The tent was massive—khal-sized, naturally—all rich fabrics and plundered luxuries that smelled of leather, incense, and the particular musk that came from a man who'd lived his entire life on horseback. *Lived* being the operative word, Jason thought grimly. Past tense now.
He'd spent the last three hours with Drogo's former bloodriders—*his* bloodriders now, though the concept still felt absurd—discussing the ride to Vaes Dothrak. It was tradition, they'd explained in a mixture of Dothraki and broken Common Tongue. When a new khal took power, the khalasar rode to the sacred city to present him to the dosh khaleen, the crones who spoke prophecy and kept the Dothraki's spiritual center.
It was also, Jason understood without them saying it directly, a test.
A Dothraki who couldn't ride wasn't Dothraki. A khal who couldn't control his horse couldn't control his khalasar. They'd watched him with flat, evaluating eyes, waiting to see if their new leader would embarrass himself, would prove himself unworthy of the title he'd won with blood.
Jason had wanted to laugh. Of all the skills Talia al Ghul had insisted on drilling into him during his time with the League of Assassins, horseback riding had seemed the most archaic, the least useful for a Gotham vigilante. "You never know what tools you'll need," she'd said, patient and implacable as always. "A warrior must be complete."
He'd hated her for it at the time. Now he wanted to kiss her.
The bloodriders had seemed satisfied when he'd mounted without hesitation, when he'd demonstrated he could control a horse that was actively trying to murder him, when he'd shown the casual competence that came from years of practice. They'd nodded, grunted approval, and started actually treating him like a khal instead of a lucky outsider.
Small victories.
Now Jason stood outside what had been Drogo's tent and was apparently his tent now, staring at the entrance flap and trying to remember how he'd gotten here. Six-foot-five, covered in dried blood—some his, some Drogo's, all thoroughly unpleasant—desperately in need of a shower that didn't exist in this pre-industrial nightmare, and somehow responsible for forty thousand warriors and one dragon princess.
*Bruce would have a contingency plan for this,* Jason thought. *Probably labeled 'Contingency Khal' filed right next to 'Contingency Alien Invasion' and 'Contingency Superman Goes Rogue.'*
Jorah Mormont stood guard outside the tent, looking tired but alert. The former knight straightened when Jason approached, something complicated flickering across his weathered face.
"Khal Jason," Jorah said, the title sounding strange in his Northern accent. "The princess is inside. She's... settling in."
Jason paused. "I ordered them to set up another tent for her. A separate one. She shouldn't have to—"
"She knows," Jorah interrupted gently. "She insisted on this one. Said she felt safer here."
Something in Jason's chest twisted uncomfortably. "She shouldn't feel like she needs to—"
"She doesn't." Jorah met his eyes squarely. "She wants to. There's a difference. She's been powerless her whole life, Hood—Khal—whatever I should call you. You just gave her the first real choice she's ever had. Don't take it away by deciding what's best for her."
Jason stared at the older man, then nodded slowly. "Fair point." He paused. "Jason is fine, by the way. When we're private. The whole 'Khal' thing is still..." He gestured vaguely.
"Surreal?" Jorah supplied with a slight smile.
"That's one word for it."
"For what it's worth," Jorah said quietly, "you did something extraordinary tonight. Stupid, probably suicidal, definitely unprecedented. But extraordinary. That girl has been a pawn her entire life, moved around by men who saw her as currency. You're the first person who's ever fought for her. Actually fought. Actually bled."
"I killed a man for her," Jason said flatly. "Not sure that counts as heroic."
"You killed a man who would have raped a child," Jorah corrected, his voice hard. "Make no mistake about Dothraki customs—that's what tonight would have been. She's sixteen, he was twice her age, and it would have been brutal and public. You stopped that. However it happened, whatever the cost, you stopped that."
Jason looked away, uncomfortable with the praise. "I just did what anyone should—"
"But no one else did." Jorah's voice was gentle now. "That's the point. I didn't. Illyrio didn't. Her own brother certainly didn't. You did. So take the win, Hood. God knows there are few enough of them in this world."
Jason nodded, not trusting his voice.
