Game of Thrones Iron Stark

The bloodrider spat on the grass at Daenerys's feet.

"You are no true khaleesi," he snarled. "A khal who hides behind a woman's skirts is no khal at all."

He turned to ride away with his men.

Drogo's bloodriders started forward, arakhs half-drawn, but Drogo lifted one hand and they froze. He stepped in front of Daenerys, shielding her with his body, and drew his own curved blade.

"I will send you to the seventh hell myself," he said quietly.

Steel rang. They moved fast across the grass, blades flashing in the sun. Ten exchanges. Fifteen. The bloodrider's arms began to shake from the force of Drogo's blows. On the final desperate lunge, Drogo slipped the strike and opened the man's throat with one clean cut.

A shallow line of red appeared across Drogo's own neck.

"Drogo!" Daenerys ran to him, hands already reaching for the wound.

"It is nothing," he said, brushing her off. "A scratch."

His bloodriders were already there with clean cloth, a skin of strong spirits, and small jars Tony had sent north months ago. One of them poured the burning liquid over the cut without hesitation, then smeared thick ointment across it before wrapping it tight.

Daenerys stared. The great Khal Drogo, the man who laughed at pain, was letting them treat him like he was made of glass.

A priestess from one of the smashed shrines stepped forward from the group of rescued women, face twisted with fury.

"That is poison from the west," she hissed. "The horse god will curse you for putting such filth on your body."

Daenerys turned on her. "It is not poison. Tony Stark made it. The same man who wrote How to Train Your Dragon. He is no fool."

The bloodriders exchanged looks. One of them pointed at the priestess.

"She is a witch. She should burn."

Drogo looked at Daenerys. She gave the smallest nod.

They burned the woman where she stood.

Later, when the fires died, Drogo sold the women Daenerys had claimed anyway. She did not have enough riders to guard so many, and he needed the coin. Daenerys said nothing. She had saved their lives for a day. That was more than most khaleesis would have done.

That night Drogo took her anyway, careful of the child growing in her belly, but still fierce enough that she forgot the smell of burning flesh for a little while.

---

King's Landing smelled of sweat, horse shit, and fresh blood.

The tourney grounds were packed. Knights in shining armor, hedge knights in dented plate, and every lord with a sword and a dream had come to fight for glory and gold.

The Hound stood near Joffrey's box in his dog-headed helm, massive and silent. Without it he was worse—half his face melted into ruin, the kind of sight that made small children cry.

His brother, Gregor Clegane, towered even taller. Over eight feet of muscle and madness, swinging a greatsword one-handed like it weighed nothing. Men gave him a wide berth.

Then came the Knight of Flowers.

Loras Tyrell rode in shining armor covered in delicate carvings of vines and blossoms. His horse was caparisoned in matching silk. Half the ladies in the stands sighed when he passed.

He rode slowly along the lower boxes, handing out red roses to the prettiest women he saw. When he reached Sansa Stark he stopped, bowed in the saddle, and offered her a perfect bloom.

"My lady," he said with a charming smile. Then he saw Renly Baratheon sitting just behind her and quickly moved on.

Sansa held the rose like it was made of glass.

Arya made a face. "What good is a flower? Shoes would be better. At least you can walk in shoes."

Littlefinger had taken the seat beside them without asking. He smiled at Arya the way a man smiles at a puzzle he cannot solve.

"Flowers represent love, little one," he said smoothly.

"Love dies," Arya shot back. "Flowers die. So love dies too?"

Littlefinger opened his mouth, closed it again.

Renly's laugh rang out from the row behind them. "She has you there, Petyr."

Sansa turned, cheeks pink. "In Tony Stark's book Cinderella, the prince falls in love because of a shoe. So shoes can mean love too."

Arya's eyes went wide. "You and Tony are already talking about love? And you didn't tell me? I'm your sister!"

"We're not really brother and sister," Sansa said primly. "We could—"

"Tony Stark," Littlefinger cut in before the conversation went somewhere dangerous. "The Citadel's golden boy. Pycelle never shuts up about him. We've all heard the name a thousand times. Yet none of us have seen him since Robert dragged him to court years ago."

Sansa brightened. "He's coming. A raven came this morning. He'll be here soon."

Littlefinger studied her face. For a second it was Catelyn looking back at him.

Up in the royal box, Catelyn sat beside Cersei. Myrcella had wanted to sit with Sansa and Arya in the lower stands but Cersei had refused. The girl was still sulking.

"My daughters apologize for breaking their promise to the princess," Catelyn said quietly.

Cersei didn't look at her. "My daughter is a princess. She sits where I say she sits."

Lancel Lannister—young, handsome, wearing the red Lannister cloak—stepped forward with a jug of wine. Cersei let him fill her cup, her fingers brushing his wrist a little too long. Jaime had been gone too many weeks. A woman had needs.

Down on the field, Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark stood together on the raised platform. Robert held a massive warhammer. Ned held the gong.

The crowd fell quiet.

Robert grinned, wild and bright, and swung the hammer.

The deep, ringing note rolled across the tourney grounds.

The games had begun.