The Dothraki Sea was aptly named, Jason discovered. It moved like water—endless grass rippling in waves that stretched to every horizon, green and gold and occasionally dotted with wildflowers that had no business being that beautiful in what was essentially a giant, flat nothing.
Three weeks into the journey, and Jason was starting to understand why the Dothraki didn't bother with maps. There were no landmarks, no roads, no signs saying "Vaes Dothrak: 500 miles." Just grass, sky, and the occasional herd of wild horses that the khalasar would chase down for sport and fresh mounts.
It was simultaneously peaceful and deeply unsettling for someone who'd grown up with Gotham's skyline as his reference point.
"You're thinking too loud," Jorah said from beside him. The former knight had fallen into an easy rhythm with Jason over the past weeks—riding near the front of the column, offering advice when asked, keeping his mouth shut when not. "I can hear it from here."
"Just wondering how people navigate when everything looks exactly the same," Jason said, keeping Jaqqa at a steady trot. The black stallion had begrudgingly accepted that Jason wasn't going anywhere, and they'd reached a mutual understanding: the horse wouldn't try to murder him, and Jason wouldn't sell him for glue.
"The Dothraki know the land like you know Gotham's streets," Jorah said. "Every rise and fall, every patch of different grass, every shift in the wind—it all means something to them. They're reading a book you can't even see the words of."
"Great. I'm illiterate in grass."
Jorah snorted. "You're doing better than you think, Hood. The bloodriders respect you—Qotho told me yesterday you're picking up Dothraki faster than any westerosi he's met. The warriors follow your commands without hesitation. And you haven't started any wars through cultural incompetence, which frankly I was betting against."
"Day's not over yet," Jason muttered.
Behind them, the khalasar stretched back like a living thing—forty thousand warriors, their families, their herds, all moving in that strange organic flow the Dothraki seemed to manage without anyone actually coordinating. It was impressive in the way natural disasters were impressive: beautiful, powerful, and vaguely terrifying.
And somewhere in that vast column, Viserys Targaryen was making everyone's life miserable.
"Speaking of wars," Jorah said, his voice dropping, "we need to talk about the Beggar King."
Jason grimaced. The nickname had started circulating among the Dothraki within the first week—*Khal Rhaggat*, the Cart King, because Viserys had demanded a cart to ride in rather than learn to handle a proper horse. When that was denied, he'd settled for riding the most docile mare in the khalasar and complaining constantly about saddle sores.
The Dothraki, who were born on horseback and considered walking a sign of profound weakness, found this hilarious. They'd started calling him the Beggar King instead, and Viserys was too drunk most nights to realize it wasn't a term of respect.
"What's he done now?" Jason asked.
"This morning he tried to order some of the warriors to give him wine. When they ignored him, he grabbed one's horse's reins and tried to take it." Jorah's expression was grim. "Qotho stopped him before it got violent, but Jason—the Dothraki kill people for stealing horses. It's one of their worst crimes. If he'd actually succeeded..."
"He'd be dead," Jason finished. "And honestly? The khalasar would probably be better off."
"Maybe. But Daenerys would be devastated." Jorah glanced at him. "She still loves him, gods know why. He's her last link to her family, to who she was before all this."
Jason knew that feeling—the complicated, painful love for family who hurt you. He'd felt it for Bruce, for the man who'd saved him and trained him and then couldn't bring himself to avenge him. Love and rage existing in the same space, tearing you apart from the inside.
"I'll talk to him," Jason said, though the prospect appealed about as much as another round with Deathstroke. "Try to make him understand he's on borrowed time."
"Good luck. I've tried. The man doesn't hear anything that doesn't confirm what he already believes—that he's the rightful king, that the world owes him everything, that his sister exists to serve his ambitions."
"Yeah, I know the type." Jason had arrested dozens of them in Gotham—trust fund criminals who thought money and breeding made them better than everyone else, who couldn't comprehend that their actions had consequences. "They don't change. They just get more desperate."
"Exactly." Jorah hesitated. "There's something else. He's been asking questions. About you. About where you came from, how you fight, why you speak like a westerosi but don't act like one."
Jason went very still. "What kind of questions?"
"The kind that suggest he's looking for leverage. Something to use against you, to undermine your authority with the khalasar." Jorah met his eyes seriously. "He's not stupid, Jason. Delusional, yes. Addicted to his own myth, absolutely. But not stupid. He knows you're the only thing standing between him and Daenerys. If he can remove you somehow..."
"He gets his compliant sister back and can sell her to someone else." Jason's jaw clenched. "Over my dead body."
"That's what he's hoping for, I suspect. A challenge, maybe. Or an 'accident' during a hunt. The Dothraki respect strength, but they also respect cunning. If Viserys can make you look weak, make you look like you don't deserve to be khal—"
"Then someone else might challenge me for the position." Jason had already figured out that much. The khalasar followed him because he'd killed Drogo, but that loyalty was conditional. Constant. If he showed weakness, if someone stronger came along, they'd follow that person instead.
