The morning sickness started three days before they reached Vaes Dothrak.
Daenerys woke with her stomach churning, barely made it out of the tent before she was retching into the grass. Jason was there immediately, one hand holding her hair back, the other rubbing gentle circles on her back.
"Easy," he murmured. "I've got you."
When the nausea finally passed, Daenerys sat back on her heels, breathing hard. Irri appeared with water, her expression knowing.
"How long?" the handmaid asked in Dothraki.
"How long what?" Daenerys managed, rinsing her mouth.
"Since your moon blood came?"
Daenerys froze, counting back. Six weeks? Seven? She'd been so caught up in training, in Jason, in learning to be khaleesi that she hadn't noticed...
"Oh," she whispered.
"What?" Jason's hand tightened on her shoulder. "What's wrong?"
"I think I'm pregnant." The words felt surreal leaving her mouth. "I think—gods, Jason, I think I'm carrying your child."
Jason went very still. Then, impossibly, he laughed—bright and genuine and filled with wonder. "You're pregnant?"
"I think so. My moon blood hasn't come, and the sickness—" She looked up at him. "Are you... are you happy?"
"Happy?" He pulled her into his arms, careful but firm. "Dany, I'm terrified and thrilled and completely unprepared, but yes. I'm happy." He pressed his forehead to hers. "You're carrying my child. Our child. How could I not be happy?"
Daenerys felt tears prick her eyes—relief, joy, overwhelming emotion she couldn't quite name. "I thought you'd be upset. That it was too soon, that I'm too young—"
"You are too young," Jason said honestly. "In my world, this would be a crisis. But we're here, in this world, and you're my wife and I love you—" The words came out before he could stop them, surprise flickering across his face.
"You love me?" Daenerys whispered.
"Yeah." Jason's voice was rough. "I love you. Should've said it weeks ago, but I'm an idiot who can't express emotions properly. But I love you, Dany. And I already love this baby. So we're doing this. Together."
"Together," she agreed, kissing him softly.
By afternoon, the entire khalasar knew. Qotho had apparently been watching for signs, and once he saw Daenerys's morning sickness, he'd announced to anyone who'd listen that the khaleesi carried the khal's child.
The warriors celebrated—throwing extra meat on fires, passing around fermented mare's milk, shouting blessings in Dothraki that roughly translated to variations of "may the child be strong" and "may the khaleesi survive the birth."
"That last one is encouraging," Jason muttered.
"Childbirth is dangerous here," Jorah said quietly. They were standing at the edge of the celebration, watching Daenerys accept congratulations from the bloodriders' wives. "No modern medicine, no sterilization, no pain management beyond alcohol and prayer. The mortality rate—"
"Don't." Jason's voice was sharp. "Don't give me statistics. I'll keep her safe. Whatever it takes."
"I know you will." Jorah paused. "Have you told Viserys yet?"
Jason looked across the camp to where Viserys sat alone, drinking from a skin of wine that was probably the last he'd be able to afford. The former prince had been growing increasingly isolated—the Dothraki ignored him, Daenerys avoided him, and his grandiose claims about dragons and destiny rang hollow when he couldn't even convince anyone to give him better accommodations.
"No," Jason said. "And I'm not planning to. That man doesn't get to know about my child until I'm certain he won't try to use the information as leverage."
"Wise," Jorah agreed.
But Viserys heard anyway, because camp gossip traveled faster than horses, and by evening he was drunk and furious and making his way toward the khal's tent.
---
Daenerys was with her handmaids, letting them fuss over her while discussing pregnancy customs, when Viserys burst in without announcement.
"Is it true?" he demanded, swaying slightly. His silver-gold hair was greasy, his fine silks stained with wine and dirt, and his eyes had the wild look of someone whose last anchor to sanity was slipping. "Are you pregnant with that monster's child?"
"Get out, Viserys," Daenerys said quietly.
"Answer me!" He lurched forward, and Irri moved to intercept, but Viserys shoved her aside. "You're my sister! My property! You were supposed to give me an army, and instead you spread your legs for some foreign killer and now you're carrying his bastard!"
"It's not a bastard," Daenerys said, standing slowly. "Jason is my husband. This child is legitimate."
"Legitimate?" Viserys laughed, high and unhinged. "You married a pit fighter! A slave! You've ruined everything, Daenerys. Everything! The Dothraki were supposed to follow me, crown me, give me what's mine!"
