Dany turned, concerned briefly by the look that crossed Jorah’s craggy face. But she still didn’t feel comfortable enough to ask him about it, about the locked up places that she felt in him, a balled up thread of grief and loneliness, though she had too much empathy not to lay her hand comfortingly on his arm. So she did.
With the anger drained out of her there was only the beginnings of embarrassment at having accosted a near complete stranger on the streets (how long before that ended up in some London tabloid, her scrunched up face plastered on the cheap print?) and a stubbornness against admitting to it.
“What’s that for?” she asked. The pen was hardly a butcher’s knife, but she she eyed just as warily, not certain that given the conversation she’d just finished it was a good thing this rockstar star had asked for it.
He took the pen from Jorah with a mumur of thanks and dug around in his pockets for any scrap of paper. The only thing he could find was a bent and twisted piece of white paper. Holding the pen in his mouth without a thought (oops), he untwisted it and smirked around the plastic, snorting to himself. It was the remains of that morning’s coffee trip: the standard white chocolate mocha, as big as they made it. “Fitting,” he mumbled, and spat the pen out into his hand. Maybe Jorah wouldn’t want it back…
“This, Tiny, is a very special instrument.” Drogo held it up, level with her eyes, looking very solemn behind it. “Used, I’ve heard, for writing.” Pause. ” It is known.” He finished with a wry smile, hoping she realised there was no harm intended behind his sass. Beside that, she looked a little spent, and was probably better left alone. No trailing after her like a lost little kid out of boredom for the afternoon, it seemed. London looked a little crazy on both of them if he were honest, so he’d decided to give her something of a peace offering.
He turned and pressed the paper against the wall of the building they’d stopped outside of, slowly and carefully printing out a phone number. Above it, he spelled out a simple, nondescript name: E m i. After howling for half his life at anyone (including his mother) using the shortened version of his realm name, it came in very handy as an alias. No one expected the very tall, very gruff looking musician when they read it.
“And this,” he said, holding the paper out to her, “is an out. If you feel the need to yell at me again, or hang out like a nomral person, you can find me.” There was a slight emphasis on the word normal. He was himself, and she was Daenerys Targaryen. That, he could understand.
It was not very pleasing for Jorah, that had to try his best for not make a face, to see his father’s pen in that man’s mouth, but he could do nothing at all. Maybe he should have warned him that he had to treat it like a son. It was, after all, the only thing he had from his father…
What came next really made his inexpresive face raise an eyebrow interrogatively. “Oh gods, my father’s pen…” he was just able to think all over again. What a pitty…
But the man was strangely nice, in his weird way, that way only rock stars and that kind of people were. He smiled at her commentary about the pen as he though that putting it into his mouth wasn’t the correct way to use such an important instrument.
Just as he had expected, Khal Drogo handed her the paper with his phone number written on it. Ah, so all the man wanted was to… erm… hang out with the young Ms. Targaryen. Strange that he still wanted to be yelled by her. She could actually have made Jorah show some king of emotion with that voice… But who wouldn’t want to go out with someone of her beauty? After all, it was quite understandable.
Some part of him was a little disappointed that she’d given up so easy. It was hard for him to himself in her - or anyone’s - place. Most people weren’t so physically large, outspoken, or privy to having their opinions heard and followed. He’d taken to this sort of leadership naturally, and while he was stubborn about arguing and getting his way, he rather liked the good argument. Now she’d wilted, and was turning to go away. It wasn’t the cheery sort of ‘agree to disagree’ he’d imagined, and thoughts of killing the rest of the afternoon with her (and Ser Shadow) were slowly drifting away.
“I will,” he said, more flippant than he’d intended. His mouth quirked to the side, staring at her profile. “If it makes you feel any better, there’re about five other people angry at me right now.” He simply had a yellable-at face. Not that it didn’t mean the others weren’t wrong. They were.
He took a step towards her then stopped, eyeing Jorah warily. “Got a pen, man?”
