There’s this old joke: Two Dornish whores are walking
through Casterly Rock. One turns
to the other and says, “These Lannister men are pigs.” And the other says, “I know. And none of them have tried to force themselves upon us.”
And that’s how I feel about life right now. Despite being surrounded by dragons and
handmaidens and an army of Dothraki marauders, I’m still very much alone. I’m talking “Sylvia Plath exiled to the
Night’s Watch” levels of loneliness and isolation.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m used to being abandoned. My earliest memory is the sack of Dragonstone
when I was smuggled out of the city as Stannis Baratheon murdered every last
member of my House. But this time is
different. This one actually
hurts. I had someone in my life
this time. Drogo and I were in
love. Granted, I was originally treated
like property and sold off to him as a way of consolidating power, but you can’t
be too picky nowadays.
My five-year plan was always simple. Raise an army, return to King’s Landing,
massacre the Baratheon usurpers and sit atop the Iron Throne. But now I don’t know if that’s in the
cards anymore. I’ve grown
comfortable here in Meereen. It’s such
a vibrant and amazing city. You’ve
got the fighting pits, the slave auctions, the numerous ecru-colored
ziggurats. Can’t find this sort of
culture anywhere else. I have zero idea why anyone would ever willingly
move back to the west.
Yet even in this city, I don’t know if there’s anyone who
really gets me. I still don’t have
any close friends. The possibility
exists that the only person who understands me is a man-eating, fire-breathing
creature with scaly skin. But
enough about my mother.
But is it my parents?
Is that the problem? Did
they irreparably damage me to the point where I’m going to repeat all of their mistakes
over and over again? Looking back,
I don’t know if anyone in my family has ever had a functioning relationship. Traditionally Targaryen marriages are as
incestuous as Malcolm Gladwell and the New Yorker submissions desk.
And then there’s my brother Rhaegar. Talk about a guy who had everything
going for him and then blew it all for a woman. He abducts Lyanna Stark. Not sure if it was out of spite or out of love. Although Bergman’s filmography posits
that those two are often interchangeable.
With this exemplary Targaryen track record, you start to
wonder if true love is even possible.
But I know that it is. I
had it. Drogo loved me and
protected me. And then...well...he
got sick. He was dying. And my magical animal sacrifice wasn’t
enough. It was getting late. And I had to say “Goodbye” to him. So, with a sense of on-the-nose, Joyce
Carol Oates-ian irony, I smothered him in the same way he smothered me.
And now I have to move on as well. Whether it’s with Jorah or Daario or any
of these slave traders in Meereen, I know that I’m going to have to remarry at
some point. And I also know that
it won’t end well. Can’t escape
that prophecy.
But that’s the thing about arranged Dothraki weddings. They’re irrational and crazy and absurd
and downright terrifying. But I
guess we keep going through it because most of us need the dragon eggs.
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