Grey-Wind twitched slightly before continuing to snore peacefully as he curled up on Robb's side of the bed. Margaery remained awake, one hand atop her pregnant belly and the other hand running through Grey-Wind's soft fur. It had almost been without question that Robb decided to leave Grey-Wind behind with Margaery, as the direwolf had become as protective of Margaery as Robb was. Bran had even said that if Robb practiced hard enough, he could warg into Grey-Wind from across the Narrow Sea.

Margaery had secretly hoped that her King would come to her the first night he had set sail, but sadly it did not happen. It had only been a few months that she'd grown accustomed to having slept in Robb's embrace, but it was long enough that she could not imagine sleeping any other way. Margaery knew she was being ridiculous, that she was more than just Robb's Queen, and that there was more to life than his loving arms, but it did not stop her from missing him as the weeks dragged by.

Robb had left her as Queen Regent, a move unheard of in Westeros's history, and yet the court and Kingdoms had accepted it with little to no resistance. Such was Robb and Margaery's influence now, that the Seven Kingdoms recognized their positive effects on them all. Margaery had diligently taken on the role as Regent for House Stark, despite the fatigue she oft felt from her pregnancy. She held court three times a week, dispensing rulings from a wooden throne that had been placed beneath the Iron Throne for her. The Grand Maester had not liked the idea of a pregnant Queen sitting atop such a dangerous chair, and the court had indeed agreed. Under her direction the mining and crafting efforts of dragonglass pursued at the steady pace Robb left it, with scores of obsidian weapons being sent North to the Wall with every trade-ship and supply wagon that Robb promised the Night's Watch and the Free Folk. The harvest progressed steadily, with Margaery using her Tyrell connections to ensure that the smallfolk and highborn alike had enough food in their larders for at least a five year winter. The Royal Army patrolled the Crownlands looking for any sign of Jaime Lannister, and all economic operations of the Iron Throne were booming, which trickled down to mean a prosperous and happy Westeros at large.

This had been all she had wanted as a girl; absolute power to do good for Westeros. But having experienced this life with a good, gallant man by her side…Margaery realized there was more to life than crowns and thrones. What she now desired was for she and Robb to raise a strong, happy royal family. She wanted their twins to know peace as Robb had never known it. It had gotten to the point that Margaery prayed at the weirwood in the Godswood more often than she prayed at the Sept of Baelor. She remembered her prayers that evening, when Loras, Garlan and Grey-Wind had accompanied her on that torch-lit stone path into the acre of Godswood in the Red Keep. There had been no weirwood there until Margaery had organized one from the Isle of Faces, and through the dedication of gardeners from Highgarden, the weirwood had taken root in the castle Godswood, and was slowly growing stronger. Garlan and Loras had stood a little ways off to give Margaery her privacy, while Grey-Wind alone padded beside Margaery to join her. She could not bend easily, and so had a small chair placed for her there where sat to close her eyes and pray as she had seen Robb done so many times.

"Please protect Robb and all those he took with him. Please guide him home safely to me. Please never let our children know they pain he suffered of losing his father. Please…" she had repeated quietly to the weeping face of the weirwood. And she swore that for a moment when the wind had rustled through the leaves, she had heard the Old Gods respond to her prayer. She was sure she imagined it, but even so the two words the wind had whispered had calmed her heart: "We will."

Margaery sighed, feeling her bladder painfully ache yet again, before throwing the furs of the bed off her delicate form to swing her swollen feet onto the stone floor. Grey-Wind half rose off the bed to look at her, before sleepily returning to lie his head back down. Margaery chuckled as when she opened the door, Grey-Wind instantly perked up to hop off of the bed to trot over to her side. Loras and two of his soldiers were on guard outside Margaery's chambers, giving her an inquisitive look when she opened the door.

"I'm only after the privy," she sighed, sticking her tongue out at her brother who grinned and nodded.

"Third time tonight?"

"Fourth, actually. Shut up." Margaery snapped irritably as she walked past Loras down to the privy chambers with Grey-Wind by her side. The castle was dark and silent save for Margaery's soft footsteps on the stone. Grey-Wind's ears flared up, before the direwolf hurried down the corridor with all haste, causing Margaery to roll her eyes. She assumed that Grey-Wind had smelled Shaggydog, who was in Rickon's chambers down the corridor, and that Grey-Wind would return soon enough. The Queen was tired from her lack of sleep, and also fatigued from her pregnancy, so did not hear the soft clink of steel on stone when she finished her business in the privy. She yawned as she opened the door, expecting to see Grey-Wind waiting expectantly outside the door, instead her yawn caught in her throat as her heart froze.

