A/N: Chap 15 review responses and a few other thoughts of this day are in my forums as normal.

The next couple of chapters are finally giving us a view of what's going on. It also makes clear that Taylor's progress across Essos was lightning fast compared to the years-long journey that Daenerys had. And the dragons are growing faster because of their bond with Taylor.

Thank you for reading.

Chapter Sixteen: The Lion's Den

Varys, Master of Whisperers, folded his hands within the heavy, embroidered silk of his robes as he made his way up the stairs to the meeting room of the Tower of the Hand. He came across the struggling Tyrion Lanniser not a third of the way up and slowed his ascent.

"Lord Tyrion," he said in greeting to the bearded, freshly scarred dwarf.

"Varys." Tyrion carried a book almost as large as he was-the royal accounts, Varys had no doubt. It was a stark contrast between the old Master of Coin and the New. Lord Baelish, recently departed for the Eyrie, never carried books or any evidence of his duties with him. He never took notes nor made any indication of actually doing a job at all.

Whereas Tyrion was reputed to put in easily seven to eight hours a day trying to straighten out the broken finances of the Iron Throne. And he was, in theory, richly rewarded for his efforts, with a child bride from an ancient family his was currently at war with. A child who his nephew had abused, and whose father King Joffrey had viciously murdered.

Varys considered asking how marital bliss suited him, but thought better of it. Tyrion's treatment of young Sansa Stark confirmed something that Varys had long suspected. Tyrion Lannister, despite all family history to the contrary, was a kind man. It made him singularly ill-suited for life in King's Landing, despite his prodigious mind.

They finally reached the Hand's chambers. Unlike their first such meeting in the Tower of the Hand, Tywin no longer found the need to stand when the Small Council arrived. He had established how things would be with that first meeting, and the chairs were largely where they remained from that moment.

Thus sitting, Lord Tywin presented the perfect image of industry in his slimming and elegant black suede tunic embroidered with silver. He wore the Hand's broach at his breast as he read through a stack of parchments with exacting care before either signing or rejecting each as they warranted.

"Gentlemen, have a seat," he said without looking up. "The Queen Regent and Grand Maester will be with us shortly."

Varys sat; Lord Tywin did not appreciate idle conversation during his Small Council meetings. Whatever else could be said for the man, he was brutally efficient. The Queen Regent and Grand Maester finally arrived, just close enough to the appointed chime of the bells outside not to be rude, but just late enough to be slightly inconveniencing. Another of Cersei's power plays, Varys had no doubt. Just as Tyrion was deeply troubled by his wedding, the Queen Regent was reportedly less than thrilled to be married off a second time. This time, her betrothed was not a whoring drunkard, but a flaming homosexual almost young enough to be her son. Varys might almost have pitied her, if she were not such a vicious creature.

Grand Master Pycelle's beard was still growing in, Varys noted. Like with Tyrion earlier, he considered commenting on it. Baiting the old fool was always a passable entertainment. But again, he thought better of it. Lord Tywin despised idle chatter.

"Let us get started; I have much to do today," the Hand said. He placed his quill down, steepled his hands together on the table, and regarded his small council. He looked right at Varys. "Where is Jaime?"

It was the same question, every meeting. Varys bowed his head. "I received news, whispers from Riverrun. Lady Catelyn Stark sent Ser Jamie and an escort south in the hopes of exchanging him for her daughters. The young wolf was reportedly furious and had his own mother detained. His efforts to capture your son and his escort were to no avail."

Tywin didn't quite sneer. He was far too intelligent to be that transparent. "I am aware," he said with all the dryness of a Myrish white wine. "It was why his own bannerman murdered two of my nephews and abandoned his cause. What I want to know is where Jaime is right now."

"I cannot say, m'lord. Other than they are obviously hiding, but almost certainly heading toward King's Landing. If they were captured, my little birds would tell me, as would your own. The fact we have heard nothing can only mean they retain their liberty."

"Supposition and prayers will not return my son to me," the Lord Hand snapped. Varys bowed his head; what else could he do? He had spies spread throughout the Reach and Riverlands, desperately looking for any sign of Jaime Lannister.

Tywin took a breath to calm himself. "The wedding. Tyrion, you've determined the final cost?"

"I have," Tyrion said. "Lady Olenna has already paid her part. Our part is proceeding."

Tywin raised one brow. "Proceeding?"

"Yes." Tyrion sat on the edge of his oversized chair, hands clasped together. "As it turns out, Lord Baelish was not so much a wizard with money as a debtor with the throne. We are deeply in debt to the Iron Bank of Braavos. I am having to redirect interest payments from you, Father, to pay for the wedding. I am, of course, tallying the deferred interest for later."