"Also," Jorah added, "you should probably bathe before you go in there. You smell like a charnel house."
Despite everything, Jason laughed. "Where exactly am I supposed to bathe? I haven't seen a shower since I fell through Klarion's magic portal, and that was three years and change ago."
Jorah gestured toward the back of the camp, where smoke rose from what Jason now realized were heated water basins. "Dothraki don't bathe often, but khals get privileges. There's a basin prepared. Servants to help, if you want them."
"I can wash myself," Jason said quickly.
"I figured. You've got that 'don't touch me' energy." Jorah paused. "The princess asked me to make sure you came to the tent after. She wants to talk."
"About what?"
"If I had to guess? About who you really are. About that other world you mentioned before you killed Drogo." Jorah's eyes were sharp, assessing. "You're not from here, are you? Not from Westeros, not from Essos, not from anywhere in this world."
Jason considered lying, decided he was too tired. "No. I'm not."
"Thought so. No one fights like you do. No one talks like you do, underneath all the languages. You're something else entirely." Jorah smiled faintly. "Makes sense why you don't care about Westerosi politics or Targaryen claims. This isn't your fight."
"It is now," Jason said quietly.
"Aye," Jorah agreed. "It is now."
---
The basin was heaven. Or as close to heaven as Jason expected to get, given his track record with afterlives.
He stripped off the armor—peeling away layers of leather and metal that were stiff with blood—and sank into water that was almost too hot, feeling three years of accumulated violence trying to wash away. It wouldn't, of course. It never did. But the illusion was nice.
He scrubbed methodically, watched the water turn pink then brown then nearly black with old blood and arena dirt and the accumulated grime of being a pit fighter. His body was a roadmap of scars—the Joker's crowbar had left its marks, the Lazarus Pit had added its own, and three years in Meereen's fighting pits had contributed generously. Each scar was a story, a failure, a moment he'd been too slow or too reckless or too human.
The cut on his ribs from Drogo's arakh was already healing, the Pit's green fire knitting flesh faster than it should. By morning it would be a pink line, by next week just another scar for the collection. Jason touched it carefully, felt the unnatural warmth beneath his skin.
*Should have died tonight,* he thought distantly. *Drogo was good. Maybe as good as Deathstroke, maybe better in some ways. Should have put me in the ground.*
But the Pit wouldn't let him die. Not easily. Not permanently. It was a curse wrapped in a gift wrapped in a nightmare, and Jason had stopped trying to figure out if he was grateful or resentful.
Clean finally—or as clean as he was going to get—he dressed in the fresh clothes that had been left: loose linen pants, a simple tunic, both undyed and unadorned. No armor, no weapons, just fabric and skin. It felt vulnerable, exposed, wrong.
But Daenerys had asked to talk. Had asked him to come to the tent. And Jason found he couldn't refuse her, this girl he'd known for less than a day but had already killed for.
*You've got a type,* Dick's voice echoed in his memory. *Lost causes and people who need saving. One day it's going to get you killed.*
*Too late,* Jason thought. *Already happened. Twice.*
He walked back to the khal's tent—*his* tent, Jesus Christ—nodded to Jorah, and pushed through the entrance.
---
The interior was warm, lit by braziers that cast dancing shadows across rich fabrics. Someone had arranged the space efficiently: sleeping furs piled in the center, cushions scattered around, chests of belongings stacked neatly. And in the corner, in a brazier of hot coals, three dragon eggs gleamed like impossible jewels.
Daenerys stood near the eggs, directing three young women—her handmaids, Jason remembered, gifts from Drogo that now served her—on final arrangements. She'd changed from her wedding dress into something simpler: a pale blue shift that made her silver-gold hair seem even brighter, even more otherworldly.
She looked up when Jason entered, and her face transformed—genuine relief, genuine happiness. Like she'd been worried he wouldn't come.
"Khal Jason," she said formally, though her smile undercut the formality.
"Just Jason," he corrected gently. "When it's private. Please."
"Jason," she tested the name, her accent making it sound softer, rounder. She turned to her handmaids. "Thank you, all of you. That will be all for tonight."
