Groans and whispers invade the comforting darkness. I try to ignore it, but it grows louder, invading even more.
My eyes flutter open, brows creasing as I search the dim room.
Only then do I see a figure on the other side of the bed. A scream almost passes my lips before I recall last night. It's Drogo.
I can see his chest heaving, one hand tangled in his hair, muscles tense as beads of sweat drip from his skin.
He is moaning and shifting in pain.
“My Lord?” I whisper, drawing closer.
“Stop,” he groans, hissing as if being hurt. “Stop it... It… hurts…”
Something shatters in my chest. My lips part in confusion. What should I do? I’ve had nightmares too, most of which I never remember. My mother would come close and coax me until I calmed.
Should I do the same to him?
