Born of a Persian father and Greek mother, Bharbo, son of Khal, son of Drogo had been raised in a world unaffected by worries and woes of the common man. Rich petroleum reserves pulled from shifting desert sands had made his family's fortune a hundred times over; secured a life of extreme privilege few could ever fathom. A storybook sort of upbringing had been his, viewed through the gauzy, heat-soaked veil of Lawrence of Arabia browns and ochres and cerulean blue skies. His homeland wasn't all camels and nomadic horse tribes of course, for there was great beauty to be found in a land that stretched from the Caspian Sea to the Persian Gulf. Jungles, rivers and snow-covered peaks offered unexpected delights to the senses, the latter of which - Mount Damāvand, the highest point in Asia - was said to be a prison for Aži Dahāka, a three-headed dragon chained within the ancient volcano-mountain, doomed to remain there until the end of time.
Not exactly the sort of imagery that sprang to mind when one thought of modern Iran and all the messy, brutal theocratic politics of the last 30 or so years.
Mysticism and mythology dating back long before the Christian era flowed in Drogo's veins, add to that all the Hellenic tales passed down in oral tradition on his maternal side made him aloof and prideful. Above it all, you could say, seldom conversing with those outside his very focused microcosm.
But he wasn't completely unapproachable. Only the best boarding school education Great Britain could offer had given him more than just a precise colonial accent. It had broadened his thinking somewhat; gave him opportunity to interact with many people of many cultures. England had been fine and all - Drogo would never forget his time spent deeply immersed in academia and riding, full tilt on his favorite hunter, across rolling, mist-covered fields greener than green - but his real home would forever be his uncle's palatial pied-à-terre in the Sudan. Summer holidays were always a magical time, for Zarif al-Drogo al-Abbas (styled in the Sudanese fashion) had been head of the countries' Polo Federation. Merely a fledgling sport seeking a toehold at the time, his uncle's mutual love bordering on obsession with fine horses had been the gateway to another life.
And what ultimately brought him here, to southern California, where the lure of money and fame outside prestigious European circles was far too much to refuse. Beckham had done it, so why couldn't he?
So he wondered then as he slowly removed his sweaty riding helmet and placed it on the bar before ordering the usual bottled mineral water if the now-retired footballer felt as much of a thoroughbred on display at such functions? If it was up to Drogo, he'd be perfectly content to head back to the team locker room and skip out on the social niceties altogether. More of that cool, disinterested, "enigma" thing that drove women and the press wild.