It was exhausting, honestly. Like being Batman but with forty thousand people watching your every move, waiting for you to slip up.
"I'll handle it," Jason said firmly. "Viserys is a problem I should have dealt with weeks ago. I've been putting it off because Daenerys asked me to be patient, but patience has limits."
"Just don't kill him unless you absolutely have to," Jorah advised. "The khaleesi would never forgive you, no matter how justified."
"I know."
They rode in silence for a while, the sun climbing higher, the day growing hot. Jason could feel sweat gathering under his armor—the Red Hood's gear was designed for Gotham's climate, not the Dothraki Sea's relentless heat. He'd adapted as best he could, removing some of the heavier plates, but it was still uncomfortable.
Ahead, he could see Daenerys riding Nerissa, flanked by her handmaids on their own mounts. The silver mare moved like poetry, and Daenerys sat her saddle with increasing confidence—she was a natural rider, once she'd gotten over the initial fear. Her silver-gold hair streamed behind her in the wind, bright as a banner, and Jason felt that now-familiar twist in his chest.
She'd been... different, lately. More confident. More present. She still slept in his arms every night—that had become routine, expected, comfortable—but there was something new in how she touched him. Casual brushes of her hand against his arm. The way she'd lean against him while they talked, warm and solid and *there*.
And gods help him, he'd noticed she was developing.
The constant riding had done something to her body—toned her legs, strengthened her core, added definition to arms that had been soft from years of inactivity. But more than that, the freedom from Viserys's constant criticism, the better food, the sun and air—it had let her bloom.
Her figure had filled out in ways that made Jason's mouth go dry when he wasn't careful. The riding leathers she wore now clung to curves that definitely hadn't been there in Pentos. Her face had lost the last softness of childhood, revealing cheekbones that could cut glass and a jawline that was all elegant Valyrian bloodline.
She looked like trouble. Beautiful, confident, increasingly aware of her effect on him.
It made him deeply uncomfortable—she was sixteen, still too young by any reasonable standard, still someone he should be protecting rather than... noticing. But she'd grown over the past few weeks into someone who looked less like a scared child and more like a woman who knew exactly what she wanted.
And what she wanted, increasingly obviously, was him.
*Bruce would be so disappointed,* Jason thought. *Not about the noticing—he'd understand that, hormones are hormones. But about the situation. Married at twenty-five to a sixteen-year-old in a world where that's considered normal. He'd have seventeen lectures prepared about power dynamics and appropriate relationships.*
*Dick would make jokes but also check in constantly to make sure I wasn't being a creep. Tim would have a whole analysis prepared on cultural relativism versus absolute morality. Damian would just tell me to stop being weak and consummate the marriage already because that's what khals do.*
*And Steph... Steph would kick my ass for even thinking about it.*
"You're thinking too loud again," Jorah observed. "And this time you look guilty. What's going on in that head of yours?"
"Nothing appropriate," Jason admitted.
Jorah followed his gaze, saw where Jason was looking—specifically at how Daenerys's riding leathers emphasized her figure as she moved with Nerissa—and his expression softened with something like sympathy mixed with amusement. "Ah. The khaleesi."
"She's sixteen."
"In this world, that's a woman grown. Old enough to marry, old enough to—"
"In my world, sixteen is a kid," Jason interrupted firmly. "Still in school. Still figuring out who they are. And I don't care what the customs are here—I'm not touching her until she's older."
"Even though she clearly wants you to?" Jorah's smile was knowing. "Come on, Hood. I've seen how she looks at you. How she touches you every chance she gets. The way she watches you train with the bloodriders like she's cataloguing every movement for later review. The girl is sixteen, not blind. You're young, handsome, powerful, and you killed for her. Of course she wants you."
"She's grateful. That's different from attraction."
"Is it?" Jorah shrugged. "Maybe you're right. Maybe it's just gratitude. But sooner or later, you're going to have to decide what kind of marriage this is—protective guardian and ward, or khal and khaleesi. Because right now you're straddling both, and that's not fair to either of you. Especially when you're clearly attracted to her too."
"I'm trying to be the good guy here," Jason said through gritted teeth.
"The good guy who shares her bed every night but won't touch her? Jason, she's your wife. Eventually, she's going to wonder if you don't want her. If she's not attractive enough, or if you're interested in someone else. Is that really what you want—to make her feel unwanted?"
Jason didn't have a good answer to that, so he just urged Jaqqa forward, leaving Jorah behind to ride with the bloodriders.
He needed to think. To figure out what the hell he was doing with this marriage, with this khalasar, with this life he'd somehow stumbled into through violence and good intentions gone sideways.
But thinking required quiet, and the Dothraki Sea was anything but.
---
That afternoon, they stopped to water the horses at a small stream—barely more than a trickle, but enough. The khalasar spread out along the banks, warriors dismounting to let their horses drink, taking the opportunity to rest and eat.
Jason was checking Jaqqa's hooves—the stallion had been favoring his left foreleg slightly, and Jason wanted to make sure there wasn't a stone lodged somewhere—when Viserys appeared.