The three women—Jhiqui, Irri, and Doreah, Jason recalled from introductions he'd barely processed—bowed and departed, casting curious glances at their new khal as they left.
Silence fell. Daenerys and Jason regarded each other across the tent—dragon princess and dead man, both utterly out of their depth, both trying to figure out what came next.
"You came," Daenerys said finally.
"You asked me to."
"I thought..." She paused, choosing words carefully. "I thought you might want your own space. Your own tent. After everything that happened tonight, after what you did, you deserve privacy. Rest."
"I built you a tent," Jason said. "Had them set it up near mine. So you'd have space, safety, your own place."
"I know." Daenerys smiled, small and genuine. "Jorah told me. It was kind. Thoughtful. But I'd rather stay here. With you. If that's... if that's acceptable."
Jason's throat felt tight. "You don't have to feel obligated. I'm not—I would never—"
"I know," she interrupted gently. "That's why I want to stay. You're the first man who's ever asked what I wanted instead of taking what you wanted. The first person who's treated me like I matter, like I'm more than a womb for heirs or a prize to be won."
She moved closer, cautious but deliberate, like approaching a dangerous animal she wasn't quite sure wouldn't bolt.
"I feel safe with you," she continued. "For the first time in my entire life, I feel safe. So yes, I'd like to stay. Here. In this tent. With you. Unless you don't want—"
"I want you safe," Jason said firmly. "Whatever that looks like. If staying here makes you feel safe, then stay."
Daenerys's smile widened. "Then I'll stay."
---
They stood there awkwardly for a moment, two people who'd just gotten married through extremely violent circumstances, neither quite sure what the protocol was.
"We should sleep," Jason said finally. "We've got a long ride tomorrow. The bloodriders want to start at dawn, make good time toward Vaes Dothrak."
"Of course." Daenerys nodded toward the pile of sleeping furs. "The bed is large enough for both of us, but if you'd prefer—"
"I'll sleep over there," Jason interrupted, gesturing to the far corner of the tent. "Give you privacy. I don't need much, I'm used to sleeping rough—"
"Jason." Daenerys's voice was soft but firm. "Please don't sleep on the floor in the corner like a dog. You're my husband now, whether by choice or circumstance. You can share the bed. I trust you."
Jason hesitated, every protective instinct Bruce had drilled into him screaming that this was inappropriate, that she was too young, too vulnerable, that he should maintain distance and boundaries and—
"I would like it if you stayed close," Daenerys added quietly. "I spent my whole life sleeping alone in rooms where I couldn't lock the door, where Viserys might come in drunk and angry, where I never felt safe enough to truly rest. Tonight I'd like to sleep knowing someone is nearby who would actually protect me if something happened."
*Well, fuck.*
"Okay," Jason said. "I'll stay close. But just sleep, nothing else. I'm serious about—"
"I know." Daenerys's smile was almost amused now. "You've made your position extremely clear. Multiple times. I promise I'm not expecting you to ravish me the moment we lie down."
"Good. Because I wouldn't. I'm not—I don't—" Jason ran a hand through his still-damp hair, frustrated with his inability to articulate. "You're sixteen. I'm twenty-five. That's a whole different kind of wrong, and I've done a lot of wrong things but I'm not adding that to the list."
"In this world, sixteen is a woman grown," Daenerys pointed out. "I'm of marriageable age. Expected to bear children, manage a household—"
"In my world, sixteen is a kid," Jason interrupted. "Still in school, still figuring out who they are, still growing. And I don't care what the customs are here—I'm not touching you like that until you're older, if ever. We clear?"
Something complicated flickered across Daenerys's face—surprise, relief, maybe even disappointment, though Jason tried not to think about that too hard.
"Clear," she said finally. "Though I appreciate that you care."
"Of course I care. That's why we're in this mess."
Daenerys laughed—soft and genuine, the sound surprised out of her. "I suppose it is."
She moved to the sleeping furs, settled into them with the unconscious grace of someone who'd been taught deportment and poise since childhood. She looked tiny in the massive bed, silver-gold hair spread across dark furs like moonlight on shadow.
