by Irina Garbo
A girl, motivated by her love for Viserys Targaryen, is set to bring him the dragon eggs.
Clad in all black, the wind playing with the golden beams of his hair, he stands before me - Viserys Targaryen, the fairest prince in all Seven Kingdoms, and I feel the gods are too gracious to me today, for the sun himself has called my name and is now casting his light upon me.
He’s more beautiful than his sister Daenerys, he clearly is, and I don’t say that because I do not value a woman’s beauty. The alabaster beauty that the Targaryen siblings possess is rare, exquisite, seldom found in women, but in men – almost never. It makes him stand out in a crowd of thousands of faces, but now, as he appears alone in front of my eyes, it outshines the sun.
“You have called for me, Your Grace,” I utter, bewildered. Has a title ever become so well its prince? For he’ all grace and majesty. If Phoebus1 ever took a human form to walk the Earth, that would be his.
The smile of content on his lips makes me realise that I would trade the world for as few as half of that smile. “I have.” He approaches me closer and traps my face between his hands, his eyes stare at me intensely. “Tell me, my dear. What would you do for your king?” he asks, softly yet demandingly.
The look in his eyes makes me want to take my heart out of my chest and serve him on a silver dish to do with it what he pleases. I swallow tensely, lowering my eyes away from his piercing gaze, and bury myself in the pit on his chin. “I would give you the world, Your Grace, if only I were to have it.”
Pleased with the intention, yet entertained by its futility, he chuckles. “Leave the world to the great ones,” he says, clearly meaning himself as I wonder exactly how I can be of use to him. ”But you do know what will make me happy, don’t you?” he asks and pats my cheek, this look in his eyes again. Oh good gods, are my assumptions correct? Is this truly what he needs? A tad of warmness and…love? All these years of trying to pave his way back home have petrified him, but I can sense the young, fiery dragon waiting inside him for the right opportunity to emerge from its shell.
“I think I know, Your Grace,” I say.
His neck is restricted by stiff, restrictive collar. I lower the fence, exposing it in all its glory. Ah, I could spend an eternity confined to this ivory tower, exploring its every part in search for the surest way to the top. It’s a long way, but I don’t want it to end. I seem to find the right path as I measure the way to my destination in soft, sweet kisses. My lips linger on his chin, the walls of my mouth delight in its carved finesse. Oh Viserys Targaryen, you marvellous, marvellous thing! My heart, my body, my all existence cries with joy, while the mind tries blatantly to spoil the celebration. How dare you? He’s your king! King or not, at that point all I want is to take his face, or not just his face, but all of him into my hands and cherish him in every possible way the world avails and then, all satisfied and blissful, just wrap my arms around him and lull him to sleep upon my knees. I want my lap to be his home, one he hasn’t had for such a long time. I want to give him the world.
The ardour of my thoughts seems to work wonders on him as he softens and warms up under my touch. His inner dragon seems to come to life again. His marble cheeks turn red, his nostrils breathe life upon me. As his finger strokes my chin, the gates of his lips open up in a soft groan, ready to face my insolent attack on his solemn sanctuary. I shiver in anticipation: in a moment I am there, drinking into oblivion the blissful nectar off his lips. The Dragon yet lives in him, I triumph, and I have the power to bring it back to life, and just then his lips shut down before me in a blink of an eye. I exhale in despair.
“Not that,” he cuts short and constricts his lips into a proud, stiff line. His chin glares at me with conceit. Once again he turns into the cold monument of himself: the one I keep marvelling at, the one I have not yet abandoned the hope to revive. “The eggs,” he utters. His voice soft at first, becomes louder with every word. “It’s the eggs that I want. They can buy me the world. They can make me a king!”
The bloody eggs, who on Earth even thought of them? He must notice my confusion, as he explains me the details. “The Dragon eggs my sister got from Illyrio Mopatis, as a wedding present.” As if I didn’t know exactly what eggs he must have meant. “I’ll make a fortune selling them.”
“You want me to bring you the eggs, Your Grace?” I ask. Were it my will, I would bring you all the eggs in the world, Viserys Targaryen, but these? How on Earth do I do that?
“Yes, you. You can go unnoticed into the tent where they lie. I can’t.” He’s right. He can’t go unnoticed. He is ever so visible with this golden nimbus of hair, pride clearing the path before him and honour hobbling closely behind.
“How many?” I squeeze out of myself. “How many eggs do you want me to bring?”
His eyes light up at my interest and sparks of excitement fall out of them as he’s walking back and forth, doing the calculations. “Let’s see, there are three in total. And each one is as heavy as hell. If you bring me one, you’ve got half the work done and I can buy me a ship. If you manage to bring two, it would be enough to buy me an army.”
“What about the third one?” I ask. He lingers before answering. His lips pout unsurely as he passes his hand on his forehead. I can tell there are a great deal of thoughts running underneath these golden locks. “The third egg. It would buy me an army even greater than this…” he says under his breath, more to himself than to me, but I catch a faint glimpse of longing in his voice that ignites me. He makes the world seem small. What’s one more egg, after all?
“Don’t you want it? The third egg?” I ask and see in his eyes that he does, badly. He craves for it with his whole being. He wants them all in his pocket and more so do I. This third egg, it would mean the world and I am determined to bring it to him.
“Leave it, it’s too heavy,” he says then with all the appearance of confidence on his face, his proud chin soars up into the sky. Does he seem to doubt my abilities? I am unstoppable now. “Bring me the two and by that your work will be done.” I nod in agreement, whilst I’ve already made up my mind. I shall bring them all to him whatever it takes.