Maybe it was that he had just been listening to everything, but not actually hearing what they were saying, but the truth was that Jorah stared at him for a moment before he realized Khal Drogo was talking to him. How stupid, of course he was refering to him! Since when had he become like that? He would not get far as a bodyguard by acting like that. He moved slowly to reach the black pen he had in the inside of his long-sleeved coat, a pen his father had given him when he was still considered like another member of the family… and not a criminal.
Again thinking about that? He had to push himself to focus in the pen he had to give to the man and not in his thoughs about his own disgrace. Enough of that… He had to forget about the past, and live for the future.
“Here you are…” he just said as he offered him the pen, waiting for him to reach take it.
He went very still when she shrank back, brows immediately flat. She continued to rant and throw a fit (her teeth really were very white!), all while he watched with a sort of grim curiosity. Their last meeting had been random and fleeting, but he was sure he didn’t remember her like this. He’d touched her last time, moved her around. There hadn’t been that reaction. There must be something in the water here. Not twitchy or over dramatic. His hand went away slowly, both of them digging into the pockets of his jacket as he rocked on his heels with a sigh.
“This may surprise you,” he started, expression bland and bored. “But people ask for my opinion, so I give it. They’re like assholes, everyone has one.” Shrug. “Mine just happens to cast a wide net.” Khal Drogo was big, thick, and sturdy. He’d gotten that way through a terrible amount of exercise and the help of genes. A Khal does not run to or from anyone, he almost said, unless there’s food involved.
“So take a breath, Tiny, and give me and this dude’s ears a rest.” He made a show of looking put-upon, huffing a sigh that moved the hair hanging over his forehead. “Then decide if you’re yelling at me because you’re angry, or if you really don’t have anyone else to yell at.” He hadn’t raised his voice at her, hadn’t (intentionally) raised a hand, or done anything besides stand. Really, he thought the disguise in California would have been more of a cause for hysterics.
No, Dany thought, no. It wasn’t fair, that he got to strip her bare so quickly. Did she have anyone else to yell at? No, of course not. No one who would listen anyway. Poor little rich girl, an old, tired insult that always rubbed her raw. But she was angry, at the whole world maybe, and he was part of it—so she was angry at him too.
Well. Not any more. Now she was just tired. Suddenly, and completely. No one asked for her opinions, mostly, but she was certain that if someone did she’d try her best not to hurt anyone with them.
She didn’t bother arguing about it, and now she was acutely aware of Jorah looking at her back and she didn’t want to but she wondered if his thoughts weren’t aligned with Khal Drogo’s.
Neither defeat nor isolation where knew to her, but that didn’t they didn’t sit bitter on her lips.
She sucked in one quick, hard breath and forced it out just as harshly through her lips. “Breath taken,” she announced. And, quieter, turning on her heel, blonde hair cascading over her hair and obscuring her view of Jorah, said, “Just forget it.” World: 1, Dany: 0.
Story of her life.
Jorah’s eyebrows raised, almost imperceptibly at Khal Drogo’s words. If he had been the young Targaryen woman that would just have increased his anger… But clearly, she was made of something that he was. She took a deep breath and seemed to relax. Just a bit… But maybe that helped to redirect the conversation. After all, they had already met. They were acquitances, not enemies… Words were words, and the wind erased them. At least, that was what he had thought all those years after that Lynesse left him, with all her love words and all her promises.
But Daenerys Targaryen still did not seem as he should after breathing deeply as she did and Jorah could see it somehow. He thought about saying something to her… But he would just sound like a father trying to cheer his daughter. How humiliating for her. How shameful for him.
Remaining silent and staring at everything was possibly the best option for a prudent man like him.
