FIC: A Necessary Accord
Feb. 11th, 2012 11:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
splixJUST under the wire!
Title: A Necessary Accord
Author: Alex
Pairing/Character(s): Khal Drogo/Eddard Stark
Fandom: A Game of Thrones
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 2200
Disclaimer: Characters belong to George R. R. Martin. No profit made nor harm intended.
Warning: Situation of somewhat dubious consent.
Summary: Ned Stark would never beg for his life, but a bargain is something else.
Note: Written as a birthday treat for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kimberlite. Happy birthday, sober yin!
Ned Stark had always suspected his horse of uncanny intelligence. It had fled a horde of screaming Dothraki, throwing Ned from the saddle. Chasing after him, Ned had fallen down an embankment and twisted his ankle. His luck had run out at last, and as the sun slipped below the horizon, fierce-eyed warriors surrounded him on all sides, their curved blades a whisper away from his leather-armored flesh. He had no time to even raise a protest before he was dragged to his feet and his sword taken from him. Rough hands pulled his arms behind his back and bound his wrists. Ned struggled but briefly; he was prudent enough to realize he was soundly outnumbered.
A young man stepped forward, a savage grin showing white teeth. He took Ned’s scabbard from one of the warriors and withdrew the gleaming longsword. “Handsome blade,” he said in the common tongue, barely understandable with the man’s guttural inflection.
“Thank you,” Ned replied tersely. “If you don’t let me go, you can expect half a hundred similar blades piercing your flesh. My companions are but a day behind me.”
The man’s grin widened. “Not much time, then.” He replaced the sword in its sheath, gripped the scabbard in both hands, and swung it. Ned had time to think longingly of Cat, his children, and his home before the heavy hilt crashed into his skull and drove him into darkness.
*
He awoke gradually to the sound of shrieks, ululations, and mocking laughter. His head ached abominably. Firelight dazzled his eyes, but he was dimly grateful for the warmth, for…he blinked several times and looked down, taking in the sight of his own bare skin. They had stripped him naked and tied him to a post, his arms drawn back painfully, his backside and thighs sore from the burr-ridden ground and the small stones that prodded his vulnerable flesh.
Ned set his teeth grimly. He had heard tales of Dothraki cruelty; they would, he knew, give him no quarter. Nor would he beg for it. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then opened them fully to confront his tormentors. Seeing him, the crowd around him shrieked louder, jeering and pelting him with clumps of dirt and bits of food. If only they would throw some water at him, Ned thought wryly. His thirst was unbearable, but he’d die before begging for anything. And like as not, death was hot on his heels.
A man sat in a chair not far away, and as he rose to his feet, Ned started at his height and breadth. He was larger than any Dothraki he had seen before, heavily muscled, his immodest clothing revealing a body that seemed to be carved from living stone, with a broad torso and long legs. The man’s visible flesh gleamed with oil and sweat, his beard was decorated with gold circlets and stone ornaments, clearly symbols of his wealth and power, and a black cosmetic ringed his eyes, giving him a look of purest ferocity. With a soft jingle of the gold bells in his long hair, he moved closer to Ned, prowling like a great cat, and stared down at him with amusement and contempt in his eyes.
The man was young, Ned saw, but that was no indication of compassion; these grassland horse-lords learned barbarism early. His heart trembled in his chest, but he met the young lord’s eyes steadily.
The warrior who’d struck him stepped forward, holding up a hand for silence. He spoke to the people for a moment in a tone of ringing triumph, and received a cheer. At last he turned to Ned. “Khal Drogo decrees you must die. If you have last words, speak them now.”
Ned ignored the speaker and stared up at the young lord, Khal Drogo. Ned had heard of him, the terror he wrought in battle, the forty thousand warriors under his command. Well, if he was to die, better at the hands of a ferocious chieftain than some more ignominious path. He glared at Drogo. “I only wish I could be here to watch my friends slit your throat.”
With a cough, the speaker translated, shooting Drogo nervous looks and stepping out of killing range. Drogo’s eyebrow lifted, and he tilted his head to one side, examining Ned with interest. Suddenly he laughed, barked something in his incomprehensible tongue, and turned, striding toward a large tent.
Unexpectedly, Ned’s bonds were cut and he was yanked to his feet. Tottering, he fought to stay upright as his hands were rebound before him and he was pulled away from the clearly disappointed crowd. Had he been spared, or was this merely the beginning of the killing festivities? Was the death to take place in a private arena too bloody even for the likes of the Dothraki?