Jason approached carefully, keeping distance, and settled on the opposite side. The furs were surprisingly comfortable, soft and warm, and his exhausted body immediately tried to shut down.
"Jason?" Daenerys's voice was quiet in the darkness.
"Yeah?"
"Would you... would you come closer? I'd like to..." She paused, seeming embarrassed. "I'd like to talk. And perhaps hold you. If that's acceptable."
Jason went very still. "Hold me?"
"Is that strange? I just... I've been alone so long. And you're warm, and solid, and real. I'd like to feel close to someone who isn't going to hurt me. Even if it's just for tonight."
*Fuck. Fuck. Fucking hell.*
"That's not strange," Jason said quietly. He moved closer, carefully, until they were side by side in the furs. "You can hold me. However you want. I won't—I'll just stay here, okay?"
Daenerys shifted, curled against his side, her head resting on his chest and one arm draped across his torso. She was small and warm and trembling slightly, and Jason felt something in his chest crack open—the part he'd tried to keep locked away, the part that remembered being young and scared and wanting someone to say everything would be okay.
He wrapped one arm around her shoulders, carefully, gently, and felt her relax against him.
"Thank you," she whispered.
"For what?"
"For being here. For being kind. For treating me like I matter."
Jason's throat felt tight again. "You do matter. Of course you matter."
They lay in silence for a moment. Then:
"Jason?"
"Hmm?"
"Tell me about the other world." Daenerys shifted slightly, looking up at him with those ancient-young eyes. "The one you mentioned before you fought Drogo. You said you were a hero once, that you died in another world. I want to know. I want to understand who you really are."
Jason stared up at the tent's ceiling, watching shadows dance, and tried to figure out where to even start.
"That's a long story," he said finally.
"We have all night." Daenerys settled more comfortably against him. "And I'm not tired. Too much has happened. So tell me. Please. I've shared your bed, become your wife, tied my fate to yours. Don't I deserve to know who you are?"
"You deserve a lot of things," Jason said quietly. "Most of which I probably can't give you. But yeah, okay. You deserve the truth."
He took a breath, organized his thoughts, and began.
---
"My world is very different from this one," Jason started carefully. "Imagine if the maesters of the Citadel had kept discovering new things for a thousand years—new ways to build, new ways to heal, new ways to do things that seem impossible. My world has... we call it technology. Machines that can do work without horses or people. Lights that burn without fire or oil. Wagons that move faster than any horse, carrying dozens of people, powered by... it's complicated. Like controlled explosions, but safe."
Daenerys's fingers traced idle patterns on his chest as she listened, her brow furrowed in concentration. "Wagons that move themselves? How is that possible?"
"It's hard to explain without showing you. But imagine a blacksmith's forge—you know how fire heats metal? My world figured out how to capture that heat, that power, and use it to make wheels turn. We built metal boxes on wheels that could carry people across entire kingdoms in a single day."
"A single day?" Daenerys's voice was awed. "From King's Landing to Winterfell?"
"Further. Much further. And we had other things too—ships made of metal that couldn't sink, birds made of metal that could fly through the air carrying hundreds of people, ways to talk to someone on the other side of the world instantly, like... like if you could whisper to someone in Yi Ti and they could hear you as clearly as I'm talking to you now."
"That sounds like sorcery."
"It does, doesn't it? But it wasn't magic, it was just... understanding how the world works and using that knowledge. Like how you know fire burns and water flows—my world just knew more things, understood more patterns."
Daenerys was quiet for a moment, processing. "And in this world of wonders, you were a hero?"
"I tried to be." Jason's voice softened. "I grew up poor, Daenerys. Poorer than you can imagine. In my world, cities were huge—bigger than Meereen, bigger than anywhere you've seen. Millions of people stacked on top of each other in buildings taller than the Great Pyramid. And the city I grew up in, Gotham, was... it was rotting from the inside. Crime everywhere. Murder, theft, people hurting each other for coins or power or just because they could."
"Like King's Landing," Daenerys murmured.