"They were never going to crown you," Daenerys said, and somewhere inside her she found a core of steel she hadn't known existed. "You're weak, Viserys. You've always been weak. The Dothraki follow strength, and you have none."
Viserys's hand moved fast—the crack of his palm across her face echoing in the tent. Daenerys stumbled, more from shock than force, and tasted blood.
"Don't you dare speak to me that way," Viserys hissed. "I am the Dragon. I am your king. You will remember your place or I'll—"
"You'll what?" Daenerys touched her split lip, looked at the blood on her fingers, and felt something fundamental shift inside her. No more fear. No more cowering. "You'll hit me again? Like you've hit me our entire lives? Well, I'm done being afraid of you, Viserys."
She raised her voice, calling in Dothraki: "Guards! To the khaleesi!"
Three Dothraki warriors appeared within seconds, drawn by her call. They took in the scene—Viserys standing over the khaleesi, her split lip bleeding, Irri picking herself up from where she'd been shoved—and their hands went to their weapons.
"This man struck the khaleesi," Daenerys said in careful Dothraki. "Take him to the khal. Let my husband decide his fate."
"No!" Viserys tried to run, but the Dothraki were faster. They grabbed him, one on each arm, and began dragging him from the tent. "Get your hands off me! I'm a prince! I'm the Dragon! Daenerys, tell them! Sister, please!"
But Daenerys turned away, done listening to his pleas.
Doreah touched her shoulder gently. "Khaleesi, your lip—"
"It's nothing." Daenerys touched it again, felt the sting. "Where's Jason?"
"With the bloodriders, near the edge of camp. They're planning tomorrow's entrance to Vaes Dothrak."
"Take me to him."
The walk through camp was quiet—warriors parting to let the khaleesi pass, then falling in behind her like an informal honor guard. By the time Daenerys reached Jason, she had perhaps two dozen Dothraki following, all clearly aware something significant was happening.
Jason stood with Qotho and Haggo, studying a crude map drawn in the dirt. He looked up when the commotion approached, and his expression transformed instantly when he saw her bloody lip.
"What happened?" His voice had gone deadly quiet.
"Viserys struck me," Daenerys said simply. "I've had him brought here. He's yours to deal with."
The Dothraki dragged Viserys forward and threw him to the ground at Jason's feet. Viserys tried to rise, slipped in the dirt, his dignity shredded completely.
"She's lying!" he gasped. "I never touched her! She's trying to turn you against me because she knows I'm the rightful—"
"Shut up," Jason said quietly. He crouched, examined Daenerys's lip gently, and she saw his jaw clench with barely controlled rage. "Did he do this?"
"Yes."
"Did he touch you anywhere else? Hurt you in any other way?"
"No. Just the slap."
Jason nodded slowly, then stood and turned to Viserys. "You struck my wife. My pregnant wife. You understand what that means?"
"I'm her brother!" Viserys tried to sound imperious but mostly sounded desperate. "I have every right to discipline her when she forgets her place!"
"You have no rights here." Jason's voice was cold, controlled, the Red Hood's voice stripped of all mercy. "You're nothing, Viserys. No army, no crown, no power. Just a drunk claiming titles that mean nothing to these people."
"Then let me go!" Viserys stood, swaying. "Let me leave this savage camp, go back to civilization, find someone who recognizes what I am!"
"Fine," Jason said. "You're exiled. Leave. Take a horse, some supplies, go wherever you want. But if I ever see you near Daenerys again, I'll kill you."
Relief flooded Viserys's face—he'd expected death, not exile. "I'll go now. Tonight. Just give me supplies and—"
"And the dragon eggs," Viserys added quickly. "I'll take the dragon eggs. They're Targaryen property, and I'm the rightful heir. They belong with me."
"No," Daenerys said immediately.
"Yes!" Viserys's desperation was palpable now. "Illyrio gave them as a wedding gift, which means they're mine by right! I need them! I could sell them, buy an army, take back what's mine! Just the eggs, Daenerys, it's not much to ask—"
"The eggs stay," Jason said flatly.
"Then I'll take them myself!"
Viserys lunged—not toward Jason, but toward the tent where he knew the eggs were kept. He was fast, fueled by desperation and too much wine, and he actually made it three steps before Jason moved.