“Tonight then,” he sums up after we discuss the details of my quest.
“Tonight,” I approve. My skin inflames as he places a little soft kiss on my forehead, the same kind he used to give to Daenerys whenever he needed something from her. How I used to envy her at those moments! But no more envy now. It’s within reach now, he is within reach, if only I carry out the task.
“And hey, be careful!” he warns me, worrying probably about the eggs, but I apply his concern to myself, cast a final look at his beautiful face and run away, flattered and inspired. Never in my life have I been so motivated, not for myself in any case, but for him I feel I’ll set the world on fire, let alone the dragon eggs.
At night, I reach the tent and, fulfilling his prophecy, go inside unnoticed. I kneel before the chest and open the lid. Here they are, the holy vessels of fortune, the dark ministers of my king’s fate. The dragon eggs for my dragon. I gently pass my hand on them. Big, dark and bumpy, they are rather dreadful in my eyes, but at this moment they are to me the most precious things on the globe, for they’ll make him king; they’ll give him the world; they’ll wake the dragon.
I waste no time and load the eggs one by one into my lap and fold the skirt around them. They are heavy, bloody hell! He’s right again. But I can manage, I can bear them for my dragon.
All of a sudden I hear steps outside, approaching the tent. Viserys, my king? Has he came to check upon my advancement? But no, why would he? He entrusted the matter entirely into my hands; he relies on me in all respects. His head must now rest on softest of pillows, his golden hair scattered all over it, as he anticipates my return with the spoil. The steps get louder, they’re here now. I freeze in my place, with the eggs glued to my lap, prepared to resist whoever is there.
“You can’t have them, I am afraid” I hear behind my back, a voice so feeble, so languid that I recognize it at spot. Terror gives its place to serenity, serenity – to disregard. The ever subservient Ser Jorah. What other man would ever sound so unauthoritative? I saw him once kiss the footsteps of Daenerys on the sand. But he won’t do anything about it; he won’t fight for his goals. I will. “Drop the eggs,” he says softly to me, his weapon tickling my back. I turn around and encounter his face, as bland as his voice; his whole appearance, from head to toe, resembles the sand that under our feet.
“You are afraid, Ser Jorah. I am not. I am going to take those to the true king and you are going to let me pass. Drop the weapon and let me go my way, or else your Khaleesi will have eggnog for breakfast.” I say, amazed by the intensity of my own voice. These eggs are really something. Is there a dragon awakened in me?
He lowers his weapon and shakes his head in disapproval. “They’re not what they seem,” he says then, “They won’t break. There are dragons inside them, you know. Real ones.” I thank you for an insight, pathetic man. That’s exactly why they’re worth millions. I utter no reply as he warns me, as monotonously as ever: “Don’t do it, child...”
“Or what? I will awake the dragon?” I laugh heartily in his face. But of course I will…I already sense its coming back to life. My chin soars high, as does my pride of my achievement.
”You will not. I assure you.” Somehow he sounds a tad more resolute. If only his words weren’t complete rubbish, I may have even listened. He continues: “There’s no dragon in him. There’s nothing at all. Viserys Targaryen is a hollow man.”
Blood rushes onto my cheeks at his impudent words. Jorah Mormont soft-voiced Khaleesi foot-licker, what do you know of dragons? What do you know of him? You weren’t there to witness him thaw under my hand, were you? And you would never do what I did, were you at my place. You know nothing, Jorah Mormont, nothing at all. I give him a look of contempt and withdraw myself and the eggs from this man’s ignorance and he does nothing to stop me.
That’s it, I am free now; nothing prevents me to deliver the eggs to their rightful owner. Are you awake, my dragon? A sense of bliss spreads over my body as I imagine his face when I lay the world in his hands. He’ll be ecstatic when he gets a hold of these, all the three of them, and I will revel in his delight. Now that he has the fortune, we’ll make him a crown, a golden crown he’s always craved for. It will look so fit, adorning his golden head. Men will tremble to behold such majesty, the same way that I do now, at the mere thought of it. My limbs weaken and my vision blurs as the image of him, glittering as Phaeton2, emerges in my mind. Filled with veneration, I mentally fall on my knees before his shining apparition. But lo, what is it? Oh gods! Am I actually falling down?
The shining image dissolves before my eyes, turning into golden dust. Before I know, I lose my grip on the skirt and the eggs fall out of my lap. Ser Jorah was right, they do not break. I stumble upon one of them and fall down. It must be the third egg that has caused my fall. I should have never reached for it, after all. Oh, the heavy price of overreaching! My head hits the sand, soft yet painful blow. I have no strength to get up, as I lie prostrate on the ground. Sand is everywhere around me, or is it the golden dust of shattered ideals? It fills my hair; I swallow it; I breathe it; I choke on it3 .
Through the grains of sand that blur my sight I still can discern Ser Jorah coming towards me. He ties my hands behind my back. “I told you, they’re not what they seem.” These are his last words before he takes the eggs with him and goes away. I think I may have underestimated him. He won’t fight, but he is the one to have the last laugh, after all.
I suppose that’s the end of it. My mission has failed, my king. Is this how the mighty have fallen4 ? Is that how Icarus5 must have felt, when losing his wings , or the morning star6, while being cast out of heaven ? Is this how You will fall too? Oh I pray the gods they will spare you from such fate and believe with all my heart that at the end of the day, you shall have your golden crown.