The market sprawled across what passed for a town in the Dothraki Sea—a semi-permanent settlement of merchants and traders who'd learned to survive by serving the khalasars that passed through. Colorful tents and ramshackle stalls offered everything from Qohorik steel to Lysene silks, spices from Yi Ti to wines from Dorne.
Daenerys walked through it all with wonder, flanked by her handmaids and a contingent of Dothraki warriors who'd been assigned as her sworn swords after the stallion heart ceremony. Rakharo walked closest—young, fierce, with his black hair in a single long braid and a perpetual scowl that suggested he took his duties very seriously. Behind him were Jhogo and Aggo, equally young, equally fierce, all three blooded warriors who'd chosen to serve the khaleesi personally.
"The fabrics here are inferior," Irri observed, fingering a bolt of silk critically. "But the price is fair."
"Everything is fair when you travel with forty thousand warriors," Doreah said with a knowing smile. "Merchants can smell power. They adjust their prices accordingly."
Jorah Mormont walked slightly apart from the group, his weathered face thoughtful. He'd been quieter than usual today, Daenerys noticed. Distracted. As if his mind was elsewhere.
"Ser Jorah?" she called. "Are you well?"
"Hmm? Yes, khaleesi. Just—" He glanced toward where a merchant captain's tent stood at the edge of the market, flying Pentoshi colors. "I need to check if any letters have arrived for me. Messages from the west. I won't be long."
"Of course." Daenerys watched him go, then turned back to examining a display of carved figurines. The baby in her belly shifted slightly—barely noticeable still, but growing stronger each day. She touched her stomach unconsciously, feeling the warmth of Pit magic there, protecting her child.
Viserion and Rhaegal were back at the tent with Jason, presumably being difficult about eating while their bonded human was away. Daenerys smiled at the thought. The dragons were growing quickly—already the size of large cats, their appetites insatiable.
"Khaleesi," Jhiqui said, pointing toward a wine merchant's stall. "They have Arbor gold. You enjoyed that vintage in Pentos."
"Wine!" The merchant called out in heavily accented Dothraki, spotting them. "Fine wines from across the Narrow Sea! Dornish reds, Arbor gold, even some Volantene—"
He stopped mid-pitch when he saw Daenerys, his eyes widening slightly. She'd dressed simply today—pale blue linen rather than formal silks—but her silver-gold hair was unmistakable, and the Dothraki deference around her marked her as someone important.
"My lady," he said, switching to the Common Tongue with a thick accent that placed him from somewhere in the Reach. "Would you care to sample my wares?"
Daenerys approached the stall, intrigued. "You speak the Common Tongue?"
"Aye, my lady. Born in Oldtown, though I've traveled the world since." He studied her more closely, clearly trying to place her. "You're westerosi as well, from your accent."
"She is the rightful heir to the Iron Throne," Doreah said smoothly, stepping forward with the kind of theatrical flair she'd learned in the pleasure houses. "Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Mother of Dragons."
The wine merchant's face went pale. He dropped into an awkward bow, nearly knocking over several bottles in his haste. "Princess! Forgive me—I didn't—I should have recognized—"
"It's fine," Daenerys said gently, amused despite herself. "Please, rise. You said you had wine?"
"Yes! Yes, princess." He straightened, still flustered. "Though—" He glanced at the bottles on display with distaste. "—this Dornish swill I've been selling to the Dothraki isn't worthy of you. No, no. For the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, I have something special."
He turned toward the back of his stall, rummaging through crates. "A dry red from the Arbor. Nectar of the gods, truly. I was saving it for—well, it doesn't matter. I would be honored if you'd accept it as a gift. A cask, even! To celebrate your—" His eyes dropped to her still-flat stomach. "—your upcoming joy."
"That's very generous," Daenerys said, though something in his manner made her slightly uneasy. Too eager, perhaps. Too nervous. "But I couldn't accept such an expensive—"
"No, no, I insist!" He emerged from the back with a small cask, marked with a brand that showed a cluster of grapes—the symbol of the Arbor, Daenerys recognized from her lessons with Jorah. "It would be my honor. My privilege, even! To serve the last Targaryen—"
"Stop."
Jorah's voice cut through the merchant's babbling like a knife. He'd appeared beside Daenerys without her noticing, his hand resting on his sword hilt, his eyes fixed on the wine merchant with unmistakable suspicion.