Enlightenment did not come as he was shoved into the tent. He stood silently, straining to see in the dimness. In the muted light of a single hanging lamp, he caught glimpses of luxurious fabrics, of thick sleeping furs. And finally, he saw Khal Drogo in a corner of the tent, standing tall and brooding, one hand stroking his beard thoughtfully. Drogo murmured something to the speaker who had accompanied Ned.
“The Khal says you are the first northern man to defy him so. He says you must be a chief yourself,” the speaker said.
“In my fashion, I am.” Ned held his head high.
“The Khal says that you may beg for your life.”
“I will not beg. If honor demands that I die, then so be it, but I will not grovel for his pleasure.”
“Then you may bargain for it.”
Startled, Ned stole a look at Drogo, who had shifted deeper into the shadows. “I do not understand.”
“You may lie in the furs for the Khal. If he is pleased, he may let you live.”
Ned felt his face burn. “And if I refuse?”
The speaker shrugged. “You will die now.”
Ned thought a moment. It had been years since he’d lain with a man…with Robert, when they were both but lads, tumbling in bed or grassy fields, groping in quiet corners, clinging to each other on the nights before battles, seizing joy and life where they could. He’d forsaken that particular pleasure, but not the memory of it, and he was stunned and embarrassed to discover that his body remembered as well. Again he glanced surreptitiously at Drogo, who had moved closer, a scent of male animal heavy around him and unmistakable intent in his eyes.
Suppressing a shiver, Ned nodded once. Once more with a man. Cat would understand, and if he died, no one would be the wiser.
The warriors who had dragged Ned to the tent pulled him over to a pile of sleep-furs and pushed him down. Ned expected to be rolled to his belly, but instead they kept him on his back, binding the loose end of the rawhide strip round his wrists to a supporting pole of the tent. They glanced down at him indifferently, then left. The common-tongue speaker left with them, and Ned was alone, at the dubious mercy of Khal Drogo.
Bells tinkling softly, Drogo stepped forward and dropped to the sleep furs. He unfastened the thick belt at his waist and tossed it aside, then pulled off his brief kilt. He was naked and ready, and far larger than Robert had ever been at his most rampant. Ned bit his lip. Begging for gentle treatment was beside the point, but even that would be useless, as the translator was gone. He clenched his hands, but could not take his eyes from the young chieftain’s. They burned within their shadows of black cosmetic, lit with a strange illumination.
Drogo pushed Ned’s knees apart, spreading his legs wide. Ned bit his lip harder, tasting blood, and fought the urge to struggle and protest. He saw Drogo held something in his hand, and as he watched, the khal took the small object, a pot, and opened it, smearing a perfumed, oily substance over his hand. Hypnotized, Ned could only stare as Drogo moved the hand to his thick cock and stroked up and down until the organ glistened in the dim light. Doubtless the substance was for the chieftain’s pleasure and not to ease Ned’s pain, but he appreciated it nevertheless. The taking would hurt.
Ned gasped as Drogo’s slick hand curled around his own half-erect cock and began to pull with surprising gentleness. “If this is meant to be some sort of goodwill gesture, it’s –“ His voice caught on another gasp as Drogo leaned down and suckled on the head of his organ. “Ah!” It was too much. Even Cat rarely performed this service.
Instinctively, Ned tugged at his bonds and tried to bring his legs together, but Drogo’s hands grasped his thighs firmly, keeping them spread widely apart. He pulled back and nodded appreciatively at Ned’s erection. Then he shrugged as if to indicate that the preliminaries were over, and took his cock in his hand.
“No –“ Ned tried to say, but it was too late now, and besides…he didn’t want to stop. May all the gods above and below help him, but he didn’t want to stop; he wanted Drogo to pound himself inside like a hammer against an anvil. He wanted the rough taste of a male inside his mouth, and very soon that desire was satisfied as Drogo bent and forced his tongue into Ned’s mouth, plundering him, one hand back to stroking Ned’s cock. Ned writhed and moaned, as pliant as any whore. At last Drogo moved away, pushing Ned’s knees up toward his chest, and shoved himself inside.
