Who even needs that Iron Throne? - Preview: Episode 5 (Patreon)

This isn’t a full Episode 5, more like the ending of it, but I decided to post it anyway since this is all I’ve written so far, and I’m not sure if I’ll continue writing... =)

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All episodes in collection: https://www.patreon.com/collection/845016

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Preview: Episode 4

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.

— Forgive me… I only wanted to support you, — Jorah said quietly, lowering his eyes.

Clearly unsure of how to respond, he still tried to keep calm, as if he couldn’t quite believe this fury wasn’t just some temporary madness.

— Support? — Bruce scoffed, feeling a surge of authority. His angry face shifted for a moment, and he felt a fleeting echo of his old self. He took a step closer to Jorah, looking at him as though he were beneath his feet. — I don’t need your damn suppor—

He was cut off by a mocking voice behind him. One of the Dothraki warriors, perched on his horse, chuckled and threw a guttural phrase in his direction in their tongue. Bruce didn’t understand the words, but the tone made it clear: they were openly mocking him. The other Dothraki also laughed, their low, contemptuous laughter piercing the silence of the plains, washing over Bruce in a wave of humiliation.

For a moment, Bruce’s face froze in an expression of wild rage, an almost uncontrollable urge to tear each of them apart with his bare hands. But he knew he was powerless, his body weak, unfamiliar, alien—a stark reminder of how far he was now from his former strength. Even Jorah, standing beside him, sensed his helplessness, looking at him with a hint of pity.

— They think you’re weak, — Jorah observed softly, not with sarcasm, but as if contemplating aloud, oblivious to how deeply it stung Bruce.

Bruce felt his hands begin to tremble with anger. He clenched his jaw, wrestling with the helplessness, with the fury that was tearing him up from the inside. The Dothraki laughter grew louder, amplifying the waves of humiliation that crashed over him. At that moment, he felt his old self, his unshakable confidence, crumble completely, leaving him alone with his rage and impotence.

— Tell them to shut up, — Bruce growled, his voice quivering with barely restrained fury.

Jorah seemed to grasp the gravity of the request and turned to the Dothraki, raising his voice sharply in their language. They fell silent, but a few still had mocking glints in their eyes, as if this were just a temporary lull. They didn’t take their “Khalessi’s” threats seriously, seeing only a helpless, foreign creature, barely familiar with their language and customs.

Bruce glared at the Dothraki as if they were dim-witted animals, barely restraining the urge to spit at their feet. They were quiet now, but only because Jorah had ordered them, not out of any respect for him, Bruce. He slowly shifted his gaze to their indifferent faces, realizing that, despite the command, they continued to look down on him. Their sneering stares rekindled the sharp rage and helplessness within him, impossible to silence.

‘Think I’m weak? Think I’m nothing now? Screw all of you!’ he thought, gripping his rage tightly as he moved forward with the horde. Bruce walked among strangers, feeling isolated and powerless. Their stares, Jorah’s pity, those foreign hands that had seized his body… All of them now saw “the queen,” but they had no idea who stood within this body. ‘They don’t realize I’m the one who would’ve torn them apart piece by piece if I had my old body.’

He was trapped in this scenario, or this “canon,” as those morons had called it. Faces of those “experts” from the council flashed in his mind, their smug, seemingly all-knowing looks. “Stick to the canon,” “Don’t stray from the path,” they’d chanted like incantations, assuring him it would “fix everything.” He’d looked at them with disbelief back then, unable to accept that they’d truly leave him stuck in this new body, flung back so far in time and alone.

‘Canon. What the hell do you know about the path, about the canon? I hope you all rot in hell,’ he thought, scowling as he tried to push away the memories of what had happened that night. But the images washed over him one after another, making him feel small, weak.

‘If I’m still here… that means I’m doing everything right. Otherwise, I’d already be thrown out of here, and since that hasn’t happened…’ he thought, shuddering, feeling a stab of fear. Bruce drew a shaky breath, realizing it wouldn’t be so easy to shake off the fear that rose in waves. If he hadn’t been thrown back, it meant he still hadn’t broken the “canon,” that everything was going according to their plan. ‘I’m on the right path,’ he smirked bitterly to himself. ‘To what, I wonder? Even more humiliation? Even more…’

He caught the irritated glances around him and was overcome with the urge to rip off this mask and stop playing along. But as his hand trembled slightly, he felt a twist in his gut, as if reminding him that he had to play by some “script” he didn’t fully understand. He stifled a groan of despair but quickly steeled himself, knowing he’d have to see this through. If he was still here, it meant he was on the “right” path, and that was his only thread.

‘Well, if it hasn’t thrown me back, if I haven’t been sent back to that damn “save point,” then I’m… doing everything right,’ he repeated to himself, as if trying to convince himself. ‘And they… they’ll get what’s coming to them when I get back.’

A shadow of concern flickered in Jorah’s eyes, as if he could sense the fury simmering within his lady. But Bruce merely gave him an icy look and abruptly turned away. Inside him, a thought was growing—dark and clear, like a rumbling growl ready to break free. ‘When I get to them… then they’ll see. Canon… Right path…’

With each step, Bruce gathered his rage and cold resolve, mentally picturing those smug faces as they flashed through his mind’s eye.