"Ser Jorah?" Daenerys turned to him. "What's wrong?"
"Open the cask," Jorah said to the merchant, his voice flat and dangerous. "Taste the wine."
The merchant's smile faltered. "I—what? Ser, this is a fine vintage, not meant to be opened in a dusty market—"
"Open it. Taste it. Now." Jorah's hand tightened on his sword.
Rakharo had moved closer as well, recognizing the threat even if he couldn't follow the Common Tongue conversation. The other sworn swords closed ranks around Daenerys protectively.
"Ser Jorah, really, this is unnecessary," the merchant protested, but sweat had broken out on his forehead. "The wine needs to breathe, and I'm just a poor merchant—I can't go drinking up all my finest stock—"
"You were about to give an entire cask to the khaleesi," Jorah pointed out coldly. "Surely you can spare a cup for yourself. Unless there's a reason you don't want to taste it?"
Daenerys felt her own suspicion crystallizing into certainty. "Open the cask," she said quietly, her voice carrying the authority she'd learned over weeks of being khaleesi. "Taste the wine. Prove it's safe."
The merchant's face had gone from pale to ashen. His hands shook as he reached for the cask, fumbling with the seal. "Princess, I—you must understand—"
"I understand," Daenerys said, her voice cold now, "that an assassin has tried to poison me. Rakharo."
The Dothraki warrior moved before the merchant could react. But the man was desperate now, cornered. He threw the unopened cask at Rakharo's head—the young warrior ducked, and the cask crashed into a display of bottles behind him.
The merchant turned to run, shoving past Daenerys in his panic. She stumbled, would have fallen—
Jorah caught her, one arm around her waist, pulling her against his chest protectively. "I've got you."
The merchant made it perhaps ten steps before Aggo's bolas—the weighted throwing weapon Dothraki warriors used to bring down fleeing enemies—wrapped around his ankles and sent him crashing face-first into the packed earth.
Rakharo was on him immediately, a knee in his back, pulling the man's arms behind him with brutal efficiency. The merchant screamed—pain and terror and the knowledge that he'd failed.
Within minutes, news of the assassination attempt had spread through the market like wildfire. By the time they'd dragged the merchant back toward the camp, a crowd had gathered—Dothraki warriors, curious merchants, even some of the dosh khaleen's servants who'd ventured out to see what the commotion was about.
They tied the would-be assassin to a post outside Jason's tent. Rakharo struck him once—a brutal backhand that split his lip and sent blood spraying. Then again. And again.
"Enough," Daenerys said quietly, though part of her wanted to let them continue. "We need him able to talk."
The merchant sagged against his bonds, breathing in ragged gasps. His face was already swelling, blood running from his nose and mouth.
Jorah stood beside Daenerys, his expression grim. "Robert Baratheon sent this man. Had to be. The timing, the method—poison is the king's favorite tool for dealing with threats across the Narrow Sea."
"How do you know?" Daenerys asked.
Jorah pulled a rolled parchment from inside his jerkin—the one he'd received at the merchant captain's tent, Daenerys realized. "Because the Spider sent me this. A pardon. Permission to return home to Westeros, all my crimes forgiven." His voice was bitter. "They were paying me to spy on you, khaleesi. Sending reports on your movements, your condition, your dragons. And now that I've served my purpose, now that they know where you are and what you're doing—" He gestured at the bloodied merchant. "—they're trying to tie up loose ends."
Daenerys felt something cold settle in her stomach. "You were spying on me?"
"I was," Jorah admitted, meeting her eyes directly. "When I first swore my service, it was to earn this." He held up the pardon. "To buy my way home. But that was before I knew you. Before I saw what you were becoming. Before—" He paused. "Before I realized you were worth more than my freedom."
"You could have left," Daenerys said quietly. "Taken the pardon. Gone home."
"I could have." Jorah's voice was steady. "But if they're pardoning me, it means they don't need information anymore. It means they're moving to direct action. And I couldn't—I wouldn't leave you unprotected against whatever Robert Baratheon is planning."
Before Daenerys could respond, the tent flap burst open and Jason emerged in full armor—not the Red Hood skull-face, but his body armor, the red slash across his chest visible even in the fading afternoon light. His face was thunderous.
"What happened?" His eyes found Daenerys first, scanning her for injury. "Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine. Jorah stopped him before—"
Jason crossed the distance between them in three strides and pulled Daenerys into his arms, careful of her stomach. "You're fine," he repeated, as if convincing himself. "You're safe. The baby's safe."