“Am I supposed to guess you’re already into politics then if you’re already putting words in my mouth? Chill.” His brows went flat, eyes narrow with unamusement. This was an over-reaction if he’d ever seen one. What was so offensive about suggesting that the running Targaryen put a muzzle on the spewing-detrimental-shit Targaryen? He looked between Dany and her shadow again, then snorted. He didn’t have anything else to do for the rest of the day presumably, and the universe had dropped an angry, small blonde in his path for a reason. Entertainment, flirting, trading teeth whitening tips. Whatever’s clever, his brain supplied.
“I didn’t say you were, Tiny.” But you’re making a great bid for the title. “So, are you? Is he,” he nodded to Jorah, “there for your protection or mine?”
Before she could answer, he held up a hand. “Wait, no, don’t answer that. Let me bother trying to find out for myself.”
She shrunk back when his hand (big, why hadn’t she realized how big) came up, without thinking, and instant, imbedded reaction. One that she hated, and would have done anything to stop.
But she rallied quickly. Or told herself she rallied quickly. Being cowed by Viserys was one thing. She’d grown up thinking that was all she was really good for, being the a plaything for her brother to pick up and toss aside as he pleased.
“Go then,” she invited. “Figure it out. And when you’re all done with that you can go running right back to the press to drag me through the muck like you did with the rest of my family.”
Someone might have classified this as a tab bit overdramatic and that someone might have been right but that someone would have also had to deal with a blonde handful because—well, it was her family and if someone wasn’t going to stick their neck out for them, who would? And. And she had thought he might have liked her. And it stung to know that if he thought that of her family, then he couldn’t think very highly of her.
Overdramatic… That was just the word that was going through Jorah’s mind as he tried to remain still as a statue, his eyes still examining Mr. Meyers’ face. But somehow he couldn’t help but sympathizing with the man, as well as he couldn’t help feeling admiration for the young Ms. Targaryen and her… mmh, courage. Yes, maybe that was the word he was trying to find. Not everybody would be able to talk like she was to someone like Khal Drogo.
But was feeling quite out of the conversation, just like like if he was not needed there. A ridiculous thread for Mr. Meyers and maybe a disturbing presence for the young Targaryen woman.
Maybe he should step back. Maybe he should ask her if he should leave them alone, but he did not dare to. He had been told to be her shadow…
And that he would be.
I can’t believe you’d say that. You don’t even know us.
A beat passed before the dawning realisation set in. Now, she recognised him as he’d recognised her. He was fairly sure he hadn’t in California and had thoroughly enjoyed that tiny piece of anonimity, just as he was (now) sure he had, too. So, yes. Now would be an appropriate time to feel sheepish.
He still didn’t, instead grinning to the caliber of shit-eating and letting out a soft laugh at the bizarreness of the situation. (Was he the only one who found it funny? Maybe? Well, that was nothing new…) “So you’re not sane, is what you’re saying?” His tongue poked at an eyetooth as he considered himself. Previously, Tiny had just been what the name implied - a tiny blonde. Now she was a Targaryen, and he felt mildly antagonistic.
“Or maybe it’s more telling that instead of yelling at me for saying it first, you didn’t tell me I was wrong.” He looked to the man looming behind her and gave him an open-palmed shrug. He meant her no harm outside of her pride and ego, but his look clearly said ‘I cannot be held accountable if she attempts to ascend me like an angry spider monkey.’
Oh no, she was not going there, and her own misgivings about her family’s status as capable human beings. It was a precarious opinion as it was. Half the time she wasn’t sure if Viserys was ever gonna go off the deep end, and she didn’t know Rhaegar enough to say there wasn’t some lenient insanity chewing at his brain until finally the dam broke and he was killing off British politicians.
“I wouldn’t bother wasting my breath on someone who had already made up their mind without even bothering to find out if there was any truth to it.” She punctured her words with a disgusted sigh and an hand slice through the air. “You think my whole family’s crazy, batshit deep-end stuff.You think I’m crazy.” And to think she’d thought she’d done a decent job at the coffee shop, flirting with him—obviously she hadn’t left much of an impression.
