You're a murderer, a killer. You know that now. You knew it the moment you produced that thick chord of rope from under your clothing and wrapped it around the handmaiden's neck. You knew it the moment her body stopped shuddering and quaking, the moment she fell limp in your arms. You knew it the moment you haphazardly shoved her body aside to make your escape.
You recalled the man who could change his face as other men change their clothes. You recalled the phrase he taught you. Valar Morghulis: all men must die. These words you muttered in her ear as the last of the gleam in her eyes faded away and her once strong body slumped towards the ground, giving in to death's beckons.
But you didn't do it out of malice. No; you'd begun to grow fond of the girl, as if she were a distant relative. Perhaps you did it out of envy; it was clear your khaleesi admired the handmaiden. Irri had never wronged you. Yes, she had seemed to distrust you at times, but after you left her lying lifeless on the ground, you suppose that she was justified in that. But it wasn't envy. You did not find yourself completely jealous of the girl; it was obvious Daenerys preferred you to her. You did it to protect yourself. You admit that it was not only cruel, but selfish. But, at the time, it had seemed like the only thing you could have done. She would have ruined everything, but it wouldn't have mattered anyway, because you ended up ruining things yourself.
As for the dragons, the merchant prince had come to you to propose an alliance. He had suggested that if you were to help him steal the dragons, you would become as rich as any queen. You did not want to agree, you had to. You would be dead, like the rest of them, had you not. The dragons would have had no one to care for them when the merchant prince stole them from their mother. Your plan had been to slink away in the depth of night and find your khaleesi, tell her what you had done, tell her where her dragons were, and help her recover them. You assumed she would be suspicious of you at first, so you'd planned to hurriedly explain why you had helped Xaro Xhoan Daxos.
But that plan had been foiled. It would simply never happen. Because you'd been a fool. Because you'd been naïve. Because Daenerys got to you first.
Of course she wouldn't let you explain. You should have known that. You were proud of her, really. You had always been proud of her. You still are. How could she ever trust you again? She had to be austere if she was to rule the Seven Kingdoms one day. Even when you had tried to explain, telling her that the merchant prince told you that she would never leave Qarth alive, you knew she wouldn't forgive you. You knew she couldn't forgive you. It was the strong, wise thing of her to do, this you knew. For this you were proud. You knew she was wrong, of course, but even if she had forgiven you, could she ever truly know that you had done it to save her and her three children?
You can't tell how many days have passed. You spend most of your time sleeping. When you're not sleeping, you're weeping. Xaro had died already, his body failing him when his usually full stomach was emptier than it had ever been. The stench of his flesh permeated throughout the vault. It stung your eyes, but it made no difference, for tears seemed perpetual to your eyelashes and cheeks.
All you think about is her. Not the parents you barely knew, nor the past lovers. Just the strikingly blonde khaleesi whose face you will never look upon again. She is why you had been happier than you had ever been before, even for the briefest of times. She is why you were a free woman. Yet she is why you cry. She is why you are dying in this black, fetid vault.
You know Ser Jorah had given her the key. She is the only one who can retrieve you. But she isn't coming. She will never come. And now here you sit, against the dark walls of a locked vault, a carcass your only companion, slowly wasting away.