The oil lamp sat beside the silver platter, its flame dancing, throwing warm light across both their faces.
Three of them remained in the tent — Drogo, Daenerys, and Lale, waiting in the corner ready to translate at any moment.
The other three serving girls had slipped out after delivering the food, the door curtain falling behind them and cutting off the noise from outside.
Steam rose from the mutton, mingling with the sour bite of fermented mare’s milk, drifting slowly through the small felt-wrapped space.
Drogo reached into his quiver and pulled out a few items, setting them beside the silver platter.
Daenerys looked them over.
Four small wooden sticks, all the same length, roughly the same thickness, sanded fairly smooth but clearly improvised — the edges still rough at the corners.
He sorted through them and held two out to her.
“Take them.”
She accepted them and turned them over in her hands.
Just two wooden sticks, thicker at one end and thinner at the other.
Nothing special.
“What are they for?”
Drogo picked up the other two and demonstrated with his fingers, holding both sticks side by side in his hand, then opening and closing them.
Opening and closing.
“Eat with these,” he said.
“No hands needed.”
Lale translated.
Daenerys watched his hand as he picked up a piece of mutton.
Those two sticks came alive between his fingers — open, clamp, lift.
The meat hung steadily in midair, not a single drop of oil falling.
He brought it toward her lips.
“Open.”
Daenerys opened her mouth.
The mutton slid in.
She chewed, and blinked.
“…Interesting.
I’ve never seen anything like this.” A note of genuine surprise crossed her face.
The corner of Drogo’s mouth twitched.
Right.
Eating with your hands: oil everywhere, fingers coated.
Chopsticks look troublesome at first, but once you’re used to them, you see the point: no grease on your hands, a steady grip on the food, and a considerably more dignified way to eat.
“You try,” he said.
She copied his hold, thumb pressing down, index and middle fingers coordinating, the two sticks opening and closing like a small pair of tongs.
They refused to cooperate.
The moment she moved, the sticks crossed.
She adjusted, and they splayed into a wide V.
She aimed for a piece of cheese on the platter.
The sticks stabbed straight into it, splitting it cleanly in two.
One half dropped back to the platter.
The other bounced off the table.
Daenerys went still for a moment, then looked up at him.
Drogo’s mouth twitched.
He didn’t laugh.
He set down his own chopsticks, leaned in close, and guided her hands with his.
She felt the warmth of his grip, rough skin, thick calluses, gently moving her fingers into the right positions.
“Thumb here,” he said.
“Index finger resting on top, middle finger underneath.
Not too close together, not too far apart.”
He was very close.
She could smell the faint scent of sweat on him.
“When you pick something up, move only the top stick.
The bottom one stays still.”
Daenerys focused.
“Let me try again.”
No crossing this time.
The sticks lined up.
She went for a piece of mutton, managed to grip it, but the gap was too wide.
The moment she lifted, the meat slipped free.
Again.
She gripped it, lifted it, brought it toward her mouth.
Almost there, the sticks tilted, the mutton grazed her chin, and dropped to the ground.
Lale stifled a laugh behind her hand.
Daenerys looked at the fallen piece of meat, then at Drogo.
Her face was a little pink.
She did not put down the chopsticks.
“Slowly,” Drogo said.
“Once you’ve got a grip, don’t rush to lift.”
His large hand wrapped around her smaller one and guided her through the motion.
Chopsticks open.
Close around the meat.
Hold steady.
Then lift, gently.
The meat came up off the platter and stayed there.
“There.”
Daenerys stared at that one small piece of meat hanging between two wooden sticks as if it were something remarkable.
Very carefully, she turned her wrist and brought it to her mouth.
She swallowed, and looked up at him.
Then she smiled, not the polite kind.
The kind where the light actually reaches her eyes.
Drogo looked at her and said nothing.
She kept going.
One piece, two, three.
Steadier each time.
At one point she went for some lamb offal and it slipped away three times before she finally caught it, but she didn’t give up.
Once she got it clear of the platter, she held it up and waved it at him, proud as anything.
“What do you call this?” she asked.
“Chopsticks.”
“Chopsticks.” She repeated it, her pronunciation a little off, then tried once more.
“Chopsticks.”
Drogo nodded.
She looked down at the sticks in her hands, then back up at him.
That gaze carried something, a quiet wondering, a trace of just how many things about this man do I not know.
She couldn’t find words for it.
Drogo felt a little self-conscious under that look.
He reached out and wiped a smear of grease from the corner of her mouth.
“Eat.”
He picked up his own chopsticks and took a piece of meat.
The tent went quiet.
Only the sound of two people chewing, and the occasional soft pop from the oil lamp’s flame.
Then footsteps, approaching from outside.
Drogo recognized the rhythm, his bloodriders, coming to find him.
The curtain lifted.
Qotho stuck his head in.
“Khal.” His gaze swept inside, pausing on Daenerys for a moment before returning to Drogo.
“The evening feast is ready.”
Drogo held the piece of meat suspended in midair between his chopsticks.
“I’m already full.
Go ahead without me.”
Qotho stared at the chopsticks.
His throat moved.
He said nothing.
He let the curtain fall and turned away.
His footsteps faded into the distance, each one hitting the ground a little harder than when he’d arrived.
In his mind, there could only be one explanation for this strange way of eating: that pale-skinned, silver-haired outsider had put it in the Khal’s head.
Daenerys watched Qotho leave, then looked at Drogo.
“He’s…
unhappy?”
Drogo didn’t answer.
He put the meat in his mouth and chewed slowly.
Originally, Drogo spent his evenings with his bloodriders and warriors, drinking, racing horses, watching women dance and men tear each other apart.
Daenerys stayed alone in the tent, keeping an empty bed by herself.
Only near dawn would Drogo come, wake her, and ride her like a horse.
Hard.
Heels in, whip cracking.
But now, a soul from another world had made the Horse Lord into a man who lived to spoil his wife.
The two of them sat facing each other in the lamplight, eating.
He fed her with chopsticks.
She smiled, and opened her mouth, and took it.
(Note: Doting on the Dragon Mother is about making up for the tragedy of her fate in the original story after the Horse Lord’s death.
First, understand what a simp actually is.
A simp is someone who never gets the girl.
The Dragon Mother is already his wife.
To everyone reacting so strongly: I don’t know what you’ve been through.
But in the original, the Horse Lord already treated her well, he even went to war for her.
And her dowry was three dragons.
What exactly is wrong with doting on her?!)
➤ Next: A True Dragon Does Not Fear Fire
WEEKLY POWER GOALS: 30→1ch | 50→2ch | 80→5 ch | 100→8 ch | 150→12 ch
Happy reading, everyone!