The oil lamp sat beside the silver platter, its flickering flame illuminating the faces of the two people.
Only the three of them remained in the tent: Drogo, Daenerys, and Lali, who stood in the corner ready to translate at any moment.
The other three handmaids had left after delivering the food, and the door curtain was lowered, sealing out the noise from outside.
The steam from the mutton drifted upward, mingling with the sour scent of fermented mare’s milk, slowly swirling within the small space enclosed by the felt.
Drogo pulled several items from his quiver and placed them beside the silver platter.
Daenerys took a look: four small wooden sticks of equal length and similar thickness.
They were polished relatively smooth, but it was clear they were improvised, as the edges were slightly rough.
He sorted through them and handed two to Daenerys.
“Take these.” Daenerys took them and turned them over a couple of times.
They were just two wooden sticks, thicker at one end and thinner at the other, with nothing particularly special about them.
“What are these for?” Drogo picked up the other two and gestured with his fingers, holding the two sticks side-by-side in his hand, then opening and closing them repeatedly.
“Eat with these,” he said.
“This way, you don’t have to use your hands.” Lali translated.
Daenerys watched his hand as he picked up a piece of mutton.
The two wooden sticks seemed to come alive between his fingers—opening, grasping, and lifting.
The meat hung steadily in the air without a single drop of oil falling.
He brought it to her lips.
“Open your mouth.” Daenerys obediently opened her mouth.
As the mutton was fed to her, she chewed and blinked.
“…Interesting.
I’ve never seen such a peculiar way of eating.” Her expression held a hint of pleasant surprise.
The corner of Drogo’s mouth twitched into a faint smile.
That was the way.
Eating with one’s hands was greasy and left them sticky.
Chopsticks might look like a hassle, but once you got used to them, you’d realize their benefits: no oil on your hands, a steady grip on the food, and a more dignified manner.
“You try,” he said.
She mimicked his gestures, pressing down with her thumb and coordinating her index and middle fingers.
The two wooden sticks opened and closed like pincers.
But they wouldn’t obey her.
Whenever she moved, the sticks would cross, and with another movement, they would splay apart.
She tried to pick up a piece of cheese from the platter.
The sticks poked into the cheese, causing it to split in two; one piece fell back onto the platter, while the other bounced onto the table.
Daenerys was stunned for a moment and looked up at him.
Drogo’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t laugh out loud.
He set down his own Chopsticks and leaned in to teach her hand-to-hand.
Daenerys felt the warmth of his hands—rough and calloused—as he gently guided her fingers into the correct positions.
“The thumb goes here,” he said.
“Rest your index finger like this, and put your middle finger underneath.
The two sticks shouldn’t be held too tightly together, nor too far apart.” He was very close, and she could smell the faint scent of sweat on him.
“When you pinch, move the top one.
Keep the bottom one still.” Daenerys studied intently.
“Let me try again.” This time they didn’t cross; the two sticks were aligned.
She tried to pick up a piece of mutton from the platter and managed to grab it, but the Chopsticks were too far apart, and the meat slipped out as soon as she lifted it.
She tried again.
She grabbed it, lifted it, and brought it to her lips—it was almost there when the sticks tilted, and the mutton grazed her chin before falling to the ground.
Lali let out a soft giggle and quickly covered her mouth.
She looked at the piece of meat, then at Drogo.
Her face flushed slightly, but she didn’t put the Chopsticks down.
“Slow down.
Once you’ve grabbed it, don’t rush to lift it,” Drogo encouraged.
His large hand enveloped her small one, guiding her slowly.
The Chopsticks opened, gripped the meat, steadied, and then lifted gently.
The meat hung in the air; it didn’t fall.
“There you go.” Daenerys stared at the piece of meat held between the two wooden sticks as if it were something extraordinary.
She carefully turned her wrist and brought the meat to her lips.
She swallowed the meat and looked up at Drogo.
Then she smiled—not a polite smile, but one where the light truly reached her eyes.
Drogo watched her, saying nothing.
She kept trying.
One piece, two pieces, three pieces.
She became steadier and steadier.
Once, while trying to pick up some Sheep Offal, it slipped three times before she succeeded, but she didn’t give up.
After picking it up, she held it high and waved it at him as if showing off.
She asked, “What is this thing called?” “Chopsticks.” “Chopsticks,” she repeated, her pronunciation a bit awkward.
Then she tried again, “Chopsticks.” Drogo nodded.
Daenerys looked down at the Chopsticks in her hand, then back at him.
Her gaze held a touch of contemplation, a sense of “just how much more is there to this man that I don’t know.” She didn’t know how to describe the feeling.
Drogo felt a bit uncomfortable under her gaze.
He reached out and wiped a bit of oil from the corner of her mouth.
“Eat.” He picked up his own Chopsticks and grabbed a piece of meat.
The tent fell silent for a while, filled only with the sound of the two of them chewing and the occasional crackle of the oil lamp’s flame.
Suddenly, a set of footsteps approached from a distance.
Drogo knew it was his Bloodriders coming for him.
The curtain was lifted, and Koso poked his head in.
“Khal,” he said, glancing inside.
His gaze lingered on Daenerys for a moment before returning to Drogo’s face.
“The banquet is ready.” Drogo’s hand, holding a piece of meat with Chopsticks, paused at his lips.
“I’ve already eaten my fill.
You all go ahead.” Koso watched the strange sight of him holding meat with Chopsticks.
His throat moved, but he didn’t say anything.
He dropped the curtain and turned to leave the tent.
The footsteps receded, each one heavier than when he had arrived.
In his eyes, this strange way of eating must have been taught to the Khal by this white-skinned, silver-haired outsider.
Daenerys watched Koso leave and then looked at Drogo.
“Is he…
unhappy?” Drogo didn’t answer.
He put the piece of meat into his mouth and chewed slowly.
Originally, Drogo would spend his evenings with his Bloodriders and warriors, drinking, racing horses, watching women dance, and men fight.
As for Daenerys, she would stay in the tent alone, keeping watch over an empty room.
Only when dawn was near would Drogo return to the tent to wake her and ride her like a horse.
Kicking hard, using the whip.
But now, a soul from another world had turned the Horse Lord into a Wife-doting maniac.
The two sat facing each other, eating meat.
He fed her with Chopsticks, and she smiled as she opened her mouth to eat.