"We're both fine," Daenerys said, pressing her face against his chest. "Jorah caught it in time."
Jason looked at the bloodied merchant tied to the post, and something flickered in his expression—the Red Hood rising to the surface, that cold, calculated rage that promised violence. "Who sent you?"
The merchant whimpered, trying to shrink away despite his bonds. "Please—I have a family—children—they said it would be easy, just poison the wine, collect the gold—"
"WHO. SENT. YOU." Jason's voice had dropped to something barely human, filtered through years of controlled fury.
"King Robert!" the merchant gasped. "King Robert Baratheon! His master of whisperers, the Spider—Varys—he arranges these things—please, I just needed the money—"
Jason turned to Jorah, his expression deadly calm. "Robert Baratheon. The fat drunk who sits on the throne my wife should have inherited. He sent this coward to poison her?"
"Yes," Jorah said simply. "And he'll send more. He's terrified of Daenerys, of the dragons, of what she represents. He won't stop until she's dead or he is."
"Then I'll make sure it's him," Jason said flatly. He turned to the bloodied merchant. "What was the poison?"
"I don't—I don't know—they just gave me the cask, said to make sure she drank it—"
"Strangler, most likely," Jorah interjected. "It's what they used on the last Targaryen they tried to kill. Shuts down the throat, suffocates you. Painful. Thorough."
Jason's jaw clenched. He looked at Daenerys, at her hand resting protectively on her stomach, at the life growing inside her that Robert Baratheon wanted dead.
"Jorah," he said quietly, "you saved her life today. You could have taken your pardon and left. Could have let this happen. But you stayed. You protected her." He paused. "Choose any horse from the khalasar. The finest we have. It's yours. My gift, for protecting what matters most."
Jorah blinked, clearly surprised. "Khal, that's—I don't need—"
"You need to understand what your loyalty is worth to me," Jason interrupted. "You saved my wife and my child. There's no price high enough for that, but a horse is a start."
He turned to the assembled Dothraki—bloodriders, sworn swords, warriors who'd gathered to watch the spectacle. "This man tried to poison your khaleesi! Poison the khalakka growing in her womb! The western king who calls himself Robert thinks he can reach across the sea and kill what is ours!"
The warriors muttered angrily, hands going to weapons.
"He thinks we're too far away to respond!" Jason continued, his voice rising. "Thinks the poison water will keep us from his shores! Thinks he's safe hiding behind his stone castles!"
He pulled Daenerys against his side, one hand splayed protectively across her stomach. "But my wife is Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen! Rightful heir to the Iron Throne! And our child—the khalakka—has a birthright that was stolen!"
The crowd was silent now, listening.
"So here is my gift to my unborn son or daughter," Jason said, his voice carrying across the gathering. "I will take my bloodriders. I will take warriors who are willing. I will find ships. And I will cross that poison water. I will find this Robert Baratheon who thinks he can murder pregnant women with impunity. And I will take the iron chair that my child's grandfather sat in. I will take it with fire and blood and Dothraki steel, and I will give it to my wife. To the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms."
The Dothraki exploded into cheers—weapons raised, voices lifted, the particular ululation that meant approval and bloodlust and the promise of war.
Daenerys stared at her husband, at this man who'd killed for her, married her, bonded with a dragon for her. Who was now promising to conquer a continent for their unborn child.
"Jason," she said quietly, only for him, "you don't have to—"
"Yes I do," he interrupted gently. "Robert Baratheon just tried to murder you and our baby. That's not something I can ignore. That's not something I will ignore." His eyes were hard, but when he looked at her they softened slightly. "I told you I'd protect you with my life. This is me keeping that promise."
He turned back to the merchant, who'd gone even paler if that was possible. "As for you. You tried to kill my wife. My pregnant wife. My child. You understand what that means?"
The merchant nodded, tears streaming down his face.
"Rakharo," Jason said in Dothraki, "tie him to a saddle. He'll walk behind the khalasar when we ride. Let's see how long he lasts."
Rakharo grinned—fierce and bloodthirsty—and began preparing the rope.
"How long do they usually last?" Daenerys asked Jorah quietly.
"I once saw a man last nine miles," Jorah said, his voice carefully neutral. "Being dragged behind a horse. It's not a pleasant death, khaleesi. But it's better than what the Dothraki usually do to assassins."