Six-foot-five of Lazarus Pit-enhanced reflexes, Jason caught Viserys by the back of his collar and slammed him face-first into the ground.
"Stay down," Jason commanded.
But Viserys was beyond reason now, beyond fear. He rolled, pulled a knife from his belt—when had he gotten that?—and slashed wildly. The blade caught Jason's forearm, drawing blood.
"Bad choice," Jason said quietly.
He kicked the knife away, grabbed Viserys's wrist, and twisted. The snap was audible—bone breaking cleanly. Viserys screamed, clutching his ruined arm.
"I was going to let you go," Jason said, his voice still eerily calm. "Exile you, give you a chance to disappear and maybe survive. But you tried to steal from my wife. You attacked me. And more importantly—" He looked at Daenerys. "—you're a threat to her. To our child. And I can't let threats walk away."
"Kill me then!" Viserys spat through tears of pain. "Just do it! End it! I'm tired of this! Tired of being nothing!"
"No," Daenerys said, stepping forward. "I have a better idea."
Everyone turned to look at her—Jason, the bloodriders, Viserys, the gathered warriors. Daenerys stood straight, one hand unconsciously going to her still-flat stomach, and felt that core of steel solidifying.
"My brother thinks he's a dragon," she said in Dothraki so everyone could understand. "He's claimed it his entire life. The Dragon, he calls himself. The rightful heir to a line of dragon lords."
"Dany, what are you—" Jason started.
"Dragons can't burn," Daenerys continued, her voice steady. "It's known. The Targaryens who rode dragons, commanded them, *were* them—fire couldn't harm them. So if Viserys is truly a dragon, truly worthy of that name—"
She looked at him with eyes that held no mercy.
"—then he'll survive the flames."
Silence fell like a blade.
"You can't be serious," Jorah breathed.
"I'm very serious." Daenerys looked at Jason. "He wanted the dragon eggs so badly. Let him die with them. Build a pyre, tie him to it, place the eggs around him. And we'll see if the Dragon burns."
"Dany," Jason said quietly. "Are you sure? There's no coming back from this."
"He struck me," Daenerys said, and her voice didn't waver. "He tried to steal from us. He threatened our child with his very existence. I'm sure."
Viserys was staring at her with something like horror. "You wouldn't. I'm your brother. I raised you. I kept you safe when—"
"You sold me," Daenerys interrupted. "You hurt me. You made my entire childhood a nightmare of fear and pain. And now you've proven you'll never change, never stop being a threat. So yes, Viserys. I would. I am."
She turned to the bloodriders. "Build a pyre. Bring the dragon eggs. Let's see if my brother is truly what he claims to be."
The Dothraki moved with disturbing efficiency—they'd built funeral pyres before, knew how to stack wood for maximum heat. Within an hour, a massive pyre stood at the edge of camp, and Viserys was being tied to a stake in its center.
He'd stopped screaming threats and started begging. "Dany, please. I'm sorry. I'll go away, I'll never bother you again, just please—"
"You should have thought of that before you hit me," Daenerys said coldly.
She held the three dragon eggs—one in each hand, one cradled against her chest. They felt warm, warmer than they should be, almost alive against her skin.
*These are just stone,* she told herself. *Ancient, beautiful, but dead. The dragons are gone. This is just symbolism, just justice for a man who never learned consequences.*
But something in her whispered that wasn't quite true.
She placed the eggs carefully around Viserys—cream and gold at his feet, green and bronze at his left side, black and scarlet at his right. They gleamed in the torchlight, seeming almost to pulse.
"Last chance," Jason said quietly, standing beside her. "We can still exile him. Just throw him out with nothing and let the Dothraki Sea take him."
"No," Daenerys said firmly. "He'll just come back. He'll find a way. He always does. This ends tonight."
Jason nodded slowly, then raised his voice to address the gathered khalasar. "Viserys Targaryen claims to be a dragon! We give him the chance to prove it! Let the flames show his truth!"
Qotho stepped forward with a torch.
"Wait," Daenerys said. She moved to the pyre, looked up at her brother—pale and terrified, tears streaming down his face, all his grand delusions stripped away to reveal the broken, desperate man beneath.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly, only for him. "I'm sorry you never learned to be anything but this. Sorry Father's madness touched you too. Sorry our childhood made you into a monster. But I'm not sorry for protecting my family from you."
