Show-verse, a "missing scene" set around 1x02. Rated M for sexual content and references to prostitution, abortion, slavery, rape and death. Angsty and USTy (with a silver lining). Jorah happens to catch an exciting shadow play. Doreah/Daenerys T., Irri, Jorah M.
The Dothraki settled down for the night, putting up tents and building fires. Khalasar settled down, but it never slept, grunting, guffawing, snoring, mating, fussing and sobbing till dawn.
Jorah should have settled down, too, but he decided to take a walk first, a welcome change after the whole day of riding. His thoughts, though, were always preoccupied with pretty much the same, whether he was riding or walking.
Spying on a lizard for a hog. Some life. If only there could be a king he could serve without being disgusted, someone wise, strong, noble and kind! Dream on, Ser. He felt a sting on his neck and swatted some bloody midge these places were full of. The heat, Gods, that infernal heat, even after sunset… Jorah was not comfortable with walking around half-naked as the Dothraki, besides, his style of fighting required armor, which meant wearing an arming doublet, which meant sweat, lots of it, which meant particularly eager midges, and all this made his life completely unbearable. He missed snow like one misses their first love. Nights brought almost no relief, and the constant screeching of cicadas and crickets drove him insane.
He did not pay attention to where he was going, and all of a sudden he realized that his feet brought him to the Khaleesi's tent. It was lit brighter than the others, and faint shadows danced on its walls. He remembered how he once chanced upon it while the Khal was mating with his young wife. He could not stay and listen to the sobs of the poor thing and left as fast as he could. Drogo was twice her size. Poor thing.
This time both shadows he saw belonged to women. It must have been the Khaleesi and one of her handmaidens; judging by the way her hair was dressed, it was Doreah…
Jorah remembered how Viserys bragged to anyone who would care to listen that he bought Doreah specifically to instruct his sister in the art of making men happy, as he put it. He licked his lips and emphasized that the girl was worth her weight in gold: "The things she does with her mouth!" Jorah failed badly at faking a polite smile, as he was studying the boy's face and marveled at the fact that it was again literally begging for a punch. It always was.
It was wise for an informer to make friends with the Khaleesi's handmaidens. The first one, Irri, was a Dothraki, very suspicious of foreigners and a bit wild. She would not do. Doreah, on the other hand, was promising, and Jorah decided to gain her favour. A kind word now and again did the trick, and once they got to talking.
"Viserys Targaryen says he bought you to teach his sister how to make a man happy."
"So he did, my lord."
"You are so beautiful, and kind, and clever. Make her happy, too," said he, placing a few silver pieces in her hand, adding a trinket that was lying in his pocket for ages, he knew not why, humble bronze and carnelian, but fine craftsmanship. It had been long since he could afford giving rubies and sapphires. And yet Doreah's face at that moment was a joy to behold, all lit up, a widest smile on her lips, a dimple on her cheek… Ah, a woman, given something new and pretty!
Jorah did not blame her; women's life is short and sad, no matter how high they are born. Let them delight in a pair of earrings or a piece of silk. When they smile like that, taking your breath away – what does it matter? Take Doreah; in a pleasure house from an early age, now lucky enough (or was she?) to be bought for a princess, otherwise doomed, in five or ten years, to be starving in the streets or to bleed to death, trying to get rid of another bastard. He would have given her gold if he only had it.
And the sister of that pathetic imbecile he was spying on? A delicate flower, sold to a barbarian by her own brother, of all people, only to be crushed under the wheel of history made by wrinkled old men high in their magnificent castles. This time next year she may already be dead by childbirth – no maesters here, in the Dothraki sea, with their potions and elixirs – or captured, raped and sold as a slave, should Khal Drogo's luck abandon him. And what was she now but a slave? And Jorah's heart bled as he repeated: "Make her happy, too."
…The source of light inside the tent moved and now they could be seen more clearly: the Khaleesi sat on a pile of pillows and the other one seemed to be combing her hair. The trembling flame made their shadows tremble, too, but fair features of the Khaleesi's profile could be seen very well. She threw her head back and let her handmaiden's fingers run through her hair – before dressing it for the night, perhaps.
The scene was so peaceful, beautiful and poetic, that Jorah stood there, captivated, for quite some time. He was so entranced that he did not even pay attention to Irri who brushed his sleeve on her way to the Khaleesi's tent. She was carrying a heavy pail of water and glared when he did not give her way like she expected him to. She even gave him a little nudge when she passed him, yet, deep in thought, he never moved. Unbeknownst to him she looked him up and down and sneered before entering the tent.