"Worse. Much worse. King's Landing has the gold cloaks, has some law. Gotham had law too, but it was corrupt. The guards—we called them police—many of them took bribes, looked the other way, sometimes did the crimes themselves. And I was a child in the worst part of the city. A place called Crime Alley, where people died every night and no one cared."
He felt her grip tighten on him slightly.
"My father was a drunk and a criminal. Not a good man. My mother... she tried, but she was sick, and we had no coin for healers. She died when I was young. Father died later, in prison. I was alone, maybe nine or ten years old, living on the streets, stealing bread and sleeping in alleys, trying to survive."
"Gods," Daenerys whispered. "You were just a child."
"So were you when Viserys started selling you," Jason pointed out gently. "We've both been there—alone and powerless and scared."
She nodded against his chest.
"One night," Jason continued, "I was desperate. Hungry. I saw this incredible wagon—we called them cars—parked in an alley. Black, sleek, clearly belonging to someone rich. And I thought, if I could steal the wheels, sell them, I could eat for a month. So I tried."
"And you were caught?"
"By the owner. But he didn't hurt me, didn't turn me over to the guards. He..." Jason paused, remembering. "He saw something in me. His name was Bruce Wayne, but he had a secret. At night, he became something else. He called himself Batman—dressed like a giant bat, wore a mask, fought the criminals that the corrupt guards wouldn't stop. He was one of the greatest warriors in my world, trained in every form of combat, brilliant strategist, rich enough to fund his war on crime."
"A masked warrior fighting evil?" Daenerys sounded fascinated. "Like a knight from the songs, but hidden?"
"Exactly like that. Except he didn't fight for a king or a lord—he fought for the smallfolk, for the people who couldn't fight back. And he took me in, Daenerys. This rich man, this hero, he adopted me. Made me his son. Trained me to fight, to think, to be better than the streets that made me."
Jason felt his throat tighten with old emotion.
"He made me Robin. That was my name when I fought beside him—Robin, like the bird. I wore a mask too, bright colors while he wore dark ones, and we fought together. Saved people. Stopped criminals. Made the city a little bit safer, one night at a time. It was the best time of my life. I had a father—a real father, not like the drunk who'd ignored me. I had a home. A purpose. I mattered."
"You were a hero," Daenerys said softly. "A true hero."
"I tried to be." Jason's voice went flat. "But there was a villain. A monster named the Joker—he was insane, killed people for amusement, laughed while he did it. He was Batman's greatest enemy, the one criminal we could never quite stop. And one day..."
He paused, the memories still sharp despite years and dimensions.
"One day, the Joker captured me. I was searching for my mother—my real mother, I'd discovered she might still be alive—and he found me first. He took me to an abandoned building and he..." Jason's jaw clenched. "He beat me. For hours. With an iron bar, like the blacksmiths use but bigger, heavier. Breaking bones, tearing flesh. And he laughed the whole time. Laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world."
Daenerys had gone completely still against him, her breathing shallow.
"My mother was there too. He'd used her as bait. She died when the building exploded—he'd rigged it with explosives, timed them to go off. She died quickly. I... I didn't. Not quickly. But I died."
"Jason..." Daenerys's voice was thick with unshed tears.
"Bruce found me too late. Found my body in the rubble—broken, burned, dead. He buried me. Mourned me. And I should have stayed dead."
"But you came back."
"Yeah." Jason's laugh was bitter. "In my world, there were these pools of water—ancient, magical, hidden in the mountains. They were called Lazarus Pits. If you put a dead body in them, sometimes the body would come back to life. But it always came back wrong. Twisted. Angry."
"Someone put you in one of these pools?"
"A woman named Talia—she was a warrior, a master of combat, and she'd... she cared about me, in her way. She found my body, brought it to a Lazarus Pit, submerged me. And I woke up."
Jason's hand unconsciously went to his chest, feeling the unnatural warmth of the Pit's fire beneath his skin.
"But I wasn't the same. The Pit brings you back, but it changes you. Makes you heal faster than normal people—you saw tonight, the cut Drogo gave me is almost gone already. Makes you harder to kill, stronger, more resilient. But it also fills you with rage. Anger that doesn't fade, that burns green in your blood like poison."
