05x03, 'High Sparrow'
He can't deny it: he's tempted.
The whore who fashions herself as Daenerys is beautiful. The silver hair may be a wig, her proportions might be off, but from behind she passes. Even his heart had done a funny shiver at the sight of her, believing for a moment that Daenerys had truly travelled to this place to find him.
But it's not her. Of course he's not. He's a foolish, desperate ma in love with something that can never be.
He watches the whore flirt with the other patrons in the pub. A part of him burns in anger at the crude things that the men holler at her, roaring with laughter at their own debauchery, squeezing her arse cheeks, her breasts. It's not Daenerys, but those comments are meant for her nevertheless—"Come and tame my dragon, Your Grace!"—with no respect for her staggering achievements.
Another part, the part he suppresses and ignores, yearns to take her hand, to lead her to one of these rooms and lose himself in her. Let her bury her face in the pillows, giving him the illusion that it's truly Daenerys, there with him, returning the love he's felt for her for so long, giving him his penance as she accepts him into the temple of her body.
The thoughts turn to dust almost as quickly as they form.
It will never be more than a cruel illusion. The whore is not Daenerys. He can't give his body to another woman when his heart belongs to her, even if he is drunk and lonely and rudderless. Whatever may come, she is his only. If that means he lives the rest of his life like a eunuch, so be it.
He drops his head, emptying his glass of the colourless liquor that burns his throat, contemplating whether he has enough coin for another. If he could, he'd drink himself into oblivion. But he must keep something of his wits about him, lest his throat be slit in the middle of the night. And he needs those same wits to come up with some kind of action that will show Daenerys how sorry he is, how much she means to him.
Movement in the corner of his eye catches his attention: a bedraggled dwarf and a bald man swathed in voluminous robes.
Dwarves are two a copper penny in the Free Cities. But the other…
Jorah recognises the man instantly.
The Spider.
Which means there can only be one dwarf in the whole world accompanying him.
The Imp, Tyrion Lannister.
The legendary golden Lannister locks are darker with dirt, but even a thousand leagues away from Westeros the dwarf has the arrogant air self-superiority that all Lannisters seem to possess.
It's almost impossible.
One of Daenerys' enemies, who keeps her from her throne, right here in their midst.
Jorah doesn't have to think. The way forward is illuminated to him.
He watches the dwarf leave the room. Follows him, swift as a shadow.