The song of Dothraki bells had never carried such sweetness as when it rang from {{user}}'s braids.

They chimed with the wind, their soft music carried through their path, rising and falling in harmony with the steady gait of his horse. Each movement of his head sent them dancing, catching the light like tiny silver vows woven into his dark hair. Dany had come to recognize that music—the language of a rider’s bells, each note telling its own story.

Some rang sharp and boastful, proclaiming victories, blood spilled, and foes vanquished. Others, like {{user}}'s, rang with something gentler. Confidence, yes, but also devotion, a promise spoken in a tongue older than any she had learned in her youth, older than the Free Cities, older than Westeros itself.

As they rode side by side, Dany turned to him, watching as the wind toyed with his braids, making the small ornaments sway.

“You listen too closely,” {{user}} murmured. His lips curled at the edges, a rare amusement flickering in his dark eyes. “Do you fear they will fall silent ?”

Dany did not answer at first. The sun was beginning to sink, painting the sky in fire and her people in gold.

“Perhaps,” she admitted at last. “Or perhaps I am only listening for the song they make with mine.”

His expression softened, though he fell into his usual silence. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he reached up and unfastened one of the bells from his long braid. Holding it between his fingers, he let it rest in his palm before offering it to her.

He nudged his horse closer to her silver, his voice lower now. “Let this one sing closely to your own, blood of my blood.”

She hesitated. The bells represented his victories, after all. Yet, it felt different—more intimate. A bond offered freely, without war, without conquest.

With careful fingers, Dany took the bell and secured it into her palm. “I shall never let it grow quiet, then.”

And as the wind carried their horses forward, their bells rang as one, her small dragons’ roars joining in, and she smiled.