Daenerys watched as they tied the merchant to Nerissa's saddle—her gentle silver mare, who would inadvertently become an instrument of execution. The man was sobbing now, begging for mercy that wouldn't come.
She should feel something, she thought. Horror. Pity. Disgust at the brutality.
But all she felt was cold certainty that this was justice. This man had tried to kill her baby. Had tried to poison her on orders from a king who'd never met her but hated her for existing.
*Let him suffer,* something dragon-blooded whispered in her mind. *Let him know the price of threatening what's yours.*
"Come," Jason said gently, guiding her away from the spectacle. "You shouldn't watch this. You should rest."
"I'm fine," Daenerys protested, but she let him lead her back toward their tent anyway.
Inside, Viserion and Rhaegal immediately swarmed her—climbing up her dress, chirping concern, nuzzling against her neck. Balerion rumbled at Jason, clearly upset that his bonded human had been gone so long.
"I know, I know," Jason murmured to the black dragon, scratching under his chin. "Sorry. Had to deal with an assassination attempt. You understand."
Balerion huffed smoke—already showing fire, though he was still far too small to be dangerous. In a few months, maybe. A year at most.
Daenerys sank onto the furs, suddenly exhausted. The adrenaline crash was hitting hard, making her hands shake.
"You could have died," she said quietly. "If Jorah hadn't been watching. If he hadn't noticed something wrong. I would have drunk that wine and—"
"But you didn't," Jason said firmly, sitting beside her and pulling her against his chest. "Jorah caught it. You're safe. The baby's safe. That's what matters."
"Robert Baratheon wants me dead," Daenerys said. "Wants our child dead. He'll send more assassins. More poison. More—"
"Then we'll deal with them." Jason's voice was cold, certain. "And then I'll deal with him. Directly."
"You can't fight an entire kingdom by yourself."
"I won't be by myself. I'll have Dothraki warriors. I'll have Jorah, who knows Westeros. I'll have three dragons who'll grow larger every day. And most importantly—" He tilted her chin up gently, meeting her eyes. "—I'll have you. Dragon princess. Khaleesi. The rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Together, we're unstoppable."
"You really think we can do this?" Daenerys asked. "Cross the Narrow Sea, take Westeros, defeat Robert Baratheon?"
"I've done more impossible things," Jason said. "I've died twice and come back. I've bonded with a dragon despite having no Valyrian blood. I've led forty thousand warriors across the Dothraki Sea despite being from another world entirely. Conquering one fat drunk king? That's easy by comparison."
Despite everything, Daenerys laughed. "You make it sound simple."
"It won't be simple. It'll be bloody and difficult and probably take years." Jason kissed her forehead gently. "But we'll manage. We always do."
Outside, they could hear the merchant's screams as the khalasar prepared to move out, dragging him behind Nerissa's saddle. The sound was awful—animal terror mixed with physical agony.
Daenerys listened and felt no pity.
*That's what happens,* she thought coldly, *when you threaten a dragon's children.*
---
Three days later, the merchant's screams had finally stopped. He'd lasted longer than Jorah's predicted nine miles—nearly fifteen, in fact, before his body gave out completely. What remained was barely recognizable as human.
They left his corpse for the carrion birds and rode on.
Jason spent those three days in constant planning sessions with the bloodriders, with Jorah, with anyone who had knowledge of ships or sailing or the logistics of moving an army across water. The Dothraki feared the sea, called it the poison water, but they respected strength. If their khal wanted to cross it, some would follow.
Not all forty thousand—that would be impossible. But perhaps a thousand. Two thousand at most. Elite warriors, the strongest and most loyal.
"It's not enough," Jorah said during one strategy session. "Two thousand Dothraki against the entire might of Westeros? The crown can field ten times that many, and they'll have castles, fortifications, home advantage—"
"They won't have dragons," Jason pointed out. "In a year, maybe two, Balerion will be large enough to ride. Viserion and Rhaegal too. Three dragons. Even small ones will change the battlefield completely."
"Assuming they grow that quickly. Assuming they survive. Assuming you can actually control them in battle." Jorah's voice was skeptical but not unkind. "I'm not saying it's impossible. I'm saying it's going to take time. Years, probably. And in the meantime, Robert will be preparing. Building his forces. Maybe even finding a way to kill dragons."
