Saved from the day's latest torment, Drogo obligingly took a seat, grateful to be out of clear view of overenthusiastic mothers and a match that would most definitely not be to his liking. Greetings were given in the form of a nod to all and sundry, obligingly shaking one hand then the next. 'Celebrity' status used to the fullest until he got his bearings and accessed the space he now occupied. Raised a devout Muslim, he was quite conflicted about the subject of homosexuals and their blatant public displays of affection but this was America and if one wished to fit in one must smile politely and remember not to stare. Besides, the dark one - Jon, I believe he called himself. - spoke Queen's English, and Drogo found familiar forming of consonants and vowels the mark of good, upper-class breeding so he overlooked the way the two men openly gawked with secretive smiles tugging the corners of their respective lips.
The look he gave them was hooded, beetle black eyes narrowed slightly against the sunlight and a habit giving him premature crow's feet. Speculative, you could say. But then again Khal Drogo was a wholly abstract sort of fellow. Danced to an entirely different beat and didn't give a tinker's damn what anybody thought about it. His life was laid out before him in a perfectly straight, undeviating line going right to the horizon. Horses and polo; polo and horses. Their importance interchangeable so long as he was physically able to ride.
Never particularly good at starting conversations with complete strangers and generally disinclined to learn how Drogo sat back in his chair, long legs stretched far as they would go and crossed at the ankles, content for the moment to simply rest. Perhaps even cast a glance or three over the top of his designer water in the direction of the small - Incredibly small. No bigger than a single oat grain in the palm of my hand. - pixie-haired waif trying so badly to appear aloof and untouchable.
There was a fierceness in her gaze, though, reminding him of that mythical dragon imprisoned inside a mountain. He noted an old sorrow too. Hidden so deep and so overgrown with stinging nettles it would take a brave man indeed to get through. Or a very foolish one, he decided, unable to resist a low, rumbling chuckle after hearing a particularly pithy remark she made at the expense of the next table over.
While he studied... Dany, he listened to their easy, back-and-forth banter, something he was rather good at; skills honed at university and the sporadic time spent as a boy eavesdropping on his parents and extended family. They talked of little else but the oil business, of course, which he found both painfully dry and unappealing.
Three very different individuals were they - one a class clown, cheeky upstart with a permanent seat in headmaster's office; the second harboring feelings that would never be returned on account of the third and final of the tiny group. A shy, bookish type fueled by drink and a need to impress the professional with his knowledge of polo's very ancient beginnings in Drogo's homeland. Jon had done well enough for a time, until he totally fouled up a crucial (what he considered crucial, at least) reference to its original name.
“No,” he corrected, his response firm but hardly condescending. “What you mean to say is chougan. Zykanion is a holdover term from Byzantine times.”