Ned cried out in pain; even oiled, the chieftain’s cock was huge, and it had been too long since he’d last been fucked. He dared not struggle, but held his breath as Drogo plowed deeper until he could go no further. Drogo’s eyes met his; they still burned. Ned tightened his hands into fists and waited for the pain to subside. His own cock, he saw, was still erect, still excited by what Drogo was doing, oblivious to pain, alert only to its own pleasure.
Drogo saw and touched it, tentatively, then pulled back slightly, and pushed forward again, his eyes closing to glittering slits. He moved slowly, the force of his body shoving Ned backward, then dragging him forward. His hands grasped behind Ned’s knees, holding him firmly.
The pain was dissipating, leaving a dull ache and, amazingly, steadily mounting desire. Ned felt Drogo’s cock nudging the delicate spot inside him that triggered intense sensation; away from it, then back again, pushing and prodding. He began to move in time with Drogo’s thrusts, and found himself caught in waves of pleasure. Back and forth they moved, harder and harder, Drogo’s flesh slapping against his. He was glad he was tight, so tight it hurt, but the pain no longer mattered, death no longer mattered, his entire world was Khal Drogo’s body against his, and a white-hot flash that shuddered through his entire body like a star plummeting toward the waiting earth.
*
He awoke to find a cup to his lips. He drank eagerly; pure, cool water. A piece of fruit was put to his mouth. He chewed, savoring its sweetness. He felt a warm, wet cloth rubbing his body, cleaning him intimately. He heard the soft jingling of bells. The cup again. Wine this time, and with it a heavy sleep, a sweet, long oblivion.
*
“Lord Stark!”
Ned opened his eyes, squinting against the sunlight. “Thoros,” he murmured, and held up a hand to block the brilliance.
“We found your horse, my lord. Thought sure the Dothraki had caught you, but it seems not. They’ve broken camp and are moving southward – best we put distance between us and them. Are you hurt?”
Ned put a hand to his head. “No. No, I think not.”
“You seem dazed. Were you thrown?”
“Yes. I did hurt my ankle, but –“ He rotated it experimentally, and noticed with astonishment that his foot was solidly clad in its heavy boot. He was, in fact, fully dressed. “It seems fine now.” He allowed Thoros to help him to his feet.
“Well, we’d best be off. I think you should see a healer, my lord – just to be certain all’s well. You don’t seem yourself.”
Almost meekly, Ned nodded. Had he hit his head after all? The whole episode with the Dothraki, with Drogo, seemed a dream. He mounted his horse, docile now, and became aware of a strange soreness. He felt a flush creeping up his neck and staining his cheeks. As he carefully adjusted himself in the saddle, he heard a faint jingling. Looking down, he saw a tiny golden bell pinned to his sleeve.
It had been no dream.
Thoros peered at him in concern. “Is anything amiss, my lord?”
Ned shook his head and peered off toward the southern grasslands. “No, but I agree that we should leave. The Dothraki are rumored to be many in these parts, and I would hesitate to face them unprepared. They are not negotiators.” He prodded the horse’s sides, and the beast broke into a trot.
At least, he thought, not most of them.
End.
Title: A Necessary Accord
Author: Alex
Pairing/Character(s): Khal Drogo/Eddard Stark
Fandom: A Game of Thrones
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 2200
Disclaimer: Characters belong to George R. R. Martin. No profit made nor harm intended.
Warning: Situation of somewhat dubious consent.
Summary: Ned Stark would never beg for his life, but a bargain is something else.
Note: Written as a birthday treat for
kimberlite. Happy birthday, sober yin!Ned Stark had always suspected his horse of uncanny intelligence. It had fled a horde of screaming Dothraki, throwing Ned from the saddle. Chasing after him, Ned had fallen down an embankment and twisted his ankle. His luck had run out at last, and as the sun slipped below the horizon, fierce-eyed warriors surrounded him on all sides, their curved blades a whisper away from his leather-armored flesh. He had no time to even raise a protest before he was dragged to his feet and his sword taken from him. Rough hands pulled his arms behind his back and bound his wrists. Ned struggled but briefly; he was prudent enough to realize he was soundly outnumbered.
A young man stepped forward, a savage grin showing white teeth. He took Ned’s scabbard from one of the warriors and withdrew the gleaming longsword. “Handsome blade,” he said in the common tongue, barely understandable with the man’s guttural inflection.