Jorah’s presence finally cut through the anger-red coating her vision, and suddenly a niggling little worry entered her mind. What if he bodyguard thought this man ment a threat. She didn’t know what he was capable of (exactly) but Viserys thought him capable, but as made as she was she didn’t want either man hurt on her account.
Quickly, she spun. “He’s fine,” she pointed out. “He’s just a jerk.”
The look and the shrug the man gave him nearly made Jorah smile. Now he was sure he meant no harm to the young Ms. Targaryen, and Jorah relaxed a bit on the inside and focused in looking just as serious as he was capable of, just like he always did…
But Daenerys voice made him stare down at her.
“He is fine. He’s just a jerk.”
This time he had to try very hard not to let out a chuckle. Of course, Khal Drogo was no ordinray man, for what he had heard, and neither it was the young Targaryen woman.
He continued to wonder how could they have possibly met as he gave Daenerys a nodd of his head that was meant to denote obedience. But he was sure it will not take many time until he knew, seeing how the conversation was developing.
“As you say, Ms. Targaryen”
She may have not been afraid of Drogo, but he wondered if he needed to be afraid of her. She was small, thin-limbed and bird boned, and yet came at him with more ferocity than a rottweiler. But she does have very white teeth. He didn’t step back, but he did give her a strange, puzzled look. Why was everyone getting so offended with him today?! He hadn’t even done anything to her besides talk about vegetables a continent away—
The bodyguard’s murmur took a moment to process. Ms. Targaryen.
Drogo’s head tilted, alarmed. Was she really? He took a step closer, examining her this way and that, until it finally fell into place. The other place he’d seen her was television. Daenerys Targaryen, sister to Rhaeger and Viserys, the latter of which he’d suggested could benefit from a leash and collar.
Should he feel sheepish? He could only bring himself to smirk instead. His eyes flicked to the shadow that strayed behind her, then back to her. “I had no idea you were a Targaryen, Tiny. You look so sane.”
She gritted her teeth, mostly because she’d doubted her own sanity on a number of occasions.
“I’m supposed to believe that?” she demanded. She heard Jorah’s murmured concerned, and largely ignored it. For the first time in her life, she had a target and she was not relinquishing it, no matter the censure of her bodyguard.
A little niggle of worry entered her mind. Jorah made her feel safe, but against someone like this walking giant, who knew who’d win? No. Actually, she had a fairly decent idea who and it wasn’t her bodyguard.
“I can’t believe you’d say that.” Well, actually she could. She said it to herself enough times, but privately. To hear someone else take potshots at her family. Whatever she thought of them internally, she had enough loyalty to always show a united front. “You don’t even know us.”
If felt too much like a petulant child to stomp her foot, so she instead made a broad sweeping motion to emphasis her point.
What could Jorah do but remain still as the both of them spoke? He felt like he was missing part of the information, there was something he couldn’t understand about their conversation, something that probably just the both of them knew…
He took his time to examine the other man, though he had probably done so some time ago: yes, it wasn’t that kind who looks weak or easy to beat… Joarh calculated his possibilities in a face-to-face confrontation. Not many, for sure… Maybe he had overestimated himself…
But, of course, Daenerys Targaryen seemed to control the situation quite well. The truth was that he had never seen her like that. Of course, he had met her not many time ago… But he still was impressed. He had believed she was a weak girl, a girl an older brother would like to protect… But she really happened to be a strong woman.
He tried not to think about how much that made him recall Lynesse and focused back in the conversation. That was his job. See. Watch. And remain silent.
There were only so many hours in the day that Khal Drogo could spend with his bandmates. He hadn’t quite been lying when he’d spoken to Q, mentioning that there’d be squabbles and spats before they managed to form a cohesive unite. Something he’d said not an hour earlier had made the entire room clear in a huff (hardly all that offensive, he’d thought), leaving him to his own devices for what he assumed was the rest of the day. Shrugging on a light coat, he’d ambled out of the studio and taken to the streets of London proper.