The edge of a dagger was held against Margaery's throat while the tip of another was pointed at her belly. Margaery would have begun to sob in fear for her children, if the shock of the situation did not freeze her every movement.

"My, my. They never said you were such a beauty…" Margaery's golden brown eyes flicked up from the shining steel to see rotting yellow teeth and hateful eyes. The man was dressed in common servant's clothes, but had the shape and movement of a foot soldier. His arms were muscled as though they were used to holding a sword or standard in battle.

"Ser Jaime wants you dead. Want you hurt bad. Wants your little wolf king to cry and cry, knowing he was nowhere to be found when his whore queen got a dagger in her gut." The man snarled, stepping closed to Margaery to dig the two daggers he held further against her delicate skin.

"Doesn't mean we can't have a little fun, first eh?" The man sheathed the dagger he held against Margaery's belly quickly into a scabbard, using his now free hand to yank at her robe and causing it to fall to the ground around her ankles.

"Ooh. You highborn…" the man growled in sadistic desire as he ran his horrid gaze up and down her body "Even pregnant, eh-AARRRGHH!" Grey-Wind had been as silent as death, creeping up behind the attacker before violently snapping his fangs into the man's meaty calf, sending the attacker lurching backwards onto his back, just where the direwolf wanted him. Grey-Wind's fangs had all but severed the man's leg from his knee, and the wolf then turned his attention to the man's face and throat. Grey-Wind was a killer, and Margaery saw firsthand why Robb kept his wolf so close as Grey-Wind viciously mauled Margaery's attacker into an unrecognizable bloody mess. Grey-Wind stepped back to howl loudly, just as Margaery regained her senses enough to unleash a scream of pure terror that sent every sword in the castle running towards her.

"If King Robb finds out about this, the Seven Hells themselves will seem like heaven. Count yourselves lucky that the Queen was unhurt, or you would have all felt his wrath firsthand." Brynden Tully, Protector of the Realm, snapped at the Kingsguard who were gathered in the royal bedchambers, along with Garlan and Willas Tyrell, Catelyn Stark and her two daughters. Margaery was wrapped in many furs whilst being attended to by the Grand-Maester, the Queen was deeply shaken by what had happened, and none blamed her. Grey-Wind, with the assassin's blood still on his fur, was curled at Margaery's feet with his head on his paws.

"My babies…?" Margaery whispered to the Grand Maester, who smiled at the Queen reassuringly.

"They are fine. You are fine. Thank the Gods. You need rest, my Queen, plenty of rest and something to soothe your nerves. I will concoct something in my laboratory to bring you a safe sleep." The Grand Maester promised, placing a fatherly hand on Margaery's back before rising from the bed and hurrying out of the chambers.

"How could you let this happen, Loras?" Willas Tyrell snapped at his younger brother, who looked momentarily infuriated before he bowed his head.

"I am sorry. I truly am. I did not want this. None of you can think that."

"It wasn't Loras' fault." Margaery croaked, causing every eye in the room to snap to her at once. "It couldn't have been. But now…now we know better. I want every servant in the castle to be investigated by Lord Varys. The Red Keep is to be closed to the public until Robb returns. I will have five extra guards from now on. And…" Margaery forced herself to stand, regaining her authority as Queen Regent to give an order that would endear the people to her ever more "Jaime Lannister will be found and brought to justice. Lord Blackfish, Garlan, I charge you both to bring the Kingslayer to me. Robb will want his head once he learns what he tried to do, and I am more than happy to have it waiting for him when he returns."

She dreamt an old dream, of three girls in brown cloaks, a wattled crone, and a tent that smelled of death.

The crone's tent was dark, with a tall peaked roof. She did not want to go in, no more than she had wanted to at ten, but the other girls were watching her, so she could not turn away. They were three in the dream, as they had been in life. Fat Jeyne Farman hung back as she always did. It was a wonder she had come this far. Melara Hetherspoon was bolder, older, and prettier, in a freckly sort of way. Wrapped in roughspun cloaks with their hoods pulled up, the three of them had stolen from their beds and crossed the tourney grounds to seek the sorceress. Melara had heard the serving girls whispering how she could curse a man or make him fall in love, summon demons and foretell the future.

