When Daenerys finished speaking, even the wind over the grass seemed to stop.
Thousands of Dothraki warriors froze in place, bowls of mare's milk suspended halfway to their mouths.
The bonfires threw red‑gold light into the dusk, stretching shadows long and thin across the trampled ground.
In the distance, the sounds of hooves and whinnies faded away, leaving only the silver‑haired girl standing in the center of the circle, torn wedding gown hanging from her shoulders, violet eyes blazing—a look no Dothraki had ever seen in a "sheep girl" before.
The first to move was Viserys.
"W‑what did you say?!"
He lurched out of the crowd, nearly tripping over the hem of his brocade robe.
Wine fumes and rage twisted his face.
He rushed at Daenerys, hand lifting for a slap—the same hand that had struck her so many times before.
But this time, his arm stopped cold.
No matter how hard he tried to swing, it couldn't move an inch.
Lynn's fingers clamped around his wrist like a pair of iron tongs.
He'd never had much patience for this man, especially after Viserys had tried to use him as a dead man in some cheap arena play back in Pentos.
Lynn wasn't one of those softheaded heroes from stories who let anyone walk over them and then offer second chances.
Viserys shrieked, voice sharp enough to grate on bone. "Let me go! You lowborn cur! Do you know who I am? I am Viserys Targaryen, true dragon, king of the Seven Kingdoms!"
Lynn's golden, slit‑pupiled eyes stayed on his, cold and flat. He said nothing.
His grip tightened, slowly.
Crack.
The sound of breaking bone cut through the silence like a twig snapping in a quiet wood.
Pain hit a heartbeat later. Viserys's scream went ragged, then broke into sobbing howls. His free hand beat uselessly at Lynn's armored arm as his knees buckled and hit the dirt.
The "royal" robe Illyrio had gifted him smeared instantly with mud and crushed grass.
"My hand! You bastard! I'll kill you—"
Lynn let go.
Viserys collapsed, curling around his ruined wrist. Tears and snot streaked his face, silver hair plastered to his cheeks. He looked less like a king and more like a kicked‑out alley dog.
"Now that," Lynn said, almost idly, "is a better look for the Beggar King."
He rarely bothered with mockery.
Some people just dragged it out of him.
The Dothraki watched in silence.
On the grass, the strong crushing the weak was nothing new. But this dark‑armored stranger hadn't come to join them. He had ridden straight into their circle to make trouble.
Lynn's gaze finally left Viserys and settled on Khal Drogo.
The khal hadn't moved since Lynn burst into the camp.
He stood in the shifting light of the fires, tall and still as a bronze statue.
There was no anger in his face, no shock, only the calm regard of a lion watching a young wolf step into its territory—more curious than threatened.
Their eyes met.
Burning gold against hawk‑sharp brown.
Lynn's gray stallion blew out a sharp breath, pawing at the ground, golden eyes following his rider's focus but holding its place. It felt the tension, the silent clash between two predators.
Lynn stepped fully into the center of the circle, half a stride in front of Daenerys, shielding her with his body.
Her fingers found the edge of his cloak. Her hand was ice cold.
But it didn't shake.
"Illyrio."
Lynn's voice snapped through the tense air, and the magister—trying to vanish into the edge of the crowd—flinched so hard his jowls trembled.
Color drained from Illyrio's face. Sweat glistened on his bald head. "Y‑yes… ser…?"
"Here. Translate." Lynn didn't look back.
Illyrio's eyes darted to Viserys writhing in the dirt, then to Drogo's storm‑dark face. Finally, he waddled forward.
Lynn looked Drogo straight in the eye and spoke, slow and clear.
"Khal Drogo. Strongest warrior of the Dothraki Sea. I've ridden into your camp and broken your wedding. I challenge you."
He flicked his gaze toward Illyrio.
The magister swallowed and repeated the words in Dothraki, voice shaking, watching Drogo's expression with every syllable, as if a wrong word might get him killed.
The translation was barely finished before the entire camp exploded.