"I would speak with you, Khal Jason." The title dripped with sarcasm, every syllable a small rebellion.
Jason straightened slowly, his hand automatically going to his gladius. Not drawing, just resting there. Ready.
Viserys noticed, and his lip curled. "Still so quick to violence. Is that all you know? How to kill?"
"It's kept me alive this long," Jason said evenly. "What do you want, Viserys?"
"I want to know what gives you the right." Viserys stepped closer, and Jason could smell the wine on his breath—he'd clearly been drinking since breakfast. "You're nobody. A foreigner. A killer. Yet you wear a khal's title, command my sister's khalasar, take my rightful—"
"Your sister's khalasar," Jason interrupted. "Not yours. You never earned it. Never bled for it. You just wanted to use it."
"I am the Dragon!" Viserys's voice rose, drawing attention from nearby warriors. "The last true king of Westeros! That khalasar should be mine, marching to take back my throne! Instead you—"
"I killed the man who would have raped your sister on her wedding night while thousands cheered," Jason said flatly. "That's what gives me the right. What have you done, exactly?"
Viserys's face went purple with rage. "You dare—"
"Yeah, I dare. And here's what else I dare, Viserys—I dare to protect Daenerys from you. From your ambitions, your delusions, your complete inability to see her as anything except a tool for your own advancement."
"She's my sister! My blood! She belongs—"
"She belongs to herself." Jason took a step forward, using his height—six-foot-five to Viserys's maybe five-ten—to loom deliberately. "She's not your property. Not anymore. She's khaleesi of this khalasar, and if you can't accept that, you can walk back to Pentos."
"You can't throw me out! The Dothraki wouldn't—"
"The Dothraki follow strength," Jason interrupted. "And right now, you're showing weakness. You can't ride properly, can't speak the language, can't even handle being in the sun without whining. The only reason you're still here is because Daenerys asked me to let you stay. But my patience has limits, Viserys. And you're testing them."
Viserys stared at him with pure hatred, hands clenched into fists. For a moment, Jason thought he might actually try to throw a punch—which would be hilarious and also very quick, since Jason could put him down without breaking stride.
But Viserys was, underneath everything, a coward. So he just spat at Jason's feet and stormed off, muttering curses in High Valyrian that he probably thought sounded impressive.
Jason watched him go, then noticed Qotho standing nearby, having witnessed the entire exchange.
"The silver-haired man is poison," Qotho said in Dothraki, his tone matter-of-fact. "Like a snake that bites even when you feed it. You should kill him."
"The khaleesi wouldn't want that," Jason replied in his improving Dothraki.
"The khaleesi is soft because she is young. But she learns. Soon she will see what he is." Qotho shrugged. "Until then, we watch. Make sure he does not hurt her or you."
"Appreciated."
Qotho studied him for a moment, then said something that surprised Jason: "You are not like other westerosi. You are not like Drogo either. But you are khal. This is good. The khalasar needs strong khal, not soft khal. You are strong."
Coming from Qotho, who'd served Drogo for years and probably resented Jason for killing him, that was high praise.
"Thank you," Jason said simply.
Qotho nodded once, then added with a slight smirk, "Also, the khaleesi watches you train. Every morning. She thinks no one notices, but the bloodriders see. She likes what she sees, I think. You should give her what she wants. A khal who does not bed his khaleesi—warriors wonder if he is weak. Or if he prefers men."
Jason felt heat rise in his face. "I'm not—it's complicated."
"Is not complicated. She is beautiful, you are strong. You are married. This is simple." Qotho shrugged. "But westerosi are strange about these things. The Dothraki way is better—take what you want, give what is asked for. Life is short on the grass."
He walked away, leaving Jason standing there with Jaqqa, trying not to think about how right the bloodrider was.
*Everyone has an opinion about my sex life,* Jason thought. *Or lack thereof. This is what I get for being the only person in this entire khalasar who thinks waiting is a good idea.*
"Talking to yourself now?"
Jason looked up to find Daenerys approaching, Nerissa following behind her like a silver shadow. She was smiling—bright and knowing, like she'd heard at least part of the conversation with Qotho.
"Just contemplating how everyone suddenly has opinions about my personal life," Jason said.
"Our personal life," Daenerys corrected, moving closer. She was wearing riding leathers today—practical, well-fitted, and doing absolutely nothing to help Jason's attempts at maintaining appropriate boundaries. "And can you blame them? We're married, we share a bed every night, and you haven't so much as kissed me since the wedding."
"I kissed you last night," Jason pointed out.
"I kissed you," she corrected, her smile widening. "And you pulled away like I'd burned you."
"Because you're sixteen and I'm trying to be—"
"The good guy. I know." She stepped even closer, and Jason was suddenly very aware of how little space was between them. "But Jason, what if being the good guy means giving me what I want instead of what you think I should want?"
Her hand came up to rest on his chest, right over his heart, and Jason felt his pulse jump beneath her palm.