It was a struggle for Varys to keep his face bland, for in truth he always viewed the two Lannister men as the grandest of dramas. The tragedy of Tyrion's birth and unfortunate circumstances led Tywin to reject Tyrion as a son, and yet if he could look past that he would find that in mind, temperament and skill the two were far closer than Tywin with his other two children. Sadly, though, that was not a bridge Varys would ever be able to span for them.

He noted it only because of how very quickly Tywin understood exactly what his youngest son meant. Going perfectly still and regarding Tywin with dark eyes, he simply asked, "How much?"

"As of Lord Baelish's last act of magic? Seven million owed to the Iron Bank alone. That's not touching on the amount owed Casterly Rock."

The number was unbelievable. The queen regent frowned, both confused and dismissive at how her father reacted because of her own inability to comprehend what the number meant. Pycelle, for all his many failings, at least was smart enough to understand. "That's preposterous," he declared. "The total expenditures for the crown couldn't have been more than…"

"Two million for the Ironborn rebellion," Tyrion said. "Robert's many tournaments and pageants added up. Twenty thousand per year on Dornish red wine alone. The previous Hands tried to curb his spending, but…"

"Robert didn't care about the kingdom, only about his next whore or cup of wine," Cersei said with a bitter ring to her voice.

"I see," Tywin said, ignoring all the words at the table but Tyrion's. "Then we shall take the appropriate steps as time permits. I agree deferring my own interest will serve for a time, at least until we have this wedding done and this thrice-damned war resolved. The Iron Bank will have their due."

That was as close to praise as Tyrion would ever get from his father.

Tywin turned back to Varys. "What news of Dragonstone?"

"Lord Stannis has withdrawn into seclusion following his defeat, but I've heard from across the sea that his agents are visiting the Iron Bank as well."

The Hand pursed his lips in thought. "After his defeat, he's lost what little support he had. Mercenaries will not win him a kingdom that does not support him. Grand Maester…"

"Lord Hand, begging your pardon, but I do have other pertinent news," Varys said.

"By all means, please share," Tywin said dryly.

"I have received reports from Essos that Daenerys Targaryen is dead. She and the remnants of her Dothraki Horde were killed in Qarth."

"Good," was Cersei's contribution to the discussion.

Tywin nodded. "That is good news. Anything else?"

"I'm afraid so," Varys said. "It appears shortly after she died, a young woman declaring herself to be Rhaenys Targaryen managed to obtain all three of Daenerys' dragons. She then sailed from Qarth in the company of one Ser Barristan Selmy into Slaver's Bay, where she managed to obtain over eight thousand Unsullied slave soldiers and another five in training."

At this news, Tywin sat up. "Impossible. I viewed the child's body myself. What is Selmy up to?"

"According to my sources in Volantis, Ser Barristan claims that Targaryen agents smuggled both her and her brother Aemon from the Red Keep before the sacking of King's Landing, and replaced them with beggar children from Flea Bottom. Prince Aemon later died of a fever, but the supposed Princess was smuggled across the world to Asshai-Beyond-The Shadow, where she was taught the sorcery of the old Dragonlords."

"A fairy tale!" Tywin said.

"Yes, I agree," Varys said. "Though I find it odd that a week after presenting three dragon eggs to the Good Masters of Astaport to pay for her soldiers, the city is now in a state of civil war. My little birds tell me that the highborn families of that city now kill each other openly in the streets for control of the supposed eggs. Meanwhile, the Pretender herself has managed to obtain an entire fleet of transport vessels, convinced the Triarchy of Volantis to give her even more ships as well as several thousand slaves, and she has since sailed on and routed out the pirate cove that Myr and Tyrosh were secretly funding against Lys."

Tywin's gaze was cold enough that Varys could swear his breath caused vapor. "A pirate cove. Where, pray tell, is this pirate cove?"

"In the Stepstones, Lord Tywin. Near the Grey Gallows. The Pretender, her dragons, and now close to thirteen thousand soldiers are within five days sailing of Dorne. Within a month of King's Landing. Her people call her Aeksiae, which means Goddess. She is hailed as the Princess Who Was Promised, and is reputed to be able to heal the sick and wounded. My sources from Volantis tell me she could fly through the air like a bird and wields a sword of cold fire that can easily cut through steel."

Cersei snorted and sipped at her ever-present glass of wine. After all, not all the twenty thousand gold dragons went to her husband. She and her brother Tyrion were both deep drinkers themselves.

Tywin ignored her and instead stared flatly at Varys. "When did your little birds tell you this, Lord Varys?"

The threat in the question was obvious to everyone at the table, even Cersei.

"My lord, I received the first report yesterday morning. However, it was so outlandish that I chose to wait for confirmation from a second, independent source before bringing it to you. I received that confirmation less than an hour ago, with the additional news from a third source that she had taken Torturer's Deep."

Varys waited, perfectly still, as the Lord Hand decided whether the delay was worth his life. After a long moment of pensive thought, the other man nodded decisively. "If you had not confirmed it, I would have thought you a fool."

