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Preview: Episode 5 - 1
A quiet, slightly cool yet warm breeze stirred the long, pale strands of hair as Bruce, sitting motionless on a rock, wearily brushed them from his face. The long locks brushed against his frail shoulders and smooth back. His entire body ached with fatigue, and it wasn’t just from the endless trudging beside these savages—that he could still endure. He tried to rub his temple, but his fingers once again brushed against that damned soft skin. As his fingertips touched his cheekbone, he abruptly jerked his hand away. His gaze was empty, his mind engulfed in furious thoughts. He was still shaking from what had happened last night, an ordeal that left him unable to sleep. He pressed his lips together tightly, struggling not to dwell on it, but the image kept resurfacing: the face of that massive barbarian, his hot breath on the back of his neck, his hands gripping this cursed frail body. Bruce clenched his fists in despair, barely holding back the urge to curse out loud. He felt disgusted, to his very core.
He lifted his gaze to the distant horizon, as if hoping that the empty plains and indifferent grasses swaying in the breeze might somehow erase this nightmare from his memory. “Damn it… damn it all, what the hell… how did I even end up here? Who came up with this twisted garbage?” Anger and bitterness welled up inside him, each memory of the night only fueling his rage. This body—fragile, soft, broken by the will of some wild brute. He felt not only humiliated, but utterly stripped of any power—power he’d once wielded with his fists, crushing anyone who dared cross him. But now… in this body?
Behind him, the clopping of hooves grew louder on the dry ground. Without turning, Bruce immediately sensed and practically felt the heavy gaze of Jorah Mormont, who hadn’t taken his watchful eyes off him. "Here we go again with this moron," he thought, taking a deep breath and slightly closing his eyes, but the weight of his new chest, the touch of his hair, and the resurfacing images of the night reminded him all too well of his current situation.
— My queen, are you… all right? — Jorah’s voice was low and gentle, as though he feared disturbing her peace, but Bruce didn’t bother to respond. “My queen, are you all right?” he mimicked in a nasal tone to himself, grimacing. This idiot had no clue what a catastrophe this was for him. What a nightmare every minute in this body had become.
Jorah Mormont—this damn “keeper” who seemed to never leave his side. He’d come here like a loyal dog, always ready to intervene, to obey orders, to gaze with lovestruck eyes. Bruce despised him for that syrupy loyalty and the sticky admiration with which he looked at his current form. Bruce could feel that Jorah was seeing not him, but an image—a vision of a “queen”—and it infuriated him even more.
But Jorah stood there, unmoving, as if waiting for something. Bruce forced himself to turn slowly toward Jorah, but there wasn’t a trace of warmth in his eyes. They held only the cold, angry glare of a trapped animal—sharp, hostile, filled with contempt. He rose from the rock, feeling the foolish garment brush against his skin with every step, a reminder of his new appearance. His chest swayed slightly as he turned sharply toward Jorah, and Bruce fought the urge to scream, suppressing his irritation.
— Did you need something, mutt? — he spat, feeling his old, threatening tone break through.
Jorah flinched, momentarily taken aback by the harsh reply. His face contorted with confusion, though since meeting “Daenerys,” her defiance had already become familiar to him and even, in a way, drew him to her. The word “mutt” struck his pride, but he quickly regained his composure, his gaze once again soft and submissive, like a faithful guard willing to forgive any insult for the sake of loyalty.
— I understand that the first night with the Khal might have been… difficult. But I want you to know that I’m always here for you. If you need support or simply someone to talk to—I’m here.
Bruce clenched his fists so tightly in rage that his nails dug into his palms as Jorah finished his "support," which only wounded his pride further. He couldn’t stand the pitying looks and the fake kindness. This “faithful knight” had no idea what Bruce was going through, had no clue what it felt like. He gritted his teeth, straining to keep from shouting. All of this was unbearable. They all saw him as Daenerys—a gentle queen, almost saintly, a defenseless girl in need of protection.
— If you… call me queen one more damn time, I’ll strangle you with my own hands, — Bruce hissed, staring at Jorah with such fury that the man instinctively stepped back. This ridiculous garment—light, made of sheer fabric—only heightened his helplessness in this frail body and made the threat laughable before this mountain of a man. But judging by Jorah’s tense expression, he took the threat seriously.
Jorah froze, his face etched with surprise and perhaps even fear. He now knew for sure that “his queen” had a sharp tongue and wasn’t one to mince words, but today, she was harsher than ever. The look she was giving him wasn’t that of a gentle, frightened woman but something entirely different. It was the gaze of a trapped beast, ready to strike at anyone who dared come too close.