"I'm not a child," she continued softly, those silver-purple eyes locked on his. "I know my own mind. I know what I want. And I want you to stop treating me like I'm made of glass."
"You deserve better than—"
"You keep saying that." Her fingers traced small patterns on his chest through the linen, distracting as hell. "But you're not listening when I tell you—you're what I want. The man who killed for me. Who holds me at night and makes me feel safe. Who's going to teach me to fight because I asked. You're not broken, Jason. You're perfect."
"I'm really not," Jason said, but his voice had gone rough.
"You are to me." She tilted her head back, holding his gaze, her lips slightly parted in a way that made it very difficult to think about appropriate boundaries. "I saw Viserys arguing with you. What did he want?"
"The usual. To complain, to threaten, to remind me he's supposedly important." Jason forced himself to focus on the conversation instead of how close she was. "He's getting worse, Dany. More desperate. Jorah says he tried to steal a horse this morning."
Daenerys went very still, though her hand remained on his chest. "He wouldn't."
"He did. Qotho stopped him before it became a problem, but—stealing horses is a death sentence among the Dothraki. If he'd succeeded, I couldn't have protected him."
She looked away, silver-gold hair catching the sunlight. "He's my brother."
"I know. And I know you love him. But Dany..." Jason's hand came up to cup her face, turning her gently back to meet his eyes. "He's dangerous. Not because he's strong—he's not. But because he's desperate, and desperate people do stupid things. Things that hurt everyone around them."
She leaned into his touch, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment. "What do you want me to do? Cast him out? Let him die in the grass?"
"No. I'd never ask that." Jason's thumb stroked her cheek gently. "But I need you to be prepared. Eventually, he's going to do something that forces my hand. And when that happens, I need to know you'll understand."
Daenerys opened her eyes, and there was something fierce in them now. "Will you try not to kill him? If it comes to that?"
"I'll try," Jason promised. "But I won't let him hurt you. That's the line he can't cross."
She nodded, accepting that, and surprised him by stepping even closer and wrapping her arms around his waist. Just holding him, her face pressed against his chest, seeking comfort.
Jason's arms came around her automatically, and he felt every curve of her body pressed against his. The riding leathers left very little to the imagination, and Jason tried very hard not to notice how perfectly she fit against him, how right it felt.
*Stop it,* he told himself firmly. *She's upset about her brother. This is comfort, not seduction. Don't be a creep.*
But then Daenerys tilted her head back to look up at him, still pressed against him, and there was something heated in her gaze that suggested comfort was only part of her motivation.
"Thank you," she said softly. "For being patient with him. For trying. I know he's... difficult."
"Difficult is one word for it." Jason tried to focus on her eyes instead of her mouth, which was right there, slightly parted, looking entirely too kissable.
"Jason?" Her voice had dropped, gone husky in a way that made his body take immediate notice.
"Yeah?"
"Qotho was right, you know." Her fingers were tracing patterns on his back now, through the thin linen. "I do watch you train. Every morning. I watch how you move, how strong you are, how beautiful."
"Dany—"
"And I think about what it would be like," she continued, her voice barely above a whisper, "if you touched me the way I want you to. If you stopped being so careful, so protective, and just... wanted me."
Jason's hands tightened on her waist involuntarily. "You're playing with fire."
"Maybe I want to get burned." Her smile was wicked, confident in a way that was both adorable and incredibly dangerous. "Maybe I'm tired of waiting for you to see me as a woman instead of a responsibility."
"I see you as a woman," Jason admitted, his voice rough. "Trust me, I see you. It's impossible not to."
"Then why won't you touch me?"
"Because you're sixteen and I'm trying to be—"
"The good guy. Yes, I know. You keep saying that." She pulled back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes properly. "But Jason, what if being the good guy means respecting what I want? I'm your wife. We're married. And I want my husband to want me."
"I do want you," Jason said, the admission pulled from him before he could stop it. "Gods help me, I do. But—"
"But nothing." Daenerys's smile was triumphant. "That's all I needed to hear. That you want me too. The rest... we can figure out together. When you're ready. When you can stop seeing me as someone to protect and start seeing me as someone to be with."
She rose on her toes—Jason was so tall she had to stretch—and pressed a kiss to his jaw, just below his ear. Her lips were soft and warm, and the touch sent electricity straight down his spine.
"Think about it," she whispered. "Tonight. Tomorrow. Every night when you hold me and pretend you don't feel what's between us. Think about what you really want, not what you think you should want."
Then she pulled away, leaving Jason standing there trying to remember how breathing worked.
"Oh, and Jason?" She turned back, that knowing smile still in place. "You mentioned teaching me to fight. I'd like to start tomorrow morning. Before the khalasar moves out."
"Yeah," Jason managed, his brain still trying to reboot. "Tomorrow. Early."
"Perfect." Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "I'll wear something... practical. Wouldn't want to be too distracted during training."
She walked away, leading Nerissa toward the stream, and Jason watched the sway of her hips in those riding leathers with the resigned awareness that he was completely, utterly screwed.
