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he sees her for the first time at khal drogo's manse.
the air is thick with sweet fruits and dothraki spices, viserys thinks for a moment that he might throw up from how it overwhelms him. a cup of rum stays clutched between his hands, golden metal turned warm from his skin — he won't drink any more of it, it's horrid and he imagines that it might be what horse piss tastes like. he stands here with a hand on his borrowed sword, eyes of ivy looking out with disdain on the people that surround him. dothraki men with their bronze-like skin, travellers from the summer isles who are as dark as the night sky, and neighbouring visitors from the other free cities — it's like a gathering of hooligans and thieves. viserys clutches the hilt of his blade; despite the magister's reassurance that he and his sister are safe under the khal's roof (not really a roof, they're out in an open courtyard, after all), he doesn't feel entirely safe with the large presence of sellswords in attendance.
and speaking of the magister, ilyrio is joyously chatting up a red priest, his cheeks are stained red and his breath is strong with that god-awful liquor — how in the seven hells can he stomach any of it?? just the smell of it could make viserys drunk, and he wonders within himself just how this revolting drink could be considered a part of any culture, even one of savages and horsefuckers. here in this courtyard of overgrown ivy vines, viserys targaryen wants nothing more than to take his army and leave, sails set in destination towards his throne. and yet it's here, as he stands with his hand resting on a borrowed sword and surrounded by hooligans, where he sees the sun, shining with a brilliance in a cold summer night.
the music is, at first, like a whisper beneath all the murmurs around him, hushed and, in a sense, hesitant to intrude on the chatters in languages foreign. then, as the words disappear and all other sounds die out, it builds strength slowly, steadily, until it's the only thing to be heard throughout the courtyard. and then she is there, and it's as if even the wind became still.
just as the music, she begins softly, as if moving too suddenly would break the tension that's built up. her body is making the smallest of movements, the revealing garments that she wears just barely shift about her waist, like curtains flowing with the desert breeze. to and fro, the sway of her figure is nearly hypnotising. her black hair falls in soft waves, moving with the same gentleness as she does with her body, and — lords! she's decked in gold! — there's a ring that dangles from her nose, bracelets that jingle from her wrists, and a centerpiece that falls from her forehead — he has not the slightest idea of what it is called, doesn't care very much for its name. all there is for him, is her, this girl of gold who's come to dance.
then her eyes find his, and the very earth shifts beneath his feet.
viserys is enraptured with the way in which her figure sways, her movements becoming a bit wider and her hips turning with greater intent, so much so that it becomes impossible for him to look away. a snake to the charmer's flute, she's pulling him into something like a deep trance, forcing all his attention to her until nothing else exists. until dothraki and freemen, ilyrio and khal drogo are but a distant noise, and she's all that's left to overpower his senses. there's a buzz that runs through his body, he's absolutely positive that it's not from the rum in his cup — this feeling, he can only assume that it's from her, it can only be her. this feeling, he thinks, it might have been the reason why icarus dared to fly so close to the sun. and this girl, this golden girl in golden lights, he believes that she is the sun that burned icarus' wings.
✤
she's a slave, born under the wicked hands of the masters in astapor. there, in a place where she knew not what freedom meant, she served and bled and served some more, because all she knew to do was to suffer. there was no honour in being born a slave, and no future beyond the chains of the masters. she grew up believing this way, and quickly learned that for people like her, hope didn't exist. you'll never rise to anything more than scum, and she believed it. when other slaves were whipped and screamed their throats raw, she believed those words. when little children no older than she cried bloody murder as they were mailed and crucified, she clutched tightly to those words. when she was defiled, bruised and torn apart, she held her lips shut tight and grabbed on to those words because what else was there to grab on to? a slave knows nothing but servitude and misery — what more than that was there to reach out for?
but fate has her jokes, and her humor is twisted. young girl of 15 years, born as a slave, is sold off to a group of traders who paid a hefty price for a valyrian slave. and this band of traders, they take her west to volantis, sell her to a whorehouse for a heavier price than for what she was bought. and here again, the slave girl hurts. she hurts, because she's been taken from one evil and thrown right into the jaws of another. here in this land where her language is lost, she can only lay spread for traveling men to use her body — an exotic thing to pay grand money for. young girl of 15 years, born as a slave, she's now a whore. she hurts all the same in a foreign land.
and fate has her jokes, and her humor is twisted. several moons pass, they become two years and she's 17. she begins to adjust, and hurts a little less. she learns the common tongue and makes friends among the other girls. she smiles with wandering men and entice them for a fine coin or some thousands. they all quickly fall at her feet, grimy hands leaving traces across her bosom and her thighs as they drown in the praises she gives them with her rolled r's and her hard l's. she raises her voice in drowning gasps and cries of "oh, gods, yes," tells them what they like to hear and wraps herself up in their admirations and oh, is this what it is like to matter? to feel wanted? to be desired? she enjoys it, and oh my, this might be the hope she never dared to taste—
and then there's blood, and blood is all over. screams and cries of women who are cut down, dragged out and raped by strange men who shout in a language she can't understand. visiting merchants and passing swordsmen are sliced wide open, entrails falling from their stomachs and blood pooling beneath their bodies. the building becomes a slaughterhouse. these monsters, they're called dothraki — many of her visitors have recounted horror stories of these horse-riding murderers that made her body shiver in fear — they've come to her little stronghold here in volantis, and death and fear follow them like a sandstorm in the desert.
they find her hiding beneath a turned table, drawn so closely to herself that she could disappear (she wishes that she could). they grab her without gentleness, throw her screaming body down to fall in the sand; she's defiled so viciously that she thinks she could die. as her body is filled up, she laments to the open sky, brown eyes staring past the stranger above her. she cries, screams, but she doesn't fight, because she remembers that she is nothing but a slave, and she should have known better than to hope for anything else.
and so young girl, born a slave, is stolen from a whorehouse in the broad of daylight, with no man brave enough to cut these strange men down.
on this night, they have her dance for a beggar king, decked her in gold and presented her to her audience. his eyes are of a violet that she's heard stories of in astapor, his hair something of the silver myths whispered among slaves in the late night. there's another, a young girl who stands by his side, and just like him, she is the very image of old valyria. absolutely ethereal, they're like the moonlight in a sea of golden fireshine, and on a night like this, the moon shines bright.
so she dances; turns her body as she had learned to do in that whorehouse torn down and washed in blood. tantalizing and seducing, she makes sure that this beggar king won't look away, dances only for him among this sea full of men. beneath the stillness of the wind, she unravels under his gaze and keeps him there, traps him with her hips, until she feels no other eyes upon her but his and yes, just like that — don't look away for even a second.
