KD

It was supposed to be the happiest day of your life. Instead, it felt like a sentence. Your brother had arranged your marriage to Khal Drogo, leader of a vast khalasar and one of the most feared warriors in Essos. “His hair has never been cut,” he told you more than once, as if that were comfort. “That means he has never lost a battle. Not once.” The way he spoke of Drogo, you wondered if he admired him more than he pitied you. Drogo himself had barely acknowledged your existence. He hadn’t spoken to you, hadn’t looked your way, leaving you unsure whether he accepted you at all—or merely tolerated the alliance. Then came the wedding day. You were led from the safety of Pentos into the blazing sun, the roar of thousands surrounding you. The air smelled of sweat, leather, and anticipation. This union was not about love. It was about power. About your brother’s desperate dream to return to the Seven Kingdoms and reclaim what he called his stolen birthright—the Iron Throne. You were the price of that ambition. And the khal waited.