*Smart girl,* he thought. *She knows exactly what she's doing. Doreah definitely coached her. This is psychological warfare, and I'm losing.*
"You look like you've been hit with a hammer," Jorah observed, appearing from wherever he'd been lurking. "Let me guess—the khaleesi?"
"Shut up," Jason said without heat.
"She's good at this," Jorah continued, amused. "I've been watching her learn. Doreah's been teaching her seduction techniques, and Daenerys is a quick study. You don't stand a chance, Hood."
"She's sixteen."
"And you've said that so many times it's starting to sound like you're trying to convince yourself rather than anyone else." Jorah's expression softened. "Jason, I get it. Your world has different rules, different expectations. But you're not in your world anymore. You're here, married to a woman who wants you, who's making that abundantly clear. At some point, you're going to have to decide if you're living by your world's rules or this world's reality."
"I just don't want to hurt her."
"Then don't. But also don't make her feel unwanted or unattractive because you're too busy being noble." Jorah clapped him on the shoulder. "Talk to her. Really talk to her. Figure out what you both want, what you're both comfortable with. Communication tends to solve most problems."
He walked away, leaving Jason standing there with Jaqqa, trying to figure out how his life had become so complicated.
*I fought the Joker,* Jason thought. *Survived the Lazarus Pit. Led a khalasar. But one sixteen-year-old with silver hair and a smile that could melt titanium is completely destroying me.*
Jaqqa whickered, as if laughing at his rider's predicament.
"You're not helping," Jason muttered.
---
That night, after the khalasar had settled and the fires burned low, Jason returned to their tent with trepidation.
The setup was different again—the braziers arranged to cast soft, intimate light. Fresh furs on the sleeping area, cushions arranged invitingly. And the air smelled like flowers and something spicy he couldn't quite identify but that made him think of expensive perfume.
Daenerys was waiting, sitting on the furs, and Jason's brain short-circuited.
She was wearing sleeping silks—pale blue, nearly transparent, clinging to every curve in ways that should probably be illegal in several jurisdictions. The fabric left very little to the imagination, showing the swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the curve of her hips. Her silver-gold hair fell loose around her shoulders, catching the brazier light like liquid moonlight.
She looked like every fantasy Jason had been trying very hard not to have, sitting there with a smile that suggested she knew exactly what she was doing to him.
*Oh, I am in so much trouble.*
"Hi," Daenerys said, her voice like honey.
"Hi," Jason managed, standing frozen in the tent entrance like an idiot.
"How was your evening?" She shifted slightly, and the silk moved with her in ways that made Jason's mouth go dry. "Did the bloodriders bore you with more battle stories?"
"They're actually pretty interesting," Jason said, forcing himself to move into the tent, starting to remove his armor with hands that weren't quite steady. "Qotho told me about fighting the Lhazareen last year, and Haggo has some genuinely funny stories about raiding parties gone wrong."
"That's good." Daenerys watched him with undisguised interest as he unbuckled straps, removed layers. "You know, I've been thinking about this morning. About what you said."
"What I said?" Jason was trying to focus on the armor, not on how those silks clung to her.
"That you want me." Her voice had dropped, gone sultry. "I've been thinking about that all day. About what it means. About what we could do with that want."
Jason's hands stilled on a buckle. "Dany—"
"Come sit with me." She patted the furs beside her. "Please? You've been on your feet all day, and I'd like to talk. Just talk."
*Just talk. Right. Sure. That's definitely all that's happening here.*
But Jason moved closer anyway, because he'd never been good at denying her anything. He sat down—keeping what he hoped was a respectful distance—and continued removing armor.
"Can I help?" Daenerys moved closer, her hands joining his on a stubborn buckle. Her fingers brushed his, warm and deliberate, and Jason felt that touch like electricity.
"Thanks," he said, his voice rougher than intended.
"You're welcome." She didn't move away after the buckle was undone. Instead, her hands slid to his shoulders, squeezing gently, finding knots of tension. "Gods, you're so tense. All this muscle, wound so tight."
Her hands were skilled, confident—Doreah had definitely taught her this—and Jason felt his body relax despite his mind screaming that this was a bad idea.
"Where did you learn to do this?" His voice came out strained.
"Doreah. She said warriors carry stress in their shoulders and back. That a good wife knows how to help her husband relax." Her hands moved lower, working on muscles along his spine through the thin linen. "Am I helping?"
"Yes," Jason admitted, because lying was pointless when his body was already betraying him.
"Good." Her voice was pleased, warm. "I've been learning other things too. Other ways to please a husband. Would you like to hear about them?"
Jason's hand shot out, catching her wrist gently. "Dany, what are you doing?"
She met his eyes directly, no hesitation. "Seducing you. Is it working?"
*Yes. Absolutely yes. Completely yes.*
"You don't need to seduce me," Jason said, trying to sound reasonable. "I'm your husband. I'm not going anywhere."