In life the girls had been breathless and giddy, whispering to each other as they went, as excited as they were afraid. The dream was different. In the dream the pavilions were shadowed, and the knights and serving men they passed were made of mist. The girls wandered for a long while before they found the crone's tent. By the time they did all the torches were guttering out. Cersei watched the girls huddling, whispering to one another. Go back, she tried to tell them. Turn away. There is nothing here for you. But though she moved her mouth, no words came out.

Lord Tywin's daughter was the first through the flap, with Melara close behind her. Jeyne Farman came last, and tried to hide behind the other two, the way she always did.

The inside of the tent was full of smells. Cinnamon and nutmeg. Pepper, red and white and black. Almond milk and onions. Cloves and lemongrass and precious saffron, and stranger spices, rarer still. The only light came from an iron brazier shaped like a basilisk's head, a dim green light that made the walls of the tent look cold and dead and rotten. Had it been that way in life as well? Cersei could not seem to remember.

The sorceress was sleeping in the dream, as once she'd slept in life. Leave her be, the queen wanted to cry out. You little fools, never wake a sleeping sorceress. Without a tongue, she could only watch as the girl threw off her cloak, kicked the witch's bed, and said, "Wake up, we want our futures told."

When Maggy the Frog opened her eyes, Jeyne Farman gave a frightened squeak and fled the tent, plunging headlong back into the night. Plump stupid timid little Jeyne, pasty-faced and fat and scared of every shadow. She was the wise one, though. Jeyne lived on Fair Isle still. She had married one of her lord brother's bannermen and whelped a dozen children. Children who still lived and bent their knee to a new King.

The old woman's eyes were yellow, and crusted all about with something vile. In Lannisport it was said that she had been young and beautiful when her husband had brought her back from the east with a load of spices, but age and evil had left their marks on her. She was short, squat, and warty, with pebbly greenish jowls. Her teeth were gone and her dugs hung down to her knees. You could smell sickness on her if you stood too close, and when she spoke her breath was strange and strong and foul. "Be gone," she told the girls, in a croaking whisper.

"We came for a foretelling," young Cersei told her.

"Be gone," croaked the old woman, a second time.

"We heard that you can see into the morrow," said Melara. "We just want to know what men we're going to marry."

"Be gone," croaked Maggy, a third time.

Listen to her, the queen would have cried if she had her tongue. You still have time to flee. Run, you little fools!

The girl with the golden curls put her hands upon her hips. "Give us our foretelling, or I'll go to my lord father and have you whipped for insolence."

"Please," begged Melara. "Just tell us our futures, then we'll go."

"Some are here who have no futures," Maggy muttered in her terrible deep voice. She pulled her robe about her shoulders and beckoned the girls closer. "Come, if you will not go. Fools. Come, yes. I must taste your blood."

Melara paled, but not Cersei. A lioness does not fear a frog, no matter how old and ugly she might be. She should have gone, she should have listened, she should have run away. Instead she took the dagger Maggy offered her, and ran the twisted iron blade across the ball of her thumb. Then she did Melara too.

In the dim green tent, the blood seemed more black than red. Maggy's toothless mouth trembled at the sight of it. "Here," she whispered, "give it here." When Cersei offered her hand, she sucked away the blood with gums as soft as a newborn babe's. The queen could still remember how queer and cold her mouth had been.

"Three questions may you ask," the crone said, once she'd had her drink. "You will not like my answers. Ask, or be gone with you."

Go, the dreaming queen thought, hold your tongue, and flee. But the girl did not have sense enough to be afraid.

"When will I wed the prince?" she asked.

"Never. You will wed the king."

Beneath her golden curls, the girl's face wrinkled up in puzzlement. For years after, she took those words to mean that she would not marry Rhaegar until after his father Aerys had died. "I will be queen, though?" asked the younger her.

"Aye." Malice gleamed in Maggy's yellow eyes. "Queen you shall be . . . until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear."

Anger flashed across the child's face. "If she tries I will have my brother kill her." Even then she would not stop, willful child as she was. She still had one more question due her, one more glimpse into her life to come. "Will the king and I have children?" she asked.

"Oh, aye. Six-and-ten for him, and three for you."