"Then we'll have to be smarter than him," Jason said. "Move faster. Hit harder. Use unconventional tactics."
"Guerrilla warfare," Jorah said thoughtfully. "Strike and fade. The Dothraki are excellent at that kind of fighting. But you'll need a base. Somewhere to land, to regroup. Somewhere that won't immediately betray you to Robert."
"Dorne," Daenerys said quietly. She'd been listening to the planning, absorbing strategies, learning. "Dorne hated the Targaryens being overthrown. My brother Rhaegar was married to Elia Martell. Robert's ally Tywin Lannister had her and her children murdered. Dorne remembers. They might ally with us."
Jorah's expression showed surprise and approval. "That's... actually brilliant, khaleesi. Dorne is as far from King's Landing as you can get while still being in Westeros. They're independent-minded, well-defended, and they've never forgiven Robert for Elia's death. If you could secure an alliance with Prince Doran Martell—"
"Then we'd have a foothold," Jason finished. "A place to land troops. A potential ally with local forces. That changes everything."
They bent over the crude map again, discussing routes and strategies and possibilities.
And outside, three dragons chirped and played and grew larger every day.
The age of dragons was coming to Westeros.
Whether Westeros was ready or not.
---
The tent was quiet except for the soft sounds of three sleeping dragons and Daenerys's gradually steadying breathing. She lay sprawled across Jason's chest, thoroughly exhausted, her silver-gold hair spread like moonlight across his skin. Her body still trembled occasionally with aftershocks, and Jason could feel the rapid flutter of her heartbeat beginning to slow.
"You're trying to kill me," she mumbled against his chest. "Actually kill me. Death by pleasure."
Jason laughed quietly, his hand stroking lazy patterns down her spine. "You started it. You're the one who decided wearing that outfit was a good idea."
"It was just a nightgown," Daenerys protested weakly.
"It was transparent silk that left absolutely nothing to the imagination and you knew exactly what you were doing when you put it on." His hand slid lower, cupping her backside appreciatively. "So you don't get to complain when I responded... enthusiastically."
"Three times is not enthusiastic. Three times is excessive."
"You weren't complaining at the time. In fact, I distinctly remember you begging for—"
Daenerys clapped a hand over his mouth, her cheeks flushing even in the dim brazier light. "Stop. The handmaids can probably hear us through the tent walls and I'm embarrassed enough as it is."
Jason kissed her palm before pulling her hand away. "They're Dothraki. They think frequent, energetic sex is a sign of a strong marriage. If anything, they're probably pleased we're so compatible."
"Still embarrassing," Daenerys muttered, but she was smiling. She shifted slightly, getting more comfortable, and winced. "I'm going to be sore tomorrow."
"Want me to—"
"No. Absolutely not. You are not touching me again tonight. My body needs time to recover from what you just did to it." She poked his chest accusingly. "Lazarus Pit stamina is unfair. I'm barely sixteen, pregnant, and exhausted, and you're lying here like you could go another three rounds without breaking a sweat."
"I could," Jason admitted. "But I won't. Because I'm not actually trying to kill you, despite what you think."
They lay in comfortable silence for a moment. Outside, the khalasar was settling for the night—distant sounds of men talking, horses shifting, the ever-present backdrop of forty thousand people camping together.
"Jason?" Daenerys's voice was quieter now, more serious.
"Hmm?"
"What's your plan? Really?" She propped herself up on one elbow to look at him. "You promised to take Westeros for our child. To get revenge on Robert Baratheon. But how? Even with dragons, even with the Dothraki, it seems... impossible."
Jason was quiet for a long moment, his tactical mind organizing thoughts he'd been developing over the past three days. "It's not impossible. Just difficult. And it's going to take time—years, probably. This isn't something we can rush."
"How long?"
"Two years minimum before we even attempt crossing the Narrow Sea. Maybe three." He saw her expression and continued quickly. "I know that sounds like forever, but we need the dragons to grow. Balerion, Viserion, and Rhaegal are amazing, but right now they're the size of cats. Deadly cats, sure, but not exactly battlefield-ready. In two years, if they grow at the rate I think they will, they'll be large enough to ride. Large enough to be real weapons of war."
"And in the meantime?" Daenerys asked.
"In the meantime, we build an army." Jason's voice took on the tactical tone he used when planning operations in Gotham. "Right now we have the Dothraki—forty thousand of the best cavalry in the world. That's incredible. That's a force that can destroy almost any enemy in open battle. But cavalry alone isn't enough."
