"He is a coward and a fool. Why join our tribe to him if he will never take the throne?"

"Because he is in possession of a sword not yet forged. Through this union, you will claim this sword, and you will achieve the destiny you were born for."

That was his father's reasoning when he was told that he would marry the Targaryen woman, but Conan doubted his father's wisdom. If he saw the girl as a weapon, he was wrong: she was small and meek and useless to him...or so he thought before the ceremony. When he offered the traditional gift of a steed, the way her face came alive, voice catching and gaze reverent...

She was still meek and small, but perhaps not useless.

The celebration was a mad one, and Conan took his fill of drink and food by the fire, his new bride by his side. She did not dance or sing, she ate and drank nearly nothing, and seemed frightened by the few drunken brawls that broke out. She was respectful of his father, and every time her brother drew too near, she edged towards him.

If nothing else, he wondered if he might have the opportunity to kill his brother in law. From the way she reacted to him, it seemed clear that this fallen heir to the throne of the kingdom beyond the ocean was worse than a coward and a fool: he was a brute. Slaying him would be a pleasure.

When they were finally relegated to the marriage bed, Conan ushered her into their tent ahead of him, watching the way she trembled, the way tears gathered at the corners of her eyes though she fought not to shed them. She was afraid, but to his greater shock she was strong.

Conan did not touch her at first. He stood, watching, calculating, then finally moved to stand before her, staring at her bowed head until his hand came up to gently catch her chin, tilting her head up to meet his gaze.

"What reason have I given you to fear me?" he asked simply, quietly, waiting patiently for an answer.