"But you won't touch me either." Her free hand came up to cup his face, thumb stroking his cheekbone. "You hold me every night, you want me—you admitted that—but you won't act on it. So I'm making it very clear what I want. I want you, Jason. I want you to stop being so careful with me. I want you to kiss me like you mean it. I want..." She paused, seeming to gather courage. "I want to feel like a woman you desire, not a child you're protecting."
Jason closed his eyes, trying to find willpower that was rapidly deserting him. "You're sixteen."
"I know how old I am." Her voice was firm. "And I know what I want. I want my husband. I want to share his bed properly, not just sleep beside him. I want him to touch me, kiss me, show me what it means to be wanted."
She shifted closer, and suddenly she was straddling his lap, her thighs on either side of his, her face level with his. The silks left absolutely nothing to the imagination in this position, and Jason's hands automatically went to her waist to steady her.
Big mistake.
He could feel every curve through the thin fabric. Feel the heat of her skin, the softness of her. Feel how perfectly she fit against him, how right it seemed despite every reason it shouldn't.
"Dany," he said, his voice strained. "You're killing me here."
"Good." Her arms draped over his shoulders, fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. "I want you to feel what I feel. Want what I want. Stop thinking about what you should do and think about what you want to do."
"What I want to do," Jason said slowly, his hands tightening on her waist, "is take you to bed properly. Kiss every inch of you. Show you exactly how much I want you. But—"
"Then do it." Her eyes were bright, eager. "I'm your wife. I'm asking you to. Begging you to, if that's what it takes."
"I need you to be sure," Jason said, his forehead resting against hers. "Really sure. Not just because Doreah told you this is what wives do, or because you think it's expected. I need to know you want this for you."
"I want this," Daenerys said firmly. "I want you. I've wanted you since you killed Drogo to save me. Since you held me that first night and made me feel safe. Since I woke up every morning in your arms and realized I never wanted to wake up any other way."
She kissed him—not tentative like before, but confident. Pressing her lips to his with purpose, with heat, with clear intent.
And Jason, whose willpower had been eroding for weeks, finally broke.
He kissed her back—really kissed her, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of her head, the other pulling her closer against him. He kissed her like he'd wanted to for weeks, like she was air and he was drowning, like she was the only real thing in a world that had tried to kill him repeatedly.
Daenerys made a small sound—surprise and pleasure and satisfaction—and melted against him. Her fingers tightened in his hair, her body pressing closer, and Jason felt every soft curve of her against his chest, his stomach, his—
He pulled back, breathing hard. "Wait. Wait, we need to slow down."
"Why?" Her lips were swollen from kissing, her eyes half-lidded with desire, and she looked absolutely devastating.
"Because if we don't slow down, I'm going to do something we can't take back. And I need you to be absolutely certain this is what you want."
"I am certain." She kissed his jaw, his neck, her lips warm against his skin. "I've never been more certain of anything."
"Dany, I'm serious—"
"So am I." She pulled back to meet his eyes. "Jason, I know what I'm asking for. Doreah explained everything. All of it. What happens, how it works, what it feels like. I know the first time might hurt. I know it's a big step. And I want it anyway. I want you."
Jason stared at her—at this impossible girl-woman who'd somehow become the most important person in his world, who was looking at him with absolute trust and desire and determination.
"I don't want to hurt you," he said quietly.
"Then be gentle." Her smile was soft, understanding. "I trust you, Jason. Completely. I know you'll take care of me."
Jason's resolve, which had been eroding steadily for weeks, finally shattered completely.
"Okay," he said, his voice rough. "But we do this my way. Slow. Careful. And if you change your mind at any point—any point—you tell me and we stop immediately. Deal?"
"Deal." Her smile was radiant, transforming her face into something almost unbearably beautiful.
Jason kissed her again, slower this time, taking his time to explore. Her lips were soft and responsive, learning quickly how to match his rhythm. His hand slid from her waist up her side, feeling the silk slide under his palm, feeling the soft skin beneath.
Daenerys gasped against his mouth when his hand brushed the side of her breast—not directly, just a grazing touch—and Jason felt her shiver in his arms.
"Okay?" he murmured against her lips.
"More than okay." Her voice was breathless. "Keep going."
His hand moved higher, cupping her breast properly through the thin silk, and Daenerys made a sound that went straight to Jason's groin. She was perfect—not too large, not too small, fitting his palm like she'd been made for him.
"Jason," she breathed, her hips shifting against him unconsciously.
*Slow down,* he told himself firmly. *She's never done this before. Don't rush her.*
He eased her back onto the furs, covering her body with his, careful to keep most of his weight on his arms. The position put them pressed together from chest to hip, and Jason could feel every inch of her through the thin layers between them.
"You're so tall," Daenerys murmured, her hands exploring his chest, feeling the muscles beneath the linen. "So strong. I love how big you are."
"Yeah?" Jason kissed her neck, felt her pulse jump beneath his lips. "You're tiny. I'm afraid I'll break you."
"You won't." Her fingers found the hem of his tunic, slipped beneath it to touch bare skin. "I'm stronger than I look."