"Please," Viserys whispered. "Dany, I'm your brother—"
"You stopped being my brother a long time ago."
She stepped back. Qotho touched the torch to the wood.
The fire caught immediately, spreading with unnatural speed. Viserys screamed—not words, just pure animal terror as the flames rose. The heat was intense, driving the watchers back, and still it grew hotter, fiercer, burning with an intensity that shouldn't be possible.
Daenerys stood as close as she could bear, Jason's hand on her shoulder, watching her brother burn. She thought she should feel something—grief, guilt, horror. But all she felt was cold certainty that this had been necessary.
The dragon eggs gleamed in the flames, growing brighter, hotter. And then—
—they cracked.
The sound was like thunder, like the world splitting open. Three distinct cracks, overlapping, echoing across the camp. The fire flared impossibly bright, impossibly hot, and then dimmed suddenly.
In the dying flames, movement.
"Gods," Jason breathed.
Three shapes uncurled from where the eggs had been—small, reptilian, with wings like crumpled leather and scales that caught the firelight. They were the size of cats, perhaps, hatchlings fresh from eggs that had been stone for centuries.
Dragons.
Real, living, impossible dragons.
The cream and gold dragon—she would learn to call it Viserion later, in a bitter tribute—spread its wings and chirped, a sound somewhere between a bird and a reptile. The green and bronze—Rhaegal—did the same, its eyes already showing intelligence beyond an animal's.
And the black and scarlet dragon—larger than its siblings, already showing the crimson patterns that would mark it as something special—regarded the assembled crowd with eyes like liquid fire.
The two smaller dragons hopped down from the pyre and made their way directly to Daenerys. She dropped to her knees instinctively, and they climbed onto her—one on each shoulder, their claws surprisingly gentle despite being sharp. They chirped and nuzzled against her neck, and she felt something click into place in her chest.
*Mine,* something ancient in her blood whispered. *My children. My dragons.*
But the black and scarlet dragon didn't follow its siblings. It spread its wings—already impressive despite its size—and launched itself awkwardly toward Jason.
Jason stood frozen as the dragon landed on his shoulder with more force than grace. It was larger than the other two, heavier, its claws drawing small spots of blood where they gripped him.
The dragon stared at Jason with those burning eyes, and Jason stared back, and something passed between them—recognition, understanding, a bond forming faster than thought.
"Uh," Jason said eloquently. "I think this one wants me."
"That's not possible," Jorah whispered from somewhere behind them. "Dragons bond with Targaryens. With dragon lords. He's not—"
"He's carrying Lazarus Pit magic in his blood," Daenerys said slowly, understanding dawning. "The same magic that resurrects the dead, that heals impossibly fast, that brought him back twice. That's in our child now. And through our child..."
She looked down at her stomach, felt something shifting deep inside her. The nausea that had plagued her all morning was gone, replaced by a sensation of warmth, of *heat* spreading through her body.
"Through our child, it's in me now too," she finished. "The magic is changing us. Making us something more than we were."
The warmth intensified, spreading from her core outward. Her skin felt hot, feverish, but not unpleasant. More like being near a comfortable fire than burning.
"Dany?" Jason's voice was concerned. "Your eyes—"
"What about them?"
"They're..." He paused. "Brighter. More purple than before. And your skin—you're practically glowing."
Daenerys looked at her hands and saw he was right. Her skin seemed to emit a faint inner light, warm and golden. And when she reached up to touch the dragons on her shoulders, she felt no discomfort from their heat—they were hot enough that she should be burned, but instead she just felt... right.
"The Lazarus Pit is changing me," she said wonderingly. "Making me what I was always supposed to be. What my blood remembered but couldn't access." She looked at Jason, at the black and scarlet dragon perched on his shoulder. "And you—gods, Jason. You've bonded with a dragon. A dragon chose you."
"This is insane," Jason said, but his hand came up slowly to touch the dragon's neck. It leaned into the touch, rumbling contentedly. "I'm not even from this world. I shouldn't be able to—"
"The dragon doesn't care where you're from," Qotho said, stepping forward to study Jason with new eyes. "It cares that you are strong. That you carry magic in your blood. That you are khal."