That made no sense to Cersei. Her thumb was throbbing where she'd cut it, and her blood was dripping on the carpet. How could that be? she wanted to ask, but she was done with her questions.

The old woman was not done with her, however. "Gold shall be their crowns and gold their shrouds," she said. "And when your tears have drowned you, the valonqar shall wrap his hands about your pale white throat and choke the life from you."

"What is a valonqar? Some monster?" The golden girl did not like that foretelling. "You're a liar and a warty frog and a smelly old savage, and I don't believe a word of what you say. Come away, Melara. She is not worth hearing."

"I get three questions too," her friend insisted. And when Cersei tugged upon her arm, she wriggled free and turned back to the crone. "Will I marry Jaime?" she blurted out.

You stupid girl, the queen thought, angry even now. Jaime does not even know you are alive. Back then her brother lived only for swords and dogs and horses . . . and for her, his twin.

"Not Jaime, nor any other man," said Maggy. "Worms will have your maidenhead. Your death is here tonight, little one. Can you smell her breath? She is very close."

"The only breath we smell is yours," said Cersei. There was a jar of some thick potion by her elbow, sitting on a table. She snatched it up and threw it into the old woman's eyes. In life the crone had screamed at them in some queer foreign tongue, and cursed them as they fled her tent. But in the dream her face dissolved, melting away into ribbons of grey mist until all that remained were two squinting yellow eyes, the eyes of death.

The valonqar shall wrap his hands about your throat, the queen heard, but the voice did not belong to the old woman. The hands emerged from the mists of her dream and coiled around her neck; thick hands, and strong. Above them floated his face, leering down at her with his mismatched eyes. No, the queen tried to cry out, but the dwarf's fingers dug deep into her neck, choking off her protests. She kicked and screamed to no avail.

She woke gasping in the dark with the thin gaol blanket wound about her neck. Cersei wrenched it off so violently that it tore, and sat up with her breasts heaving. At first she thought she was back where she was meant to be; the royal bedchambers in Maegor's Holdfast. But as her vision cleared and she remembered, she began to hysterically sob.

Queen you shall be . . . until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear.

Cersei leaned forward on the small, rickety cot of her cell to hug at her knees and rock slowly on the thin mattress. She had once been the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms, her hair had been like soft spun gold, her eyes glimmering as emeralds and her body the desire of every man and the envy of most women. But since that smirking whore from Highgarden had taken everything from her, Cersei had slowly decayed. Her hair was brittle now, greying and greasy from months of poor care. Her eyes had lost that sparkle that people knew her for, and her body itself was gaunt in some places while fleshy and overweight in others. Cersei had fallen, she had lost everything important to her: her wealth, her beauty, her family and most importantly her power. In her delusional mind, she saw herself as having saved Tommen from a fate worse than what she gave him. If she brought him into this world, she should have a say in how he left it. He was hers. She knew that Joff was lost to her the moment that Robb Stark's forces took the city. She had hoped her father would prevail in the west, but he hadn't. She had been dragged along behind Margaery Tyrell like a mule in chains, laughed at by everyone who had always hated her.

It was only Robb Stark's 'honor' that had kept Cersei from being viciously attacked. She had seen the way the guards and the citizen looked at her, especially when she was paraded in chains on the Kingsroad behind Margaery Tyrell's horse. They had wanted to maul her, hurt her and leave her for dead, but had resigned themselves to simply hurling verbal abuse her away in fear of what King Robb would do to them. That was the only way Cersei understood power; fear. She did not recognize that the peopled obeyed Robb strictly because they loved him far more than they had ever feared her. She had never known how to inspire the love from her people, and had only ever viewed those that did with contempt.

Even still she had not lost hope that Jaime was coming for her, but her belief did wane every day that passed. How long would she have to wait? She had never waited this long before. Was her father truly defeated? The all-powerful Tywin Lannister brought down by a little boy and a little girl? It was madness! It couldn't be true, none of this could be true! How could she have let this happen?! She hugged her knees tighter, jamming her eyes shut in the hopes that if she did not see this dark, damp cell she was in, then it did not exist.

She opened her eyes a crack, then tilted her head back to scream a horrible, echoing shriek of despair.

"It's a trick." Brown Ben Plumm said, staring down at the letter on the stone table of Daenerys's private chambers in the Great Pyramid of Meereen. The scroll was stamped with a grey wax seal of a fierce crowned direwolf's head, the Stark sigil apparently.