So, the third shadow appeared now before him. The third shadow bowed low and leaned in to say something to the other two, bringing Doreah's head closer. All the three girls laughed out loud over something, even the Khaleesi. Doreah all but collapsed on the ground, but then sat up and with animated gestures said something that made the other two laugh out loud again. The Khaleesi seemed to shrug her shoulders, but Doreah grabbed both her hands, and it looked like she begged her for something. The Khaleesi shrugged once more, but then finally nodded and stood up, kicking away the pillows she was sitting on.
The source of light moved once more and now her shadow could be seen as clear as ever, down to stray strands of hair and laces on her clothing. Doreah came up to Khaleesi and… Gods, she began undressing her! His mouth slightly agape, his feet rooted in the dusty trodden grass, Jorah could not move. The Dothraki fashion was quite plain, and in a few moments the Khaleesi was completely naked. Doreah draped her hair over her shoulders and breasts, and then took a step back, tilting her head, to take a good look at the sight her mistress was. Doreah's lips were moving. What was she saying? "Oh, the beauty," sighed Jorah under his breath, the Spider, Viserys, the king's pardon and the sad state of his affairs clean forgotten.
Doreah had the Khaleesi raise her arms above her head and slowly turn around. Each fleeting moment was worth being painted, carved in stone or sung about. Her breasts, her perfect breasts, not yet in full bloom, but so irresistibly feminine, the delicate swell of her belly, the slender supple waist, and even – Gods! – the curls between her thighs when she turned sideways, all could be seen on the wall of the tent in luscious detail.
Suddenly very aware of his hands, Jorah tucked his thumbs behind his belt. By the sight of it Doreah and Irri both took some pieces of cloth, rinsed them in water and began wiping their mistress's body, her arms still above her head, now holding her hair up. After what seemed an eternity of gentle touches Doreah handed her washcloth over to Irri and – Jorah gasped, refusing to believe his eyes, unable to look away – entwined her arms around the Khaleesi's neck and clung to her, claiming her lips in the longest kiss. Two shadows became one for a few moments, and then Doreah, still clinging to the Khaleesi, slid down and knelt before her, her lips now pressing between her thighs.
Panting, Jorah wiped the sweat off his brow. His right hand, clenched in a tight fist, flew to his lips, his left, for want of something better, gripped the hilt of his sword. He had to bite on his fingers to stifle a groan, as Doreah seemed to be working really hard at making her mistress happy.
When he said those very words to her, he meant something much more innocent, like, being a companion, a friend... this never occurred to him, and now the images flashing before his mind's eye racked him mercilessly. Doreah on her knees before him, her tan shoulders and breasts glowing in the lamp light like gold… Worth her weight in gold, Viserys said? Is the dimple on her cheek still there when she is sucking you deep into her hot, hot hungry mouth, looking up at you, strangely imperious and triumphant, like a deadly snake looking at its prey, not like a pleasure slave but rather like a queen having you at her mercy?
A queen… Speaking of queens… What was she like – there? Was her hair that beautiful shade of silver that shone on her head, or darker, like her eyebrows and eyelashes? What did she taste like? To see her bite on her perfect lips, to hear her moan and beg for more, to explore her with your tongue until her body had no secrets left…
In a heartbeat he would have traded places with any of them, giving up anything, everything. Anything to be with Doreah, and… and everything to be with the Khaleesi, as he suddenly understood. He dared to mouth her name silently, her beautiful name, as regal and rare as she was. Daenerys. What a name to cry out going into battle for her, what a name to growl in ecstasy against her neck!
The Khaleesi took two shaky steps back to fall against Irri when her feet seemed to fail her, and Doreah crawled forward, now, from what it looked like, adding fingers. The Khaleesi let her head fall back, her body arching like a bow under her handmaiden's caresses, her knees trembling and weakening. Jorah knew not how long it lasted, but by the time she collapsed onto the pillows and Doreah's shadow began placing soothing kisses all over her body, he was completely out of breath, dazed, his shirt and gambeson soaking wet, the beast inside him raging for a mate.
Meanwhile the Khaleesi went to bed. Then he heard the drape at the tent's entrance flap. In the moonlight he recognized Doreah, who must have been sent on some kind of errand. Mortified, Jorah tried to leave, but tarried, and Doreah saw him, saw him as he was, shuddering all over and struggling for breath, ravenous.
Swaying her hips Doreah came cruelly close to him. With a sly smile she cupped his cheek and then traced her small hand down his heaving chest, below the belt of his scabbard, and lingered there, reveling in what their little show reduced him to. A painfully long and frustratingly short moment – and she was gone, whispering on her way: "Sweet dreams, Jorah the Andal!"