The assembled khalasar was silent, watching their khal and khaleesi with dragons perched on their shoulders. Then someone started the ululation—the Dothraki war cry that meant victory, meant celebration, meant that something impossibly significant had just happened.
Within seconds, the entire khalasar was crying out, weapons raised, voices lifted. Forty thousand warriors acknowledging that their khal and khaleesi were more than they'd seemed, more than anyone had imagined.
Daenerys looked at the pyre where Viserys's body had been—now just ash and scorched wood, nothing left of the man who'd called himself the Dragon.
"He was right about one thing," she said quietly. "Targaryens do have dragon blood. We just needed fire to wake it up."
She looked at Jason—her husband, her love, the father of her child, now inexplicably bonded to a dragon that shouldn't exist. The black and scarlet dragon chirped at her, and she laughed despite everything.
"What should we name them?" she asked.
"Yours are easy," Jason said. "Viserion for the cream and gold—a better legacy than he deserved. Rhaegal for the green and bronze—after your brother Rhaegar."
"And yours?"
Jason looked at the black and scarlet dragon, at the crimson patterns that looked almost like dried blood, at the promise of size and power in its small frame.
"Balerion," he said finally. "After the Black Dread. Aegon's dragon. The greatest dragon Westeros ever knew."
"That's ambitious."
"So is leading a khalasar into Vaes Dothrak with three newborn dragons and a pregnant wife whose eyes are literally glowing." Jason's smile was slightly unhinged. "Might as well commit to the insanity."
Daenerys laughed—bright and genuine, feeling power singing in her veins, feeling her child growing in her womb, feeling two dragons chittering on her shoulders while a third perched on her husband.
"Tomorrow we enter Vaes Dothrak," she said. "What do you think the dosh khaleen will say when they see us?"
"Probably something prophetic and vaguely threatening," Jason said. "That seems to be how prophecy works in this world."
"Then let them prophesy." Daenerys felt that core of steel solidifying further, felt the heat of dragon fire and Lazarus magic mixing in her blood. "We're Khal Jason and Khaleesi Daenerys. We have dragons. We have an army. We have each other. Let the world try to stop us."
Jason pulled her close—careful of the dragons—and kissed her forehead. "Together," he said.
"Together," she agreed.
Behind them, the pyre continued to smolder, and three impossible creatures chirped and rustled their wings and dreamed of growing large enough to carry their riders into the sky.
The age of dragons had returned.
And it had chosen the strangest champions imaginable—a dead man from another world and a dragon princess who'd learned to breathe fire.
The world, Daenerys thought with satisfaction, was about to become very interesting.
—
The tent was quiet except for the soft sounds of three dragons settling into sleep. They'd gorged themselves on cooked meat—Balerion eating nearly twice what his smaller siblings consumed—and now lay curled together in a nest of furs near the brazier, their scales gleaming in the firelight.
Daenerys watched them for a moment, still unable to quite believe they were real. Dragons. Her dragons. Their dragons.
"They're beautiful," she whispered.
Jason stood behind her, his presence warm and solid. "So are you."
She turned to look at him, found him watching her with an intensity that made her breath catch. His dark hair was slightly disheveled from the evening's chaos, and in the low light his handsome face—all sharp angles and strong jawline—looked almost otherworldly. Beautiful in a way that still sometimes surprised her, especially when she remembered the skull-faced mask she'd first known him by.
"I can feel it," Daenerys said quietly. "The changes. The Pit's magic spreading through me from the baby. My body feels different. Stronger. More..."
"More everything," Jason finished. His hands came to her waist, and she could feel the heat of his palms through the thin silk of her robe. "I've been noticing. Trying not to stare, but—" He exhaled slowly. "Dany, you're changing and it's incredible."
"Show me," she said, emboldened by the way he was looking at her—hungry, almost reverent. "Show me what you see."
Jason's hands slid from her waist up her sides slowly, deliberately, mapping the subtle changes. "You're stronger. I can feel it in how you move, how you hold yourself. Not drastically, but enough that I notice when we train. Your muscles are more defined, more..."
His hands reached her ribcage, paused. "And here—gods, Dany." His thumbs brushed the undersides of her breasts, and she gasped at the sensitivity. "You're fuller. Everywhere. Your body is becoming..."
"What?" she pressed when he trailed off.
"Perfect," he said roughly. "Even more perfect than before, which shouldn't be possible."
