There were no butterflies in Meereen.
There were flies and spiders and beetles in countless colours, and they were pretty in their own way. But they were not butterflies.
There were men and women in colourful tokars, with shiny pearls on the bottom that clicked as they walked. But they were not butterflies.
There were the jewels and the gold that many of those in her queen's command coveted, so shiny and beautiful that it was sometimes hard to believe they were real. But they were not butterflies.
There were the bricks of the city, every colour you could think of, towering walls that one never quite got used to. But they were not butterflies.
There was the sellsword, the queen's lover, with clothes and hair as bright as any flower, who made her queen's heart flutter. But he was no butterfly.
There was her queen, with her kind words and beautiful smiles, who made her feel safe and happy, even in dark times. But even she was no butterfly.
Most days she was happy. But sometimes she wasn't. Sometimes she was sad. Because there were no butterflies in Meereen.