"Why not? The Dothraki have never been defeated in the field."
"Because Westeros isn't the Dothraki Sea. It has castles, fortifications, cities with walls. Cavalry is devastating on open ground, but useless against stone walls. You can't ride a horse up a siege ladder." Jason's hand traced absent patterns on her back as he thought. "We need infantry. Soldiers who can take and hold ground, who can breach walls, who can fight in cities and forests and all the places horses can't go effectively."
"Where do we get infantry?" Daenerys asked. "The Dothraki don't fight on foot. It's against everything they believe."
"We don't use Dothraki for infantry." Jason's voice was certain. "We go to Astapor."
Daenerys went still. "The Unsullied."
"You know about them?"
"Everyone knows about them. They're slaves. Warriors trained from childhood, castrated, brutalized until they're perfect soldiers who feel no pain and show no mercy. They're... they're an abomination."
"They're also the best infantry in the world," Jason said pragmatically. "Eight thousand Unsullied in Astapor at any given time, trained to perfection, disciplined beyond anything I've seen outside of—" He paused, thinking of the League of Assassins. "—outside of elite special forces in my world. They don't break. They don't run. They hold their ground until they die."
"And you want to buy them?" Daenerys's voice held disapproval. "To own slaves?"
"I want to buy them and then immediately free them," Jason corrected. "Purchase the Unsullied, break their chains, offer them the choice to fight for us as free men with wages and honor. Not slaves. Soldiers."
Daenerys was quiet, thinking. "Would they fight for us if we freed them? They've been trained to obey. To be slaves. Freedom might... confuse them."
"Freedom confuses everyone at first," Jason said quietly, thinking of Crime Alley, of kids he'd known who'd been trapped in cycles of poverty and crime and couldn't imagine anything else. "But people adapt. They learn. And soldiers fight better when they're fighting for something they believe in rather than because they're forced to. I've seen it a hundred times. Free men fight harder than slaves."
"The slavers in Astapor won't want to sell to someone who plans to free their property."
"Then we lie. Or we intimidate. Or—" Jason's smile was sharp in the darkness. "—we show up with three dragons and forty thousand Dothraki and make it very clear that they can either sell us the Unsullied for gold, or we'll take them by force and burn the city to ash in the process. I'm betting they choose gold."
Daenerys shivered slightly, and Jason couldn't tell if it was from cold or from the casual way he'd threatened genocide. "And after Astapor?"
"We move through the rest of Slaver's Bay. Yunkai, Meereen. Every city that makes its wealth from slavery." Jason's voice hardened. "I spent three years as a slave in Meereen's fighting pits, Dany. Three years killing for the entertainment of people who saw me as property. I have strong feelings about slavery."
"You want to free them all."
"I want to burn the entire fucking system to the ground," Jason said bluntly. "Every slave market, every master, every chain. I want to take Slaver's Bay city by city, break their economy, free everyone in chains, and build something better from the ashes."
"That would take time. Resources. It would be a war."
"It would be the right thing to do," Jason countered. "And it would also be strategically sound. Every city we take, we gain more gold to fund our eventual invasion of Westeros. Every slave we free is a potential soldier. We could build an army of tens of thousands—Unsullied for infantry, Dothraki for cavalry, freedmen who remember we gave them their liberty and will fight to keep it."
He paused, his tactical mind spinning through possibilities. "Plus, it sends a message. We're not just conquerors. We're liberators. When we eventually cross to Westeros, people will have heard of us. The Breaker of Chains. The Mother of Dragons who freed Slaver's Bay. That's powerful. That makes common people want to support us rather than fight us."
Daenerys was silent for a long moment, and Jason could practically hear her thinking. The dragons shifted in their sleep—Viserion and Rhaegal curled together near the brazier, Balerion sprawled across a pile of furs like he owned them.
"You've thought about this a lot," she finally said.
"I've had three days and nothing to do except plan while you recovered from eating a raw horse heart." Jason's hand found hers, laced their fingers together. "This isn't just revenge on Robert Baratheon, Dany. This is building something. A force strong enough to take Westeros, yes. But also a force that stands for something. Freedom. Justice. The idea that people shouldn't be property."
"The Dothraki keep slaves," Daenerys pointed out quietly. "Our own khalasar has thousands of them. People captured in raids, servants, the ones who walk behind the horses and do the work."
