shore. The revelry had ended, leaving only the distant sounds of horses and the occasional echo of laughter.

Daenerys stood by the water, waiting.

She heard Drogo approach before she saw him, his heavy steps sure and unhurried.

When she turned, he was watching her.

In her past life, this was the moment she had feared most—the moment she had been taken without choice, stripped of dignity, reduced to nothing more than a body to be claimed.

Not this time.

She stepped toward him, untying the clasp of her dress, letting the fabric slip from her shoulders.

Drogo watched, but he did not move to touch her.

Instead, he tilted his head, studying her.

"You are not afraid," he murmured, his voice low.

She met his gaze. "No."

A beat of silence.

Then, his lips twitched, the faintest ghost of amusement. "Good."

He reached for her, his hands rough, but not cruel. She let him touch her, but she guided him, shifting her movements, asserting her presence.

It was not submission.

It was control, given on her terms.

And when he whispered "Yer jalan athiriari anni"—You are the moon of my life—she knew she had won more than just his desire.

She had won his respect.

And respect was the first step toward ruling.

---