"That's why you heal so fast," Daenerys murmured, touching his chest gently. "I noticed. You took wounds that should have killed you, or at least crippled you for weeks. But you're already better."
"The Pit's curse. Or gift. I'm still not sure which." Jason continued: "I came back angry. I came back wrong. I found out Bruce—Batman—hadn't killed the Joker for what he did to me. Hadn't avenged me. He'd just locked him up, like he always did, and the Joker had escaped and killed more people."
"He didn't avenge you?" Daenerys sounded outraged. "His own son?"
"Bruce doesn't kill. It's his one rule, the thing that separates him from the criminals he fights. He believes if he crosses that line, if he starts killing, he'll never stop. He'll become the thing he's fighting against."
"But—"
"I know. I didn't agree either. So I became the Red Hood—took the name from the Joker's old identity, turned it into something else. I fought crime like Bruce taught me, but I killed the worst criminals. The rapists, the murderers, the ones who'd never stop hurting people. I thought I was doing the right thing. Bruce thought I was becoming a monster."
Jason's voice roughened. "We fought. A lot. Sometimes with words, sometimes with fists. About justice and vengeance and whether killing evil people makes you evil too. I thought he should have killed the Joker for me. He said killing was never the answer. We couldn't find middle ground."
"But you still loved him," Daenerys said quietly.
Jason was silent for a long moment. "Yeah," he finally admitted, his voice barely a whisper. "I still loved him. Even when I hated him. Even when we were beating each other bloody in the same alley where my parents died. He was my father. Maybe he couldn't say it out loud, maybe I couldn't accept it, but he was my father. The only real one I ever had."
Daenerys squeezed him gently, offering comfort.
"So how did you come here?" she asked. "To this world?"
"There was another villain. An immortal man named Vandal Savage who'd lived for thousands of years. He was planning to destroy not just my world, but countless other worlds—realities stacked on top of each other like pages in a book, each one a different version of everything. He was going to burn them all."
"How is that even possible?"
"Magic and science combined. Portals between worlds, doors that shouldn't exist. He opened one—a hole in reality itself—that would have consumed everything. So I grabbed him and threw us both through it. Sacrificed myself to stop him, to save my world and all the others."
"A hero's death," Daenerys whispered.
"Should have been. But the portal didn't kill me—just spat me out in a desert in this world, broken and alone and very much alive. Well, alive-ish. The Lazarus Pit in my blood kept me from dying even though I should have."
"And the slavers found you."
"Yeah. Dragged me to Meereen, sold me to the fighting pits. I spent three years there, Daenerys. Three years killing men for sport, for the entertainment of people who bet on us like we were dogs or horses. Two hundred and seventeen men. I counted every one."
His voice had gone cold, distant.
"I survived because I didn't know how to do anything else. Because the Pit wouldn't let me die. Because somewhere deep inside, I still thought maybe I'd find a way home, back to Bruce and Dick and the family I'd lost."
"But you never did."
"No. I never did. And eventually I realized I never would. This was my life now—kill or be killed, day after day, in a world that wasn't mine, following rules I didn't understand."
Jason looked down at Daenerys, at her silver-purple eyes reflecting brazier light.
"Then Illyrio bought my contract and brought me to Pentos. Said he needed a guard for a Targaryen princess. And I saw you—sixteen years old, terrified, being sold to a warlord by your own brother—and I couldn't..." His voice cracked slightly. "I couldn't walk away. Couldn't be the person who saw a kid in trouble and did nothing. Even after everything I'd become, everything I'd lost, I couldn't do that."
"So you saved me," Daenerys said softly.
"So I tried. And somehow ended up married to you and responsible for forty thousand horse warriors in a world I still barely understand."
"Do you regret it?" The question was quiet, almost fearful.
Jason was quiet for a long moment, considering. Then: "No. I don't regret it. Fighting Drogo was stupid, probably suicidal, definitely not what Bruce would call 'thinking three steps ahead.' But seeing you safe, seeing you here instead of being dragged to a tent by a stranger... no. I don't regret it."
