Moon and Shield
The khalasar slept uneasily.
The fires burned low across the plain, horses tethered, riders sprawled in the dust. But beyond the tents, beyond the murmurs of men learning to fear and respect discipline, Daenerys Targaryen could not sleep.
She paced the edge of her tent, her silver hair loose, her heart restless. The world had changed too quickly. Yesterday she had been a pawn to be given away, a trembling girl with no voice. Today, she was Khaleesi — not by Drogo's taking, but by Leonidas' shield.
She could still see it when she closed her eyes. The crack of steel, Drogo falling, the Spartans chanting. And Leonidas — bloodied, unyielding, his voice carrying above the storm like a god of war.
A shadow moved at the entrance. The flap parted, and he entered.
Bronze gleamed in the low light. He had stripped down to his cuirass and cloak, his hair damp with sweat, his body marked by the cuts of battle. His eyes found hers at once — steady, unreadable, yet burning.
"Can't sleep?" he asked.
She swallowed. "No."
For a heartbeat, neither spoke. The silence stretched, heavy with all that had passed between them.
Finally, she whispered, "Why do you do this? Why fight for me? Why not take the crown yourself?"
Leonidas stepped closer, his shadow enveloping her. His hand rose — not to claim, but to brush a strand of hair from her face.
"Because I swore an oath," he said softly. "Not to a crown. Not to conquest. To you."
Her breath caught.
"You are my queen, Daenerys," he said. "Not because of blood or throne, but because I chose you. The gods — or whatever this cursed system is — put me here for one purpose: to be your shield. And I will be, until death."
Tears pricked her eyes, but her chest ached with something deeper — desire, fierce and undeniable. She reached up, trembling fingers brushing the scar across his jaw.
"I am no longer afraid," she whispered. "Not when you are near."
His breath grew heavier, his restraint faltering. He leaned down, his forehead brushing hers, his voice a growl in the dark.
"Say it," he murmured.
She closed her eyes. "I want you, Leonidas. Not as my shield. As my king."
That broke him.
Their lips crashed together, heat sparking like steel on stone. His hands gripped her waist, pulling her against him, the bronze of his armor cold against her bare skin. She gasped, arching into him, her fingers tangling in his hair.
The tent became a furnace. Cloaks fell, armor buckled, silks tore. Her breath was fire, his touch unrelenting. He lifted her as though she weighed nothing, carrying her to the furs, his mouth never leaving hers.
When he finally entered her, it was not as a conqueror taking a prize, nor a Khal claiming a bride. It was as a warrior honoring his queen, as a man who had found his match.
She cried out, not in fear but in rapture, and he silenced her with his kiss.
The night stretched long, filled with whispers, gasps, and the clash of bodies as fierce as any battle. And when dawn came, she lay tangled against him, her silver hair across his chest, her hand resting on the scars of his heart.
For the first time, Daenerys Targaryen did not dream of thrones or dragons.
She dreamed of shields.