A different part of the world than home meant certain freedoms, at least. The Bloodriders still enjoyed fame in Britain, but there was less of a chance of being recognised. He went without sunglasses or scarf, pleased with the feeling of anonymity the streets presented. He could do anything he wanted, go anywhere he thought of—
And yet, he couldn’t think of a thing do to but wander.
He turned another street corner aimlessly, pushing up his jacket sleeves for something to do as he stared in the windows of shops. Already, the boredom was weighing on him. He thought briefly about calling everyone and shouting them back into the studio, but a flash of white out of the corner of his eye distracted him. His head turned, spying a woman with severely white-blonde hair peering into a window not ten feet from him.
Giant bleach budget, he thought, then paused. He’d seen it somewhere before. He edged a few feet closer nonchalantly (as nonchalantly as someone his size could) and watched her reflection in the window carefully. Yes, he had seen her before. A name fluttered around in his brain, blinking in and out before he could remember it. He’d seen her in more than one place, he realised, but he could only nail down one of them. Coffee. Promises of the beach and vegetable talk.
“Tiny?” he blurted suddenly, entirely sure that wasn’t her name, but very sure it’s what he’d called her.
There was only one person in the whole of Dany’s acquaintance that had called her tiny and there was no possible way—
Except there was and as she pushed away from the window display (there because for the simple fact of lacking anything better to do, except hole up in her house and avoid her family).
He looked less like a snowman who’d taken the wrong turn and more like—more like something entirely dangerous. Without all the camouflage, the scarf and the sunglasses, he looked… handsome, but the way a wolf looked handsome, wild and fierce.
“Oh my God,” she said, because her brain was rapid-firing information, synapses. It came out as an, “You.” Her tone suggested a less than warm reception, her you being synonymous with person whom I greatly dislike or possible that asshole who insulted nearly every member of a family in a highly rated newspaper.
Thicker was the blood, she supposed, and hers was running hot. She had her doubts about Rhaegar, and certainly about Viserys and her whole family might have expressed a desire to leash and/or muzzle Viserys on more than one occasion but—he was her brother. And with his interview coming right on the heels of the disastrous Tyrell one. Well Viserys was an easy mark and everyone knew that, but he was her family, and most days her only family.
A man like him, easily a foot taller than her and company power and confidence with every broad motion of his body, should have her fleeing like a bat out of hell, shrinking back like the timid mouse she was sometimes accused of being. But she wasn’t. She didn’t know why. He didn’t scare her.
It might have been Mr. Mormont, standing a discreet couple of feet behind her (she had invited him in closer, but he’d insisted on the business-like distance) but his presence and promise of security never even entered mind.
She went from zero to sixty in three seconds. Dany got mad, and let it crest through her, for the first time in her life.
Jorah stopped a few feet behind his client staring at the scene it was happening before his eyes, still, no emotion being showed on his face, that was the same it always was, undecipherable and serious. But inside, he was burning with the will of knowledge. Who had he seen this man before…? Because he was sure he had seen him… A look like that was not easy to forget. And what did he have to do with Ms. Targaryen…? He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from saying anything or asking any questions. Unexpected meetings in the street like that one where what made a bodyguard’s job difficult… or possibly complicated.
But the tone of her voice suggested that, whoever he was - Jorah wasn’t capable to remember where he had seen that man in - the young Ms. Targaryen wasn’t happy to see him. And there, it was where he had something to do. By just looking at the man he could tell it wouldn’t be easy to kick him out of Daenerys way, but he was sure if he had to do it, he would be capable of accomplishing it. But not yet. Just if she asked him to do so, or if the man got… somehow violent...
The man! Of course he knew who he was. Everything came to his head crystal clear, just like water. Khal Drogo… He had heard a lot about him. He had even been hired as a security guard in one of his band’s concerts… It was that kind of music Jorah couldn’t stand. His eyebrows furrowed slightly.
He stepped forward, towards Daenerys and Drogo.
“Ms. Targaryen…” he murmured, in a voice that could only suggest his concern.