The feast began with everyone dancing, drinking, and eating. Vlad barely knew the guests, except for his men, who enjoyed the banquet as if it were their last meal. From time to time, someone would approach to offer a gift to him or his wife. Illyrio gifted Daenerys a chest full of extremely expensive jewels. Viserys, for his part, gave his sister a silver mare.
That detail struck Vlad as odd. In the original timeline, it had been Drogo who gave her that horse.
—Did he get in touch with Drogo? —Vlad asked quietly.
It was a possibility. How else would he have gotten that horse? After a second of consideration, he decided not to sound the alarm just yet. The Dothraki had many skills, but subtlety wasn't one of them. If they were here, he would've already seen them.
As people came and went, a figure caught his attention: a man watching him with sorrow.
Jorah Mormont.
The knight looked heartbroken, which was obvious. He had become infatuated with Daenerys.
Vlad let out a faint laugh.
—So, wife —he said teasingly.
Daenerys turned her beautiful violet eyes toward him.
—Yes?
Vlad looked at her seriously.
—I know we're both in unfamiliar territory. I barely know you, and you barely know me. But… could we try to get to know each other?
Daenerys looked surprised, as if she hadn't expected such humanity from him. After a moment of hesitation, she nodded.
—That would be nice.
The feast continued, with Daenerys noticeably less afraid. She was still full of doubts, but at least she no longer looked like she might faint at any moment.
Vlad, on the other hand, hid his thoughts behind a smile. Inside, he was torn between whether he should do something physical with her or wait.
"Honestly, I wouldn't mind sleeping with her…" he thought. Daenerys was a beautiful woman—very much so—but the girl was terrified. She needed trust before this turned into a nightmare.
The shouting of his men pulled him from his thoughts.
—The bedding ceremony!
The next moment, he was already in his chambers, with Daenerys practically hyperventilating. The room was lit only by the soft glow of candles. The scent of incense filled the air, and the gentle night breeze filtered through the curtains, slightly stirring the flames.
Daenerys was sitting on the edge of the bed, her hands clasped on her lap. Her breathing was quick, her shoulders tense.
Vlad watched her in silence. Her light dress revealed her pale skin under the soft light, and although she tried to hide it, the anxiety and fear were evident in her violet eyes.
He sighed. This wasn't necessary.
—I'm not going to touch you.
Daenerys looked up, surprised.
—What?
—I'm not going to sleep with you tonight —he said calmly, crossing his arms as he leaned against the wall—. Not until you want it.
Her expression shifted from surprise to disbelief.
—But… Viserys said that… —she stopped, biting her lip.
Vlad felt a pang of restrained rage.
—Viserys is a bastard —he snapped bluntly.
Daenerys' eyes widened slightly. Vlad continued, his voice firm but not harsh.
—He sold you like you were an object, as if your will didn't matter. You're his family, but he treats you like you're disposable. But you're wrong if you think I'm going to treat you the same way.
He stepped away from the wall and walked slowly until he stood in front of her. Daenerys didn't move, but her breathing deepened. Vlad leaned in slightly, making sure she could hear him clearly.
—As of today, you are under my care. Not Viserys's. Not Illyrio's. Not any other man who thinks he has a right over you. You are my family now. And I swear I will not hurt you.
The silence that followed was long. Daenerys looked at him intently, as if trying to read in his eyes whether he was telling the truth.
Finally, her shoulders relaxed slightly.
—So… what do we do now?
Vlad smiled softly.
—We sleep.
She blinked.
—Just… sleep?
—Exactly. You can take the bed if you want. I'll sleep in a corner, I don't mind.
Daenerys hesitated for a moment, then shook her head.
—No. It's your bed, too.
—Then we'll sleep together —Vlad said naturally.
The idea seemed to unsettle her again, but after a moment of doubt, she nodded.
Vlad removed his cloak and weapon belt, setting them aside. Then he lay down on the bed without any sudden movements, giving her space. Daenerys took a moment to follow. At first, she was stiff, her body tense beside him. But when he did nothing more—no demands, no awkward words—her breathing began to calm. Gradually, the weight of the day fell on her. Her eyelids grew heavy and, without realizing it, her body moved a little closer to his, instinctively seeking warmth.
Vlad didn't move. He simply let her be.
When she whispered a barely audible "thank you," he closed his eyes and smiled.
—Sleep, Daenerys. Tomorrow will be another day.
And for the first time in a long while, she slept without fear.
Vlad woke the next morning with Daenerys curled up near him, her body barely brushing against his gently. A wife. He didn't love her, but he would try. And if it didn't work… it didn't matter. He had a thousand lives ahead of him.
Carefully, he rose from the bed, making sure not to wake her. Once out, he began to get dressed, preparing to face the new problems waiting for him.
When he was fully dressed, he left the room with the same caution. It didn't take him long to find Viserys, who was waiting with crossed arms and a sour expression.
—So you finally come out. It's not wise to keep your king waiting —he said with ridiculous arrogance, looking at him smugly.
Vlad looked at him for a moment, wondering how many times he must have fallen as a child to end up this stupid. But for now, he had to wait. Wait for the right moment. Still, that didn't mean he'd let that pretentious bastard talk to him like that.
—Get used to it —he said coldly, looking at him as if he were garbage, daring him to draw that obviously borrowed sword.
Viserys scowled at the comment but decided to let it go.
—Where is my sister? —he asked impatiently.
—Sleeping —Vlad replied without flinching.
Viserys clicked his tongue and turned to a nearby maid.
—Go wake her.
Before the woman could move, Vlad stepped in her path. He smiled calmly before speaking.
—She's sleeping. And she will keep sleeping. Leave us, dear.
The maid nodded hastily and withdrew.
—I want her here —Viserys muttered, visibly irritated.
Vlad looked at him with the kind of patience one reserves for a stubborn child.
—And I want to let my wife rest —he replied indifferently, his tone barely masking the threat—. She's my wife, my responsibility. Don't test me, little king… you won't like the result.
He let the words hang in the air before turning and walking away without waiting for a reply. Daenerys was family now. And if Viserys dared to mess with her, he'd cut off that pretty head without hesitation.
Viserys stood still, visibly stunned, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of his sword. But he did nothing more. He didn't dare.
Vlad smirked as he walked away.
Minutes later, Viserys burst into Jorah Mormont's room.
—Jorah! —he shouted, his voice full of frustration.
The knight looked up, not knowing what had triggered his anger.
—Yes, my king?
—You're my loyal subject, aren't you?! —Viserys spat, still agitated.
Jorah nodded calmly.
—Of course, Your Majesty.
—Then tell me… if I ordered you to kill that man, would you do it? —Viserys asked with a twisted, almost deranged smile.
Jorah suppressed a sigh. He wouldn't. Vlad Drakul was not a man to be underestimated, much less an easy target. He was a Khal, known for his cruelty. Jorah had investigated him—despite his noble and refined demeanor, he was a six-foot giant with arms the size of thighs—so he wouldn't fight him, not even drunk out of his mind.
But Jorah knew his role in this game, so he simply nodded.
—I would, Your Majesty.
Viserys seemed to relax a bit at the response, though his rage still burned in his eyes.
—Good… I might need that. That bastard thinks he can disrespect his superiors —he growled, clenching his fists—. Who does he think he is to speak like that to a king? To a dragon?
Jorah didn't respond immediately. He only watched as Viserys consumed himself in his own anger.
A dragon…
If only he could see himself the way others did.
A child throwing a tantrum.