"It's a trap." Ser Jorah countered, only to have Daario Naharis look up and shake his head.

"Its not. It doesn't feel like one."

"It could be true, Your Grace." Missandei offered, glancing from the table to Daenerys who wrung her hands together as she stared down at the scroll that had been delivered to Brown Ben Plumm by a random child in the streets of the city. Ben had been returning from a tavern in the late evening, walking the streets with a group of Second Sons when the boy had managed to dart his way through Ben's guard and press the sealed scroll against Ben's stomach. When Ben had tried to catch up to him, the little boy had disappeared without a trace.

To Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Chains and Queen of Meereen,

My name is Robb Stark. You do not know me, and I do not know you. But our families were once allies a long time ago. My father was Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell. I am not sure if you know the story of how he came to be Lord of Winterfell, but it involved the deaths of his elder brother, his father and the kidnapping of his sister, as well as the deaths of your family. For that, I am truly sorry. And I know that my father opposed the deaths of your niece and nephew. It is a well-known tale around Westeros, but not one that absolves the horrors that were done.

I do not wish to seek a fight with you, Queen Daenerys. I wish to seek an alliance against something that is greater than both you and I. Greater than our Houses, and greater than the Seven Kingdoms themselves. I do not know if you have learned men or women around you, people who know of Westeros's history, but if you do I pray you ask them about the Long Night. The cold winds are rising, and the dead rise with it. I have seen and done impossible things in the last year, things that have driven me to seek you out when all my councilors tell me that it is folly.

By the time you read this letter, I hope to be well on my way to meet you in Meereen, where I beg of you to meet me in peaceful negotiations. I bring with me a fleet of one-hundred-ships to ensure my safety and hopefully our return to Westeros together.

Yours,

Robb I of House Stark

King of the Andals, the First Men and the Rhoynar
Lord of the Seven Kingdoms

Protector of the Realm

"What is the Long Night? Do any of you know?" Daenerys asked, looking from one face to another. It surprised her that of all of them there, it was Daario Naharis whose features darkened as he nodded. She had not seen the Tyroshi look so grim and somber, so somber that his eyes almost looked grey with severity. Before Ser Jorah could speak, Daario began to talk.

"The Long Night, my Queen…it is and was a terrible thing. The Westerosi call it the Long Night, but in every part of the Known World they had a name for the darkness that fell across us all. The Rhoynar tell of a darkness that made the Rhoyne dwindle and disappear, her waters frozen as far south as the joining of the Selhoru, until a hero convinced the many children of Mother Rhoyne, such as the Crab King and the Old Man of the River, to put aside their bickering and join in a secret song that brought back the day."

"I know this tale." Missandei suddenly said, leading to Daenerys to flick her violet gaze towards her little scribe "In Asshai they speak of Azor Ahai, my Queen. Darkness lay over the world and the hero Azor Ahai was chosen to fight it. To do so, he needed to forge a hero's sword. He laboured for thirty days and thirty nights until it was done. However, when he went to temper it in water, the sword broke. He was not one to give up easily, so he started over. The second time he took fifty days and fifty nights to make the sword, even better than the first. To temper it this time, he captured a lion and drove the sword into its heart, but once more the steel shattered. The third time, with a heavy heart, for he knew beforehand what he must do to finish the blade, he worked for a hundred days and nights until it was finished. This time, he called for his wife, Nissa Nissa, and asked her to bare her breast. He drove his sword into her living heart, her soul combining with the steel of the sword, creating Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes. It is said that Azor Ahai then used the Red Sword to fight against the creatures of cold and darkness to restore light to the world."

"An eastern retelling of the Last Hero, which is the Westerosi recounting of how a man sought out the Children of the Forest, an ancient race that rules Westeros long before the First Men. It is said he worked with the Children to drive away the darkness, and built the Wall with the help of the giants." Daario said wisely, causing Dany to look back to him thoughtfully. She had never realized that her Tyroshi was so well-versed in the subject matter.

"But what was the darkness? The dead rise with it. What does that mean? What were they trying to fight against?"

"The Others, Khaleesi." Ser Jorah said, causing Daenerys to furrow her brow in confusion.