"I know." Jason's jaw tightened. "I've been thinking about that too. We can't free them all at once—it would destabilize everything, turn the khalasar against us. But gradually? Over time? We could change the culture. Make it less about slavery and more about... something else. Service for wages. Choice."
"The Dothraki won't like that."
"The Dothraki follow strength. If we're strong enough—if we have dragons, if we conquer Slaver's Bay, if we take Westeros—they'll follow our lead on this too. Eventually." Jason paused. "It won't be easy. It won't be quick. But it's worth doing."
Daenerys lifted their joined hands, pressed a kiss to his knuckles. "You're a better man than you think you are."
"I'm a killer with a curse in my blood who happens to have a conscience about slavery because I experienced it firsthand," Jason corrected. "Don't make me into a hero."
"Too late. You already are one." She shifted, settling more comfortably against him. "So. Two years building an army. Freeing Slaver's Bay. Growing the dragons. And then?"
"And then we hit Westeros like a hurricane." Jason's voice took on a harder edge. "But not the way anyone expects. No glorious charges at King's Landing. No direct confrontation with Robert's full forces. We use unconventional tactics."
"What does that mean?"
Jason thought about guerrilla warfare, about asymmetric tactics, about everything Batman had taught him about fighting opponents who were stronger, more numerous, better equipped. About how to win when you were outmatched.
"It means we don't fight fair," he said. "Jorah told me the Reach alone can field more men than our entire khalasar. Add in the Westerlands, the Stormlands, the North—Robert could potentially raise a hundred thousand soldiers. Maybe more. We can't beat that in a straight fight, even with dragons."
"Then how—"
"We hit and run. Strike fast, fade away. Use the Dothraki the way they're meant to be used—lightning raids, terror tactics, burning supply lines and disappearing before the enemy can respond. We target infrastructure, not armies. Granaries. Roads. Supply depots. Make it impossible for Robert to feed and maintain his forces in the field."
Jason's mind was racing now, tactical plans forming. "And we make alliances. Like you said—Dorne hates Robert. They'd help us. Maybe the North too, if we can convince them. Divide Robert's forces. Make him fight on multiple fronts while we control the tempo of the war."
"The dragons," Daenerys said. "How do we use them?"
"Carefully. Dragons are terror weapons—one appearance over a battlefield will break morale, send soldiers running. But they're also vulnerable. We don't know how vulnerable yet. Crossbows might be able to hurt them. Scorpions—those big anti-ship ballistas—definitely could. So we use them surgically. Targeted strikes. Burn a specific castle, a specific army. Make it clear we *could* burn everything but we're choosing not to. That we're offering terms. Surrender and live. Resist and die."
"That sounds..." Daenerys paused. "Terrifying."
"It is terrifying. It's supposed to be." Jason's voice was cold, certain. "This isn't about honor or glory. This is about winning. About taking back what was stolen from your family and making sure our child inherits the throne that should be theirs. I'll do whatever it takes to make that happen. However brutal, however unconventional."
"Even if it makes you a monster?"
Jason was quiet for a moment. "I've been a monster before, Dany. In my old life, after I came back from the Lazarus Pit. I killed criminals, burned down drug operations, terrorized Gotham's underworld until even the worst villains were afraid of me. Bruce—Batman—he thought I'd gone too far. Become the thing we fought against."
"Had you?"
"Maybe. Probably." Jason's hand tightened on hers. "But here's the thing—I was effective. I cleaned up Crime Alley better than Batman ever did. Made the streets safer for kids like I used to be. Sometimes being a monster to the monsters is what it takes to protect the innocent."
"And Westeros?" Daenerys asked quietly. "Will you be a monster there too?"
"To the people who threaten you and our child? To slavers and corrupt lords and kings who send assassins after pregnant sixteen-year-olds?" Jason's voice was absolutely certain. "Yes. I'll be their worst nightmare. I'll be the thing they see in the dark before they die. I'll be exactly as monstrous as I need to be to keep you safe and put you on that throne."
Daenerys shivered against him, and Jason felt a moment of doubt. Had he scared her? Shown her too much of the darkness that lived in him?
But when she spoke, her voice was steady. "Good. Because I think that's what it's going to take. Not honor like my brother Rhaegar had. Not mercy like the maesters write about in their histories. But ruthlessness. The willingness to do what's necessary, however ugly."