Daenerys shifted, propping herself up on one elbow to look at him directly. "You're a hero, Jason Todd. You might not believe it, you might think the Lazarus Pit twisted you into something wrong, but you're a hero. You died saving the world. Came back broken and spent three years in hell. And you still chose to save me when you could have chosen to do nothing."
"I'm a killer with a curse in my blood who happened to make one decent decision."
"No." Her voice was firm. "You're a man who's been hurt and killed and resurrected, who's lost everything twice, and who still has enough good in him to fight for a stranger. To protect someone weaker. To choose kindness over cruelty."
Jason looked away, uncomfortable with how clearly she saw him.
"Thank you," Daenerys whispered. "For telling me the truth. For trusting me with your story. For being who you are."
"You don't need to thank me for being broken."
"I'm thanking you for being strong enough to still care, even after everything that broke you." She settled back against him, head on his chest, arm around his torso. "Now tell me more. Tell me about these metal birds that fly, about talking across the world, about your family of masked warriors. I want to understand your world, even if I'll never see it."
So Jason talked. He explained electricity—captured lightning that powered lights and machines. He described skyscrapers—towers of metal and glass that touched the clouds. He told her about the Justice League, trying to explain Superman (a man who could fly and lift mountains) and Wonder Woman (a warrior princess from an island of women who'd trained since childhood) and the Flash (who could run faster than any horse could gallop, faster than storms, fast enough to run on water).
He described the Batcave—Bruce's hidden base beneath his mansion, full of technology and weapons and the tools of his war on crime. He told her about Robin—not just himself, but Dick Grayson who'd come before him, a circus acrobat who'd lost his parents and become the first boy to fight beside Batman.
"There were others too," Jason said. "Tim Drake came after me—brilliant strategist, better detective than Bruce in some ways. Barbara Gordon, who fought from a chair with wheels after an injury crippled her legs, using her mind and these machines called computers to help us. Stephanie Brown, who was fierce and loyal and tried so hard to prove herself. Cassandra Cain, who'd been raised by assassins and could read body language like maesters read books—she could predict your moves before you made them."
"So many heroes," Daenerys murmured sleepily. "A whole family of them."
"Yeah. A weird, dysfunctional, violent family who beat up criminals together and never quite figured out how to say 'I love you' out loud." Jason smiled despite himself. "But they were mine. For a while, they were mine."
"Do you miss them?"
Jason was quiet for a long moment. "Every day. But they're in another world, another reality. And I'm here now. With you. Leading an army I don't understand, in a world that doesn't have electricity or metal birds or anything I'm used to."
"Is it terrible?" Daenerys asked quietly. "Being here?"
Jason looked down at her—this small, silver-haired girl who'd been sold and scared and saved, who'd somehow seen past his armor and rage to the person underneath.
"No," he said honestly. "It's strange and hard and I have no idea what I'm doing. But it's not terrible. Not anymore."
Daenerys smiled against his chest. "Good. Because I think I need you. Not just as a guard or a khal, but as... as someone who understands what it's like to be powerless and alone. Someone who's been broken and came back."
"We're quite a pair," Jason said. "Dead man and dragon princess."
"I like it." Her voice was fading now, sleep finally claiming her. "Jason and Daenerys. Khal and khaleesi. Hero and..."
"And?"
But she was already asleep, breathing deep and even, still holding him like she was afraid he'd disappear if she let go.
Jason lay awake longer, staring at the tent's ceiling, feeling the warm weight of a princess against his chest. He thought about Bruce and Dick and Tim and the family he'd lost. About Gotham's endless night and the Joker's laugh and a warehouse exploding into fire.
About resurrection and rage and the green fire in his blood that wouldn't let him rest.
About a sixteen-year-old girl who'd looked at him with hope instead of fear, who'd chosen to stay with him instead of taking the safety he'd offered, who'd listened to his story and called him a hero when he knew he wasn't one.
