JASON MOMOA SAVES WESTEROS

Part 1 – THE CHEESE MONGERER

"I must go and make my submissions," Illyrio solemnly informed mad, desperate Viserys and pretty, little scared Daenerys. "Wait here, your Graces. I shall bring the Khal to you."

Picking his way through the courtyard to where Drogo, by both his size and sheer presence, dominated the space about him, the Magister remembered to school his face for the approaching moment; much of he and his friend's long dream likely depended on how this night played out.

Now, his own not inconsiderable size permitted Illyrio to breach an opening amongst the non-bloodriders gathered about the fawned upon barbarian.

He bowed as low as his girth permitted and spoke words of submission in Pentoshi, "Greetings Great Khal. I have come as you commanded."

"Coin Prince," the savage took his time to acknowledge in his guttural sounding and limited Pentoshi; releasing Ilyrio from the humiliating yet required position of submission.

"I have brought the silver talisman my wise men have whispered to you about," he proclaimed; sweeping the heavily bejeweled hand at the end of his fat but still strong arm around in the direction of his two ensnared Targaryens.

"Foal," the beast grunted with a distinct lack of interest; eyes not bothering to follow where he tried to lead them.

"She is the blood of dragons. Neither foal nor filly, but a dragon in full; for her blood flows with the course of the moon. Ready to be bred." True, the sacrifice to their ambition was young, but he had seen enough of her shape beneath gauzy clothes to stir his own loins a small measure. And Illyrio had never been particularly interested in veal.

The full lips within that black forked beard pursed and unpursed as a quick reassessment was made. Again, without taking a look at the dragon mare offered him. "Word of Dothraki?"

"No, Great Khal."

"Words of Coin Houses?"

"Some." At least as much as Drogo knew Pentoshi; not that he would bother explaining that to a barbarian who likely did not care. These questions were clearly just the opening moves of the expected horse trading for an exotic wife of fabled ancient Valyria. "Mostly she speaks the tongue of the Andahli; though she learns quickly."

"Tcha," he gave the sound of Dothraki begrudging acceptance of a fact. "See flesh," he commanded casually. Then, "Harik gra-va alowce Andahli bergi," he spat out rapidly in the ugly horserider tongue at Haggo, the largest of his bloodriders; though still no match for Drogo.

And the whole courtyard opened wide for the Khal to pass as he purposefully strode towards the objects Illyrio wished him to desire … and to see dead; if she bred. Revenge was a wonderful motivator; invariably better than a man's word of honor.

As they came near, Viserys, intimidated by a true warrior prince, foolishly dropped his hand to the sword pommel by his side in some pointless display of strength. Luckily, the sweet chit showed better awareness and intentionally straightened her back in order to better display her modest sized teats and pointy nipples.

"Khal," the mad one dared deign to address Drogo first; either idiotically forgetting or arrogantly not caring whose house and power held him.

Nostrils on bronzed face flared briefly. "King," he very surprisingly said back to Viserys in clear but heavily accented Common; then shifted in utter dismissal of the arrogant man-boy. His gaze now greedily assessed Daenerys; pleasingly robed in a wispy silk plum colored gown and adorned in rich ornaments of gold. "Princess."

The girl curtseyed, but bravely kept her violet eyes lifted up and fixed on his black ones. "Great Khal," she whispered with barely a tremor of fear.

A powerful hand reached up to stroke the side of her face and several of her perfectly coifed tresses.

Beside him, Illyrio felt more than saw Viserys begin to do something even stupider. With a speed the equal to his days as a bravo, his hand whipped out to overlay that of the fool's atop his blade.

"Stars. Moon," the barbarian again rasped in foul sounding Common. Followed shortly by, "Valyria." And next, in some other tongue, a one word question: "Emilia?"

"Khal Drogo?" she insipidly asked back in evident incomprehension of how to respond to the savage.

At that, something Illyrio could not define slipped away from the Dothraki's demeanor. And he released his light hold on her magnificent pale silver gold hair. Nevertheless, it did not appear to bode ruin for the evening. The Magister knew the merchant's arts well enough to recognize when a customer wanted something … and badly, even if it was not wholly to his exact liking.

Back in Pentoshi, the Khal grunted. "Come. Words. Bride price." And without bothering to see if he was followed, turned about and strode commandingly towards the interior courtyard entrance to one of the seven towers of the manse gifted him by the city for his forbearance.

"Unhand me, Magister," Viserys snarled at him.

Instantly he released his hold. "Chastise me later when I beg your forgiveness, my King," Illyrio blurted quickly; then with enthusiasm: "We must follow him. The Khal looks willing to pay the price you require."

"The way the cur touched her," the fool continued his rant.

"Viserys," the filly pleaded. Scared? Enchanted with the horselord's barbarian charisma? Illyrio knew not which, nor cared.

"Come," he pleaded. He could near taste the blood to be unleashed by forty thousand riders upon the Seven Kingdoms from the coming plan.

"The Dragon shall visit you later," the boy who would never be king threatened; then thirst for revenge and a kingdom overtook his pride and he began scurrying after the Khal, near dragging Daenerys with him. Leaving Illyrio's bulk to move on still light feet to follow at their rear.

At the tower entrance, a Quartheen pale complexioned servant wearing the copper torque of a Khalasar slave directed them down a passage to an open doorway to what might be a salon or a solar.

Entering the room, the hairs on the back of Illyrio's pudgy neck immediately stood on end. Standing beside Drogo was his bloodrider Haggo and Varys' planned spy for the Sea of Grass, Jorah Mormont. Light feet began subtly edging backward until he heard a door close behind him. He hazarded a quick peek over a shoulder. There stood Qotho, another bloodrider, with a sickle shaped arakh in his hand and an implacable expression on his savage face.

He looked back at the Khal and saw a satisfied smirk spreading there.

The evil bastard grunted.

Illyrio anticipated a disemboweling blow from behind.

Instead, the disgraced Westerosi opened his mouth. "Magister Illyrio, Khal Drogo wishes to know why you desire the use of his Khalasar to place Prince Viserys on the Iron Throne when you have already bought the Golden Company to make the prince's nephew, Prince Aegon, the rightful heir of House Targaryen, King over Westeros.

The two Targaryen shits gasped at the accusation.

And the Magister suddenly felt pools of sweat pouring out of every inch of his corpulent flesh.

He cleared his throat. "With deepest respect, the Khal is mistaken. Young Prince Aegon was butchered by the Lannisters in the Red Keep along with his mother and baby sister. For them King Viserys seeks justice."

Drogo clapped his powerful hands twice.

A door behind the barbarian opened and out of it stepped the last of his bloodriders, Cohollo; pulling on a pair of shackles.

"Then who are these?" the Dothraki lord asked in flawless Common.

The pair revealed were beaten, bruised, torn up, unwashed, ill clothed, and smelly. But there was no mistaking the red headed Jon Connington and the blue dye leaking hair of the one they had dubbed the Young Griff.