Well, that wasn’t entirely accurate. All the pomp and heraldry of the athletes arrival provided a splendid pageant that even she would admit to enjoying, one leg hooked over a knee in dainty fashion while sipping champagne. It was like a parade! All flashy silks to catch the late summer’s light and cotton crop pants which left nothing to the imagination. Except, perhaps, how one might squeeze musclebound limbs into such confines without constricting blood flow and passing out. With plenty to see, her eyes indulged in the rich, decadent stimulus as did her tastebuds with drink, admiring the ritual, law of the jungle turned social niceties for a girl who studied such things.
What she could live without, however, was the fawning.
So-called “gentlemen” who spoke with dollar signs in place of commas and full stops; floppy-hatted matrons fluffing up their blouses and hoping to match ladylike daughters - always younger, cookie-cutter versions of themselves right down to the preening habits - with pedigree catch of the day. They were working athletes for crying out loud! Not studs at the market, and therefore, Jon’s equally slavering history lesson was met with nothing more than a surreptitious glance of baby blues towards this Khal Drogo.
Annoyingly, there was no denying his attractiveness. Tall as he was broad, hair blacker than Jon’s and twice as long plaited with the same degree of care and respect one might handle a show horse. He had dark eyes and clear skin, and good posture without the cocky, bollocks-between-the-legs swagger of his peers. All very rare for a man, Dany thought, Well, a straight man, assuming Jon’s got it right.
But his physical attributes and personal hygiene weren’t what Dany found truly interesting about Mr. Tall, Dark and Ethnic. It was his awkward stance. The way his fingers gripped his riding helmet and downcast eyes avoided all who sought to target him. He was as uncomfortable there, in that clubhouse, amidst his teammates, sponsors, stacks of money, as Dany.