He turned her slowly, his eyes tracking down her body with unmistakable appreciation. Daenerys felt heat rise in her cheeks but forced herself not to look away.
The robe she wore was nearly transparent—pale blue silk that clung to curves that had indeed changed over the past few weeks. Her breasts were noticeably fuller, straining slightly against the fabric. Her hips had widened just enough to be obvious, her waist still trim but her overall silhouette more pronounced, more definitively feminine.
And her skin—she could see the faint golden glow Jason had mentioned earlier, like she carried inner fire just beneath the surface.
"The Pit is remaking you," Jason said, his voice low and rough as his hands mapped her changed body. "Rewriting your cells the same way it rewrote mine. Making you stronger, more resilient." His hands cupped her breasts gently, testing their new weight. "More everything."
Daenerys's breath caught as pleasure sparked through her. Her breasts had been sensitive before the pregnancy, but now even the lightest touch felt overwhelming. "Jason—"
"I know." His thumbs brushed over her nipples through the silk, and she actually whimpered. "More sensitive too. I can see it in how you react. Every touch affects you more."
"It's the baby," she managed. "And the magic. Everything feels—oh gods—"
He'd untied her robe, let it fall open to reveal her completely. For a moment Jason just looked at her, and Daenerys felt no shame under his gaze—just pride, power, the satisfaction of being wanted this intensely.
"You're magnificent," Jason breathed. His hands traced the new curves reverently—the swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips. "Look at you. Dragon princess carrying my child, bonded to actual dragons, glowing with magic and life and power."
His hand settled on her still-flat stomach. "Our baby is in here. Growing. Changing you. Making you into something more than you were."
"More than I was," Daenerys agreed. She could feel it—the warmth in her core that was part pregnancy, part Pit magic, part dragon fire awakening in her blood. "Do you like it? The changes?"
"Like it?" Jason's laugh was strained. "Dany, I can barely think straight when I look at you. Before, you were beautiful. Now you're—" He seemed to search for words. "—you're devastating. Every curve, every change, every new inch of you makes me want to worship you."
"Then worship me," Daenerys said, feeling bold and powerful and impossibly aroused. "Show me how much you want these changes."
Jason groaned, pulling her against him. The press of his body against her newly sensitive skin made Daenerys gasp—she could feel every inch of him, the hard muscle of his chest and abdomen against her softer curves, the unmistakable evidence of his arousal pressed against her hip.
"You're playing with fire, khaleesi," he warned.
"Good." She tilted her head back, offering her throat. "I'm a dragon now. I'm *meant* to play with fire."
Jason's mouth found her neck, kissing and sucking in a way that made her knees weak. His hands cupped her breasts properly now, testing their new weight, thumbs circling her nipples until she was squirming against him.
"Jason, please—"
"Please what?" His mouth moved lower, kissing along her collarbone, heading toward her chest. "Tell me what you want."
"You. Inside me. Now." Daenerys's hands fisted in his hair. "I want to celebrate. Want to feel you claim me. Want—" She gasped as his mouth closed over one nipple, sucking gently. "—want our favorite position. You behind me, deep as you can get, making me feel every inch of you."
Jason groaned against her breast, the vibration sending pleasure straight through her. "You're going to kill me."
"Good. Die happy."
He laughed despite himself, then scooped her up effortlessly—his Pit-enhanced strength making her feel weightless despite her new curves. He carried her to the furs, laying her down carefully, and stood back to strip off his own clothes.
Daenerys watched hungrily as Jason revealed himself—six-foot-five of scarred muscle and masculine beauty. The firelight caught the planes of his chest and abdomen, highlighting the definition of muscles earned through years of brutal training and enhanced by Lazarus magic. His shoulders were broad, his arms corded with strength, and when he pushed his pants down her mouth went dry.
"See something you like?" he asked, echoing her earlier words with a slight smirk.
"Everything," she admitted shamelessly. "You're gorgeous, Jason. Absolutely gorgeous."
"Says the glowing dragon princess with a body that looks like it was designed specifically to drive me insane."
He knelt on the furs, pulled her up to sitting. "Hands and knees," he said, his voice gone dark and commanding in the way that made heat pool between her legs. "Show me that perfect ass while I appreciate every change in your body."
Daenerys turned and positioned herself as directed, feeling incredibly exposed and incredibly aroused. She could feel Jason's gaze like a physical touch, tracking down her spine to her backside.