Jason groaned when her hands splayed across his abs, exploring with curious, eager touches. "You're definitely stronger than you look."
"Can I see you?" Her voice was shy suddenly, uncertain. "Without the shirt?"
Jason sat back on his heels, pulling the tunic over his head and tossing it aside. He watched Daenerys's eyes go wide, tracking over his chest, his arms, the roadmap of scars that covered his skin.
"Gods," she whispered. She sat up, her hands immediately reaching out to touch. "You're beautiful."
"I'm a mess," Jason corrected, catching her hand and bringing it to his chest, letting her feel his heartbeat. "Every scar is a failure. A time I was too slow or too reckless."
"Every scar is a story." Her fingers traced a particularly nasty one across his ribs—courtesy of the Joker's crowbar. "Every scar means you survived. That you're here with me. I think they're beautiful."
She leaned forward and kissed the scar, her lips soft against the damaged tissue, and Jason felt something in his chest crack open.
"Dany," he said, his voice thick.
"Hmm?" She was still exploring, kissing her way across his chest, her hands tracing muscles and scars with equal fascination.
"You're going to kill me. You know that, right?"
She laughed against his skin. "Good. Fair's fair—you've been slowly killing me for weeks by refusing to touch me."
"I'm touching you now," Jason pointed out.
"Not enough." She pulled back to look at him, her eyes dark with desire. "I want more. Show me more."
Jason's hands found the silk covering her, fingers tracing the edge where it met skin. "Can I take this off?"
"Please."
He undid the simple tie at her shoulder, watched the silk slip down to pool at her waist. Daenerys was bare beneath it, and Jason's brain temporarily forgot how to form words.
She was perfect. Small, high breasts with pink nipples that were already peaked with arousal. Smooth, pale skin that seemed to glow in the brazier light. The lean muscle she'd developed from riding visible in her arms and stomach.
"You're staring," Daenerys said, and there was a hint of nervousness in her voice now. "Is that good or bad?"
"Good," Jason managed, his voice hoarse. "Very, very good. You're gorgeous, Dany."
Her smile returned, bright and pleased. "Can you... will you touch me?"
Jason's hand moved to cup her breast, his thumb brushing over her nipple, and Daenerys gasped, her back arching into the touch.
"Sensitive," Jason murmured, filing that information away. He repeated the motion, watched her react, felt himself getting harder with every small sound she made.
"Jason, that feels—oh gods—" Her hands clutched at his shoulders as he lowered his head, replacing his thumb with his mouth.
The taste of her skin was intoxicating—salt and something sweet, something uniquely her. Jason explored carefully, learning what made her gasp, what made her moan, what made her fingers tighten in his hair and her hips shift restlessly.
"I need—" Daenerys's voice was breathless, desperate. "I don't know what I need, but—"
"I've got you," Jason promised, his hand sliding down to her waist, then lower, tracing the curve of her hip through the silk. "Just feel. Tell me if anything's too much."
He eased the rest of the silk away, leaving her completely bare beneath him, and had to pause just to look. To memorize this moment—his wife, beautiful and willing and trusting him with something precious.
"You're thinking too much again," Daenerys said, her lips curving into a smile. "I can see it in your eyes. Stop thinking and just... be with me."
"I'm here," Jason said. He kissed her again, slow and deep, his hand sliding down her stomach, giving her time to adjust, to tell him to stop if she wanted.
She didn't stop him. Instead, her legs parted slightly, an invitation, and Jason groaned into the kiss.
"Tell me if this is too much," he murmured against her lips, his hand moving lower.
When his fingers found her, she was hot and wet and ready, and Jason felt his self-control hanging by a thread.
"Oh," Daenerys breathed, her hips lifting into his touch. "Oh, that's—Jason—"
He explored carefully, finding what made her gasp, what made her moan his name. She was responsive and eager, her body learning quickly what felt good, her hands clutching at him like he was the only solid thing in the world.
"I want—" She could barely speak, her breathing ragged. "I want all of you. Please. I'm ready."
"Are you sure?" Jason's voice was strained, his own need making it difficult to think clearly. "Because once we do this—"
"I'm sure." She pulled his face down to hers, kissed him with surprising fierceness. "I want my first time to be with you. I want to be yours completely. Please, Jason. Make me your wife in truth."
Jason groaned, his forehead resting against hers. "Okay. But slow. If it hurts too much, you tell me and we stop."
"Okay."
He positioned himself carefully, giving her time to change her mind. But Daenerys just wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer, her eyes locked on his with complete trust.
"I love you," she said suddenly, the words spilling out. "I think I've loved you since you killed for me. Since you stood between me and Drogo and refused to move. I love you, Jason Todd."
Jason's breath caught. No one had said those words to him since before he died the first time. Not Bruce, not Dick, no one. He'd forgotten what they felt like—terrifying and wonderful and completely overwhelming.
"Dany," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I—"
"You don't have to say it back," she interrupted gently. "Not until you're ready. I just needed you to know."