“Thank you,” Ned replied tersely. “If you don’t let me go, you can expect half a hundred similar blades piercing your flesh. My companions are but a day behind me.”
The man’s grin widened. “Not much time, then.” He replaced the sword in its sheath, gripped the scabbard in both hands, and swung it. Ned had time to think longingly of Cat, his children, and his home before the heavy hilt crashed into his skull and drove him into darkness.
*
He awoke gradually to the sound of shrieks, ululations, and mocking laughter. His head ached abominably. Firelight dazzled his eyes, but he was dimly grateful for the warmth, for…he blinked several times and looked down, taking in the sight of his own bare skin. They had stripped him naked and tied him to a post, his arms drawn back painfully, his backside and thighs sore from the burr-ridden ground and the small stones that prodded his vulnerable flesh.
Ned set his teeth grimly. He had heard tales of Dothraki cruelty; they would, he knew, give him no quarter. Nor would he beg for it. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then opened them fully to confront his tormentors. Seeing him, the crowd around him shrieked louder, jeering and pelting him with clumps of dirt and bits of food. If only they would throw some water at him, Ned thought wryly. His thirst was unbearable, but he’d die before begging for anything. And like as not, death was hot on his heels.
A man sat in a chair not far away, and as he rose to his feet, Ned started at his height and breadth. He was larger than any Dothraki he had seen before, heavily muscled, his immodest clothing revealing a body that seemed to be carved from living stone, with a broad torso and long legs. The man’s visible flesh gleamed with oil and sweat, his beard was decorated with gold circlets and stone ornaments, clearly symbols of his wealth and power, and a black cosmetic ringed his eyes, giving him a look of purest ferocity. With a soft jingle of the gold bells in his long hair, he moved closer to Ned, prowling like a great cat, and stared down at him with amusement and contempt in his eyes.
The man was young, Ned saw, but that was no indication of compassion; these grassland horse-lords learned barbarism early. His heart trembled in his chest, but he met the young lord’s eyes steadily.
The warrior who’d struck him stepped forward, holding up a hand for silence. He spoke to the people for a moment in a tone of ringing triumph, and received a cheer. At last he turned to Ned. “Khal Drogo decrees you must die. If you have last words, speak them now.”
Ned ignored the speaker and stared up at the young lord, Khal Drogo. Ned had heard of him, the terror he wrought in battle, the forty thousand warriors under his command. Well, if he was to die, better at the hands of a ferocious chieftain than some more ignominious path. He glared at Drogo. “I only wish I could be here to watch my friends slit your throat.”
With a cough, the speaker translated, shooting Drogo nervous looks and stepping out of killing range. Drogo’s eyebrow lifted, and he tilted his head to one side, examining Ned with interest. Suddenly he laughed, barked something in his incomprehensible tongue, and turned, striding toward a large tent.
Unexpectedly, Ned’s bonds were cut and he was yanked to his feet. Tottering, he fought to stay upright as his hands were rebound before him and he was pulled away from the clearly disappointed crowd. Had he been spared, or was this merely the beginning of the killing festivities? Was the death to take place in a private arena too bloody even for the likes of the Dothraki?
Enlightenment did not come as he was shoved into the tent. He stood silently, straining to see in the dimness. In the muted light of a single hanging lamp, he caught glimpses of luxurious fabrics, of thick sleeping furs. And finally, he saw Khal Drogo in a corner of the tent, standing tall and brooding, one hand stroking his beard thoughtfully. Drogo murmured something to the speaker who had accompanied Ned.
“The Khal says you are the first northern man to defy him so. He says you must be a chief yourself,” the speaker said.
“In my fashion, I am.” Ned held his head high.
“The Khal says that you may beg for your life.”
“I will not beg. If honor demands that I die, then so be it, but I will not grovel for his pleasure.”
“Then you may bargain for it.”
Startled, Ned stole a look at Drogo, who had shifted deeper into the shadows. “I do not understand.”
“You may lie in the furs for the Khal. If he is pleased, he may let you live.”
Ned felt his face burn. “And if I refuse?”
The speaker shrugged. “You will die now.”
Ned thought a moment. It had been years since he’d lain with a man…with Robert, when they were both but lads, tumbling in bed or grassy fields, groping in quiet corners, clinging to each other on the nights before battles, seizing joy and life where they could. He’d forsaken that particular pleasure, but not the memory of it, and he was stunned and embarrassed to discover that his body remembered as well. Again he glanced surreptitiously at Drogo, who had moved closer, a scent of male animal heavy around him and unmistakable intent in his eyes.