Dothraki warriors roared so loud the night itself seemed to jump.
Curved blades leaped from their scabbards, catching the firelight in wild flashes. Some men slashed the air with them, the hiss of steel cutting wind sharp enough to raise gooseflesh.
Others beat their fists against their chests, heavy thumps rolling like drums. Spit flew to the dirt as curses poured out in harsh Dothraki, calling Lynn a fool, a dead man walking, too blind to see his own grave.
Young riders shoved closer for a better view, eyes gleaming with contempt, like they were watching a lamb trot up to a wolf's jaws.
Drogo raised his hand.
The uproar broke apart and faded. Blades stayed high, but no one stepped forward.
The khal's eyes held no trace of fury. If anything, they burned hotter, lit by an excitement that was almost joy.
He stared at the man who had stormed his camp, snatched his bride, and dared to challenge him in front of his entire khalasar.
His mouth curled just slightly.
Not in rage.
In pleasure.
The thrill of a true hunt.
He'd found someone worth taking seriously—a rare prize. A man who might, just might, be worthy to test his strength against, and to see who truly deserved to claim this fierce little storm girl.
Drogo walked forward three measured steps, the ground faintly trembling under his weight.
He stopped five paces from Lynn—the perfect distance to launch an attack in a heartbeat.
He loosened the curved blade at his hip, jeweled scabbard catching the light, and then drove it point‑first into the earth.
He pointed at Lynn's armor.
Then at his own bare chest.
Lynn understood.
The khal accepted.
Dothraki challenges weren't fought in iron shells with fancy weapons. They stripped it back to the oldest rules: flesh, steel, and will.
He didn't hesitate.
He unlatched his breastplate.
Gray‑black plates fell away one by one into the grass with dull, heavy thumps.
Then the vambraces, greaves, gauntlets, piling at his boots.
At last he drew his half‑sword and drove it into the ground beside Drogo's blade.
One of the khal's warriors brought him a Dothraki arakh, hilt worn smooth, edge like a shark's smile.
Drogo's gaze flicked over Lynn's bare torso.
Crosshatched scars marked his skin—long cuts, punctures, the pale lines of old burns. None of them were decorative.
Each one had been earned.
The khal's lips moved again, not quite into a smile, but close.
This was no pampered knight in painted armor.
This was someone who had survived.
A bloodrider led up two red‑bay warhorses built like battering rams, eyes bright with wild defiance—true Dothraki stock, not Lynn's own gray.
Drogo mounted in one smooth motion, as if he'd been born on the saddle.
He took up his arakh, turned toward Lynn, and spoke in thick Common.
"Last man standing," he said, voice low as distant thunder, "wins."
The warriors around them shrieked with approval. This was the only rule that mattered.
Simple. Brutal. Honest.
They pulled back at once, leaving a wide circle bare.
The fires were dragged to the edges, their light pooling inward until the center shone like a stage under a blood‑red sky.
Bloodriders dragged Viserys out of the way and guided Daenerys back to the edge. She never took her eyes off Lynn. Her lips were pressed so tightly together they'd gone white.
The shard of glass in her hand dug into her palm. Blood beaded at the cut.
She didn't feel it.
Illyrio had sunk to the ground, lips moving soundlessly in panicked prayer.
Viserys clutched his broken wrist and watched through a haze of pain and hate, desperate to see Lynn hacked into pieces.
Lynn swung into the saddle.
The strange stallion snorted and shifted under the unfamiliar weight, but he clamped his knees and took control. The horse settled, muscle by muscle.
He leveled the arakh, blade angled forward.
They faced each other from opposite ends of the ring, perhaps a hundred paces apart.
A bloodrider walked to the edge of the circle and raised his spear high.
Every sound died.
Every breath held.
The spear dropped.
Drogo's growl rolled out of his chest, and his horse leapt forward like it had been kicked by a god.
Lynn drove his heels in.
Two warhorses thundered across the flattened grass, iron‑shod hooves beating a deep, rising drum.
The ground shook beneath them.
The air tightened.
The first charge had begun.