Jason kissed her instead of answering with words—poured everything he felt into the kiss, everything he couldn't quite articulate yet. Then, carefully, slowly, he began to push forward.
Daenerys tensed immediately, her fingers digging into his shoulders. "That's—it's—"
"I know," Jason murmured, holding still, letting her adjust. "Breathe. Just breathe. We'll go as slow as you need."
"I'm okay." Her voice was tight but determined. "Keep going."
Jason moved slowly, carefully, watching her face for any sign of real pain. There was discomfort—he could see it—but also trust, and desire, and determination.
When he was fully seated, they both paused, breathing hard.
"Okay?" Jason asked, holding himself completely still despite every instinct screaming at him to move.
"I—yes. I think so." Daenerys shifted experimentally, testing the feeling, and gasped. "Oh. That's different. Not bad, just... different."
"It gets better," Jason promised. "Your body needs time to adjust. We can wait as long as you need."
"Don't wait." Her hips moved again, finding a rhythm instinctively. "Show me. Show me how it's supposed to feel."
Jason groaned and began to move—slow, careful, giving her time to adjust with each stroke. He watched her face, saw the discomfort gradually fade, replaced by something else. Pleasure. Wonder. Heat.
"Oh," Daenerys breathed, her hips rising to meet his now. "Oh, that's—Jason—"
"Yeah," he agreed, his voice strained. "That's good. You feel so good, Dany."
They found a rhythm together—slow and careful at first, then gradually building. Jason used every ounce of control he had to make sure she was with him, that she was feeling pleasure, not just enduring.
"Touch me," Daenerys gasped, pulling his hand to where they were joined. "The way you did before. I want—I need—"
Jason's fingers found her center, circling gently while he continued to move, and Daenerys cried out, her body arching beneath him.
"That's it," he murmured, watching her face as pleasure built. "Let go. I've got you."
When she came, it was with a cry that she muffled against his shoulder, her whole body tensing and then releasing, trembling in his arms. The feeling of her tightening around him was enough to push Jason over the edge, and he followed her into climax with a groan, spilling inside her with the vague thought that he should probably worry about consequences but couldn't quite manage to care.
They collapsed together on the furs, both breathing hard, slick with sweat despite the evening cool.
"Wow," Daenerys said after a long moment, her voice slightly awed. "Is it always like that?"
Jason laughed, surprised the sound still existed in him. "It gets better. First time is usually awkward and painful. But yeah, when it's right, it's like that."
"It was right." She snuggled against his side, seemingly unbothered by the mess and the sweat. "That was perfect, Jason. Thank you."
"You don't thank someone for that," Jason said, amused.
"I do. You were gentle and careful and perfect." She kissed his chest, right over his heart. "And I meant what I said. I love you."
Jason's arm tightened around her. He still couldn't quite say the words back—they stuck in his throat, too big, too scary, too much. But he could show her.
"Sleep," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her hair. "We have training in the morning, and I'm going to make you regret asking me to teach you to fight."
"Worth it," Daenerys mumbled, already half-asleep. "Totally worth it."
Jason lay awake longer, holding her, feeling her breathing even out into sleep. His body was satisfied in a way it hadn't been in... years, maybe. Since before he died. But more than that, something in his chest felt different. Lighter. Like a weight he hadn't known he was carrying had lifted.
*I love you too,* he thought, watching her sleep. *I'm just not ready to say it out loud yet. But I do. Gods help me, I do.*
Outside, the khalasar slept. Forty thousand warriors and their families, all trusting Jason to lead them safely to Vaes Dothrak.
And here he was, having just consummated his marriage to his sixteen-year-old wife, breaking every rule his old world would have had about appropriate relationships.
But this wasn't his old world. This was here, now, with a woman who'd chosen him, who'd fought to be seen by him, who loved him despite all his broken pieces.
*Bruce would definitely have seventeen lectures prepared,* Jason thought. *But Bruce isn't here. And I'm trying to do the best I can with an impossible situation.*
Daenerys stirred in her sleep, pressing closer to him, and Jason held her tighter.
*Tomorrow,* he promised himself. *Tomorrow I'll teach her to fight. Tomorrow I'll deal with Viserys. Tomorrow I'll figure out how to lead this khalasar properly.*
*But tonight, just for tonight, I'm going to hold my wife and pretend that maybe, somehow, I deserve this happiness.*
The Lazarus Pit burned quietly in his blood, patient as always.
And Jason Todd—who'd been Robin, who'd been Red Hood, who'd died twice and been resurrected into anger—fell asleep holding the woman he was beginning to realize he couldn't live without.
Tomorrow would bring new challenges. Viserys's increasing desperation. The long journey to Vaes Dothrak. Training Daenerys to defend herself. Leading a khalasar he still barely understood.
But that was tomorrow's problem.
Tonight, for the first time in years, Jason Todd felt something like peace.
And in the brazier's dying light, three dragon eggs gleamed—cream and gold, green and bronze, black and scarlet—waiting for their moment.
Waiting for fire and blood and the impossible to become real.
But that, too, was a story for another night.
---
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