"Gods," he breathed. His hands settled on her hips—broader now, more pronounced. "Even here. You're curvier, softer in all the right places. Your body is becoming—" His hands squeezed gently. "—absolutely perfect for carrying my child. For carrying dragon fire. For being exactly what you are."
"Jason," Daenerys whimpered, already desperate. "Please. I need you."
"I know, baby. I know." His hand slid between her legs, finding her ready. "So wet already. Is this from watching me undress? From thinking about what I'm going to do to you?"
"Both," she gasped as his fingers teased her. "Everything. You make me want everything."
"Then I'll give you everything," Jason promised.
He positioned himself behind her, one hand on her hip, the other guiding himself. When he entered her slowly, Daenerys cried out at the sensation—he felt impossibly big from this angle, filling her completely, the new sensitivity from the pregnancy and Pit magic making every inch overwhelming.
"Fuck," Jason groaned, his grip on her hips tightening. "You feel different. Tighter. Hotter. Like there's actual fire inside you."
"There is," Daenerys panted. "Dragon fire. Your fire. Our baby's fire. Everything burning together."
Jason began to move—slow at first, letting her adjust, then faster as she pushed back against him demandingly. The position let him go impossibly deep, and with her newly enhanced sensitivity every thrust felt like lightning through her nervous system.
"Yes," she gasped. "Just like that. Harder. Show me how much you want this body."
Jason's control snapped. His hands gripped her hips properly now, pulling her back to meet his thrusts, the sound of their bodies meeting echoing obscenely in the tent. Daenerys braced herself on her forearms, pushing back just as hard, chasing the pleasure building in her core.
"Look at you," Jason panted, one hand sliding up her spine to fist in her silver-gold hair. "Taking everything I give you. So strong now. So perfect. My khaleesi. My dragon. Mine."
"Yours," Daenerys agreed breathlessly. "Always yours. Now give me more."
Jason pulled her upright suddenly, her back against his chest, changing the angle in a way that made her see stars. One hand splayed across her stomach where their child grew, the other cupped her breast, and his mouth found her neck.
"Feel that?" he growled against her skin. "Feel how deep I am? How perfectly we fit together? You were made for this, Dany. Made to carry my child, to bond with dragons, to burn the world down if necessary."
"Yes," she moaned as his hand between her legs found her center. "Gods, yes, Jason—"
"Come for me," he commanded. "Let me feel that fire inside you. Show me what it means to be a dragon."
The combination of his words, his touch, his body filling her completely—it was too much. Daenerys shattered with a cry, her inner walls clenching around him rhythmically, pleasure crashing through her in waves that felt like actual fire burning through her veins.
Jason followed immediately, groaning her name as he finished deep inside her. They collapsed together onto the furs, both breathing hard, slick with sweat that seemed to shimmer slightly in the firelight.
"That was—" Daenerys couldn't finish the sentence.
"Incredible," Jason supplied. "Overwhelming. Possibly the best sex we've ever had, which is saying something."
"The changes help," Daenerys admitted, still trembling with aftershocks. "Everything feels more intense. Every touch, every sensation. Like my whole body is more alive."
"I love it," Jason said, pulling her against his chest and arranging the furs over them. "Love every change. Love how you're growing stronger and more beautiful. Love that you're carrying our child. Love you."
Daenerys smiled, feeling utterly content. "I love you too."
Nearby, three dragons slept peacefully, untroubled by their bonded humans' celebration. Tomorrow they would enter Vaes Dothrak and face whatever prophecies awaited. Tomorrow they would begin figuring out what it meant to be dragon riders in a world that had forgotten dragons existed.
But tonight, they had each other, they had their impossible children—dragon and human both—and they had the fire in their blood that promised they were meant for something greater than either had imagined.
"Jason?" Daenerys murmured sleepily.
"Hmm?"
"Thank you. For everything. For saving me, for loving me, for giving me this life."
"Thank you for choosing me," he responded, pressing a kiss to her temple. "For seeing past the mask to who I really am. For making me want to be better than I was."
"We're going to change the world," she said with certainty.
"Yeah," Jason agreed. "We probably are."
And as they drifted toward sleep, tangled together in furs while dragons dreamed nearby, neither of them doubted it for a moment.
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