*I died to save the multiverse,* Jason thought. *And I woke up in a medieval nightmare with no technology, no Batman, no way home. I spent three years killing for entertainment. And now I'm responsible for forty thousand warriors, married to a girl who deserves better than a broken weapon pretending to be a man, and somehow I'm supposed to lead them across a continent to a sacred city where they'll judge whether I'm worthy.*
Daenerys shifted in her sleep, murmured something in Valyrian—the language of her ancestors, the tongue of dragons. Her hand splayed across his chest, right over his heart, and Jason felt the steady rhythm of his pulse beneath her palm.
*The Pit keeps me alive,* he thought. *But maybe she's the reason I'm not just surviving anymore. Maybe she's the reason I'm trying to live.*
Outside the tent, the khalasar settled into sleep—forty thousand warriors who'd followed Drogo for years, who now followed a stranger because he'd been strong enough to kill their khal. Jason could hear the sounds of the camp: horses shifting and snorting, men talking in low voices, the crackle of fires burning low, the distant sounds of celebration still continuing for those who hadn't collapsed from drink or exhaustion.
Tomorrow they would ride. Tomorrow Jason would have to prove himself not just as a warrior but as a leader, as someone worthy of the title he'd won in blood. Tomorrow he'd have to figure out how to command men who spoke languages he barely understood, who followed customs he'd only glimpsed, who expected strength and decisiveness from a khal who felt like he was barely holding it together.
Tomorrow he'd have to be the Red Hood again—the mask, the armor, the promise of death to anyone who threatened what was his. He'd have to be Khal Jason, ruler of a khalasar, husband to a dragon princess, protector of the last Targaryen.
But tonight, just for tonight, he could be Jason Todd. Broken boy from Crime Alley. Dead Robin. Resurrected weapon. Just a man holding a scared girl and trying to give her one night of peace.
*Bruce would hate this,* Jason thought with grim amusement. *No plan, no backup, no exit strategy. Just improvising my way through leading an army in a world I don't understand. Dick would find it hilarious. Tim would have seventeen contingencies already prepared. Damian would call me an idiot but probably respect the fact that I killed a warlord in single combat.*
*And Talia... Talia would be proud. In her way. I'm finally using everything she taught me—combat, languages, leadership, the willingness to do what's necessary. Even the horseback riding.*
Jason's hand unconsciously tightened on Daenerys's shoulder, careful not to wake her but needing the anchor of her presence. She was real. Solid. Alive. A reminder that he wasn't just a weapon anymore, that he could still protect something worth protecting.
In the brazier, the dragon eggs gleamed—cream and gold, green and bronze, black and scarlet. Petrified, Illyrio had said. Turned to stone centuries ago, nothing more than pretty decorations now.
But Jason had seen impossible things in his old world. He'd died and come back. He'd fought alongside gods and monsters. He'd fallen through a hole between realities and survived.
If he'd learned anything, it was that "impossible" was just a word people used when they weren't trying hard enough.
The black and scarlet egg seemed to pulse in the firelight, or maybe that was just his imagination. Jason stared at it, at the swirling patterns on its surface, at the promise of something ancient and terrible sleeping inside stone.
*Dragons,* he thought. *The Targaryens had dragons once. Rode them, commanded them, conquered kingdoms with them. And then they died out. Everyone says they're gone forever, that magic left the world when the last dragon died.*
*But I'm from a world that shouldn't exist in this reality. I've got resurrection magic in my blood that shouldn't work. I killed a khal in single combat when I should have been dead twice over.*
*Maybe impossible is just waiting for the right moment.*
Daenerys stirred slightly, pressed closer to him, and Jason pushed the thoughts away. Dragons were a problem for another day. Right now, he had more immediate concerns: leading a khalasar, protecting his wife, surviving the journey to Vaes Dothrak, and figuring out what the hell he was supposed to do with an army of horse lords who expected him to be something he'd never been—a king.
Not a hero. Not a vigilante. Not even a weapon.
A *king*.
*I was Robin,* Jason thought. *I was the Red Hood. I was a pit fighter. And now I'm a khal. Sure. Why not. My life wasn't insane enough already.*
He closed his eyes, forced his breathing to slow, and let exhaustion finally pull him under. His last conscious thought was of Daenerys safe in his arms, and how he'd kill anyone who tried to take that safety away.
The green fire in his blood burned quietly, patiently, waiting.
---
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