"They are-…well they were a thing of legends. It is said that the Night's Watch was created to fight against them. They are creatures of cold, darkness and evil. No-one knows where they came from, or what their purpose is. But one thing is for certain, they want death and darkness for us all." Daario said.

"Are we supposed to cower over a legend, Daario?" Brown Ben asked with a scoff "This is a trick. He comes here to sway our Queen with words of evil and destruction, and instead I'd wager he wants to return her to Westeros to execute her himself before the Seven Kingdoms. Just to solidify his rule."

"He doesn't need to solidify his rule. He could have done that by staying in Westeros." Daario snapped irritably "My Queen, to have set sail across the Narrow Sea…to reach out to you when you are the biggest threat to his reign. I do not think that he is coming to kill you. I think he needs you, and I think…you may need him as well."

"Are you drunk, Naharis?" Ser Jorah barked across the table at the Tyroshi who sighed to clasp his hands on the tabletob.

"We are on the brink of civil war. The Sons of the Harpy have killed enough of the Unsullied and the Second Sons now that the Queen doesn't have the numbers to face Robb Stark if she engages him in war. Astapor is revolting and Yunkai seeks to gain allies in Volantis and further to march here and kill us all. The Queen once said that she will stay here to rule, well…none of us here have ever ruled over so much as a village of sheepherders let alone a kingdom."

"I was Lord of Bear Island."

"And Ned Stark sentenced you to die before you fled your lands." Daario countered to Ser Jorah's growl of protest, before slowly rising from the table to place his hands on his sword belt. "My Queen…to admit that you need guidance is not a weakness. Your intentions here have been pure, noble and just. But the tide is turning…if Robb Stark comes to seek an alliance, I urge you to make one."

Daenerys looked from Daario to Brown Ben, to Jorah, Grey-Worm and Missandei. All of whom looked to her to make a decision. She turned on her heel to look out the great windows of her chambers out at the great city of Meereen.

"Please leave me." She finally said, sending her council scurrying out of her room. Only two men lingered, Daario and Ser Jorah.

"Khaleesi-."

"Please go, Jorah." Dany sighed, not turning to face her beloved knight, who himself frowned as though having taken a dagger to the heart before he turned on his heel to march out.

"It won't be the popular choice. But often the right choices are not the most popular." Daario said, causing Dany to whip her head around.

"Did I not ask you to leave?"

"You did. But I believe you still needed counsel. Or at least someone to listen." Daario smiled, taking a step closer to Daenerys who rolled her eyes irritably.

"How can I call myself Queen if I bend my knee to this boy. He wasn't even the man who stole my father's throne, he's the son of the Usurper's dog."

"Ned Stark was not a dog." Daario said sharply, causing Dany to look taken aback.

"What do you know of Ned Stark?" she asked curiously, causing Daario to purse his lips.

"He was a man of honor. A good man, a just man…and they killed him for it anyway."

"How do you know?" Dany asked again, stepping closer to Daario with narrowed eyes.

"Because even in Essos, everyone knows of House Stark. You have every right to hold a grudge against them for what happened to your family, Your Grace. But bear in mind…that you do not know the full story of what transpired during Robert's Rebellion."

"And you do?" she asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Aye. And so does Ser Jorah, if he cared to say truths that he knew would displease you."

"Jorah has always told me the truth." she snapped back at Daario, annoyed by the matter-of-fact way in which he spoke.

"Aye, he has. But that doesn't mean he likes displeasing you. Far easier for him to agree that the Starks are dogs, when they drove him from his lands. Why did Ned Stark do that again? Because he sold men into slavery."

"Don't try to turn me against Jorah!"

"I'm not. I'm merely reminding you of hard truths. Loyal service means speaking hard truths that you would rather not hear." Daario said, stepping closer to Dany yet again to tilt his head.

"Jorah sold poachers into slavery. He did it for love and they were criminals."

"Was it? A slaver is still a slaver. How many slaves do you think you have freed who were poachers and thieves in the past?" Daario gave Daenerys a long look, whilst the Queen contemplated having Daario arrested. He was right, she realized after a short moment. Too often had she been told what she wanted to hear, and not what she needed to hear. She was young, inexperienced in rule, and she needed to accept that.

"Tell me about Robert's Rebellion. The hard truth." Dany finally said, looking up to give Daario a violet gaze that burned with the blood of the dragon.

Author's Note: Next up the Pisswater Prince and the Royal Fleet's voyage to the east!

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