Suppressing a shiver, Ned nodded once. Once more with a man. Cat would understand, and if he died, no one would be the wiser.
The warriors who had dragged Ned to the tent pulled him over to a pile of sleep-furs and pushed him down. Ned expected to be rolled to his belly, but instead they kept him on his back, binding the loose end of the rawhide strip round his wrists to a supporting pole of the tent. They glanced down at him indifferently, then left. The common-tongue speaker left with them, and Ned was alone, at the dubious mercy of Khal Drogo.
Bells tinkling softly, Drogo stepped forward and dropped to the sleep furs. He unfastened the thick belt at his waist and tossed it aside, then pulled off his brief kilt. He was naked and ready, and far larger than Robert had ever been at his most rampant. Ned bit his lip. Begging for gentle treatment was beside the point, but even that would be useless, as the translator was gone. He clenched his hands, but could not take his eyes from the young chieftain’s. They burned within their shadows of black cosmetic, lit with a strange illumination.
Drogo pushed Ned’s knees apart, spreading his legs wide. Ned bit his lip harder, tasting blood, and fought the urge to struggle and protest. He saw Drogo held something in his hand, and as he watched, the khal took the small object, a pot, and opened it, smearing a perfumed, oily substance over his hand. Hypnotized, Ned could only stare as Drogo moved the hand to his thick cock and stroked up and down until the organ glistened in the dim light. Doubtless the substance was for the chieftain’s pleasure and not to ease Ned’s pain, but he appreciated it nevertheless. The taking would hurt.
Ned gasped as Drogo’s slick hand curled around his own half-erect cock and began to pull with surprising gentleness. “If this is meant to be some sort of goodwill gesture, it’s –“ His voice caught on another gasp as Drogo leaned down and suckled on the head of his organ. “Ah!” It was too much. Even Cat rarely performed this service.
Instinctively, Ned tugged at his bonds and tried to bring his legs together, but Drogo’s hands grasped his thighs firmly, keeping them spread widely apart. He pulled back and nodded appreciatively at Ned’s erection. Then he shrugged as if to indicate that the preliminaries were over, and took his cock in his hand.
“No –“ Ned tried to say, but it was too late now, and besides…he didn’t want to stop. May all the gods above and below help him, but he didn’t want to stop; he wanted Drogo to pound himself inside like a hammer against an anvil. He wanted the rough taste of a male inside his mouth, and very soon that desire was satisfied as Drogo bent and forced his tongue into Ned’s mouth, plundering him, one hand back to stroking Ned’s cock. Ned writhed and moaned, as pliant as any whore. At last Drogo moved away, pushing Ned’s knees up toward his chest, and shoved himself inside.
Ned cried out in pain; even oiled, the chieftain’s cock was huge, and it had been too long since he’d last been fucked. He dared not struggle, but held his breath as Drogo plowed deeper until he could go no further. Drogo’s eyes met his; they still burned. Ned tightened his hands into fists and waited for the pain to subside. His own cock, he saw, was still erect, still excited by what Drogo was doing, oblivious to pain, alert only to its own pleasure.
Drogo saw and touched it, tentatively, then pulled back slightly, and pushed forward again, his eyes closing to glittering slits. He moved slowly, the force of his body shoving Ned backward, then dragging him forward. His hands grasped behind Ned’s knees, holding him firmly.
The pain was dissipating, leaving a dull ache and, amazingly, steadily mounting desire. Ned felt Drogo’s cock nudging the delicate spot inside him that triggered intense sensation; away from it, then back again, pushing and prodding. He began to move in time with Drogo’s thrusts, and found himself caught in waves of pleasure. Back and forth they moved, harder and harder, Drogo’s flesh slapping against his. He was glad he was tight, so tight it hurt, but the pain no longer mattered, death no longer mattered, his entire world was Khal Drogo’s body against his, and a white-hot flash that shuddered through his entire body like a star plummeting toward the waiting earth.
*
He awoke to find a cup to his lips. He drank eagerly; pure, cool water. A piece of fruit was put to his mouth. He chewed, savoring its sweetness. He felt a warm, wet cloth rubbing his body, cleaning him intimately. He heard the soft jingling of bells. The cup again. Wine this time, and with it a heavy sleep, a sweet, long oblivion.