She lifted her head to look at him, and in the dim brazier light her eyes seemed to glow with inner fire—the Pit magic, the dragon blood, mixing in her veins. "Robert Baratheon tried to poison me. To kill our baby. He deserves whatever monster you become."
"We become," Jason corrected gently. "This isn't just me, Dany. You're the one they'll follow. The Targaryen heir. The Mother of Dragons. I'm just the weapon you point at your enemies."
"Then I'll point you well," Daenerys said. "At Astapor. At Slaver's Bay. At Westeros. At anyone who stands between us and what should be ours."
She kissed him then—deep and fierce, tasting of determination and dragon fire. When she pulled back, she was smiling. "Two years. We have two years to build an army, grow our dragons, and prepare to take back what was stolen. I can wait that long. I can be patient."
"Good. Because patience is going to be key." Jason pulled her closer, feeling the warmth of her body against his, the slight swell of her stomach where their child grew. "We get one shot at this, Dany. One chance to do it right. We can't afford to rush it."
"Then we won't rush." She yawned, exhaustion finally catching up to her. "We'll do it properly. Methodically. The way Batman taught you to plan operations."
"The way Batman taught me to plan operations usually involved more contingencies and less conquering continents with dragons, but yeah. Close enough."
Daenerys laughed sleepily. "Tell me about Batman's contingencies. What would he think of our plan?"
"He'd have seventeen backup plans, three escape routes, and detailed files on every lord in Westeros including their weaknesses and how to exploit them." Jason smiled despite himself. "He'd also probably try to talk me out of the whole thing. Too risky. Too many variables. Too much that could go wrong."
"But you're doing it anyway."
"Because Batman isn't here. Bruce isn't here. I am. And I don't have the luxury of his resources or his support network or his careful, methodical approach. I have you, three dragons, forty thousand Dothraki, and my own particular set of skills." Jason paused. "Also, Batman never had to deal with assassination attempts on his pregnant wife. That changes the equation."
"So what would Red Hood do?" Daenerys asked. "Your other identity. The one who wasn't afraid to be a monster."
"Red Hood would burn Astapor to the ground just to send a message," Jason said honestly. "Would kill every slaver in Yunkai and Meereen. Would cross to Westeros and put Robert Baratheon's head on a spike outside King's Landing."
"And Jason Todd? What does he want to do?"
Jason thought about that—about who he was underneath the masks, underneath the armor and the rage and the Lazarus Pit's green fire. About the kid from Crime Alley who'd wanted to make the world better and kept getting killed for trying.
"Jason Todd wants to build something," he said quietly. "Something that lasts. An army of free people. A kingdom where slavery is outlawed and lords can't just poison anyone they don't like. A world where our kid can grow up safe and happy and not defined by the trauma their parents survived."
He looked down at Daenerys, at her silver-gold hair and dragon-bright eyes and the strength she'd developed over weeks of being khaleesi. "Jason Todd wants to help you become the queen you're meant to be. Not through birthright or destiny or prophecy, but because you earned it. Because you freed people and protected the innocent and showed the world what a Targaryen could be when they chose justice over madness."
Daenerys's eyes were bright with unshed tears. "That's beautiful."
"That's the goal. Whether we achieve it..." Jason shrugged. "We'll see. But we're going to try. Starting with Astapor, moving through Slaver's Bay, building toward Westeros. One step at a time. One victory at a time."
"Together," Daenerys said firmly.
"Always together," Jason agreed.
Outside, the khalasar slept. The dragons dreamed. And somewhere across the Narrow Sea, Robert Baratheon sat on a throne he'd won through rebellion, completely unaware that the Targaryen heir he'd tried to poison was planning his downfall with methodical precision and a dragon-bonded husband who knew exactly how to wage unconventional war.
Two years.
Two years to build an army.
Two years to grow dragons.
Two years to prepare for the conquest that would reshape Westeros.
It seemed like forever and no time at all.
But Jason Todd had died twice and come back. Daenerys Targaryen had survived a brother's abuse and a forced marriage and emerged stronger. Their child would be born of two worlds, two magics, two impossible parents.
Two years was nothing.
They'd waited this long. They could wait a little longer.
And when they finally crossed that Narrow Sea, when they finally brought fire and blood to Westeros—
—Robert Baratheon would learn what it meant to threaten a dragon's family.
The hard way.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!