*
“Lord Stark!”
Ned opened his eyes, squinting against the sunlight. “Thoros,” he murmured, and held up a hand to block the brilliance.
“We found your horse, my lord. Thought sure the Dothraki had caught you, but it seems not. They’ve broken camp and are moving southward – best we put distance between us and them. Are you hurt?”
Ned put a hand to his head. “No. No, I think not.”
“You seem dazed. Were you thrown?”
“Yes. I did hurt my ankle, but –“ He rotated it experimentally, and noticed with astonishment that his foot was solidly clad in its heavy boot. He was, in fact, fully dressed. “It seems fine now.” He allowed Thoros to help him to his feet.
“Well, we’d best be off. I think you should see a healer, my lord – just to be certain all’s well. You don’t seem yourself.”
Almost meekly, Ned nodded. Had he hit his head after all? The whole episode with the Dothraki, with Drogo, seemed a dream. He mounted his horse, docile now, and became aware of a strange soreness. He felt a flush creeping up his neck and staining his cheeks. As he carefully adjusted himself in the saddle, he heard a faint jingling. Looking down, he saw a tiny golden bell pinned to his sleeve.
It had been no dream.
Thoros peered at him in concern. “Is anything amiss, my lord?”
Ned shook his head and peered off toward the southern grasslands. “No, but I agree that we should leave. The Dothraki are rumored to be many in these parts, and I would hesitate to face them unprepared. They are not negotiators.” He prodded the horse’s sides, and the beast broke into a trot.
At least, he thought, not most of them.
End.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2012-02-12 07:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-12 07:14 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-12 07:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-12 07:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-12 09:18 am (UTC)Ned felt Drogo’s cock nudging the delicate spot inside him that triggered intense sensation; away from it, then back again, pushing and prodding. *fans herself, even with -17 C
A wonderful fic, pushing all my buttons. I have to confess, there are not many man I feel attracted to, but I very much like the Khal Drogo. (Even went as far as watching Conan).
no subject
Date: 2012-02-13 04:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-12 09:41 am (UTC)It worked very well. I loved Ned's courage and his combination of strength and vulnerability and the memories of past pleasures arousing his body. Also loved the touch of the tiny golden bell pinned to his sleeve. :D
no subject
Date: 2012-02-13 04:12 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-12 10:40 am (UTC)Haven’t watched GOT so far but am familiar with both characters via the books.
no subject
Date: 2012-02-13 04:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-12 10:54 am (UTC)Splendid choice.
And splendidly written... oh my goodness. Khal... yay.with Ned beneath him. by golly. YEA!!!
no subject
Date: 2012-02-13 04:15 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-12 11:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-13 04:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-12 11:44 am (UTC)*Nod* Yes, this is like a legend.
no subject
Date: 2012-02-13 04:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-12 12:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-13 04:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-12 01:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-13 04:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-12 02:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-13 04:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-12 05:26 pm (UTC)Later in the first season, after Dani learns how to handle him, Drogo does show he has some sense of humor, and perhaps an appreciation of the finer things; Ned certainly is one of those. "Beg for your life" - Ned would never Do that. Well, till he did, and look how that turned out. This had an edge, and at the same time a sensuality, since Ned was aroused by his memories of Robert and got off on the sex with Drogo.
"Cat would understand." Maybe, since he survived it, maybe not. My guess is that he would keep that encounter to himself. It's interesting, the thoughts you put in his mind, like it's his 'one last time' and how he was glad he was tight ^__^ and that he was as 'pliant as any whore'. In another life, Ned...
no subject
Date: 2012-02-13 04:36 am (UTC)I agree that Ned would keep the incident to himself. He's a man of very deep silences and has many secrets, I think. Thanks so much for the fantastic feedback! :)
no subject
Date: 2012-02-13 07:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-13 03:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-14 02:42 pm (UTC)I love how you show the two of them communicating perfectly well even without a translator. Drogo definitely loves a challenge, and Ned is as much one as any. I read most of this going very quiet 'eeeeee' like a broken down machine. My favourite part has to be the afterwards, with Ned being taken care of. And the bell! More 'eeeeeee'-ing.
Thank you for sharing!
no subject
Date: 2012-02-14 03:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-25 08:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-25 09:26 pm (UTC)