With that, Varys knew he would live another day. "Thank you, my lord. With my lord's permission, I wish to take ship to Pentos. They are not directly involved in the Disputed Lands conflict, but are close enough that I should be able to learn more. Perhaps I can find a way to twist the Three Daughters to resolving the issue for us. But...I hesitate to say, I have exhausted my larder sending out agents to look for Ser Jaime."

Tywin virtually glared at Tyrion.

"I'll defer next year's interest to Casterly Rock as well," the small Master of Coin said.

"This girl's obviously a pretender," Cersei said. "Her story is so outlandish, only a fool would believe her."

"Which is why it is so unfortunate that Barristan Selmy was able to flee the city and join her," Twyin said. He spoke the words as coolly and flat in tone as always, but not even Cersei could miss the contempt in them. "No one would believe such a foolish story, unless told them by a man of impeccable honor who was actually there when the girl was born. The first man in history to be dismissed from the Kingsguard, a position previously held for life."

The criticism was not for Barristan Selmy's dismissal, Varys knew. The criticism was for Barristan Selmy's survival after the dismissal.

Tywin moved on. "Varys, when will you depart?"

"On the first high tide tomorrow, my lord."

"Very well. Now, if you will excuse me, Lord Varys, Grand Maester, I wish to have a word with my children."

Varys stood and bowed before leaving the room. Pycelle shambled along beside him toward the stairs. "Preposterous," the old Grand Master said as they moved. "I knew Elia and her children very well. It was a tragic thing, to be sure, but I saw their bodies."

"As did I," Varys said as they moved down the stairs. "Tell me, though. I seem to recall that Rhaenys was just a small child at the time, correct? Just three?"

"Yes."

"How was she killed?"

"You know that perfectly well," Pycelle said indignantly.

"Yes. Stabbed repeatedly, and then her head stomped in. An act of brutality beyond all measure. It makes me wonder, though. I was not there when she died, nor were you. Those men who saw her die were not close to the Targaryen family. How then can we be sure? Because from my memory, there was no way to know that the vivacious young girl whom Prince Rhaegar bounced on his knee was the same body presented to Lord Tywin."

The Grand Maester sputtered for a moment. "Lord Varys, surely you're not suggesting this wive's tale has any truth to it?"

"I find even the most outlandish stories often have a grain of truth," he said. "My job is to find that grain and either make it grow, or if my lords direct, to ensure it does not. Now, if you will excuse me? I have many missives to write before my journey."

~~Quintessence~~

~~Quintessence~~

In good weather, such as the relative calm of an approaching winter, it was possible to sail from King's Landing to Pentos in two weeks. Less so, if on a fast ship.

The Swan Ship Anmyrham was a very fast ship, built low and narrow, with a deep keel and two masts that caught the wind and caused the ship to all but fly over the waves. There were no finer ships on the seas, as far as Varys was concerned.

Of course, he still spent a disproportionate amount of his time kneeling over a pale. He so hated sailing. But when he walked off the ship as the sun set across the Bay of Pentos, he thought the sickness worth the trip. Pentos was his home, more than King's Landing ever was, and it felt good to once again walk its streets.

The house he went to was a narrow, humble brick home, one of dozens in solid rows that housed the free workers of the harbor. Technically Pentos had no slaves because of pressure from Braavos, but in reality the bonded servants of the wealthy were slaves in all but name. But Pentos also had a large class of free tradesmen-a consequence of their trade with Westeros and Braavos.

It made a good, humble home to stay in. Within the home, he found a fire already stoked and the smell of food in the air. "You arrived!" Laedn smiled happily greeting. "I got your raven, but didn't know if it would be tonight or tomorrow."

"We made good time." He embraced the young man and kissed him. They were, the both of them, eunuchs. Varys lost his manhood to the knife of a sorcerer looking for a sacrifice. Laedn lost his in the slave blocks of Lys as a future pillow slave. They shared between them great affection and a bed when possible. It was a rare year when they saw each other more than a week.

"Will we have a guest tonight?"

"I believe we might, yes."

"Then I shall prepare."

Varys walked up the steep stairs to their sleeping chamber above and changed into humbler Pentosi merchant clothes-Braavosi wool trousers and a linen shirt under a supple, beaten leather half-jacket.

Cleaned and dressed, he just returned to the narrow first level of the home when someone knocked at the door. Three knocks, followed by two more. Then a final single knock.

Varys opened the door to let the heavy, cloaked stranger in. The newcomer removed his hood to reveal the heavy russet beard and curls of Ilyrio Mopatis. The two hugged fondly. Childhood friends, it was Varys' information-gathering skills and Mopatis's people skills that landed them each where they were. For Varys, that meant the Master of Whispers at King's Landing. For Illyrio? It meant the most powerful Magister of Pentos.

"Come, Laedn has prepared turtledoves in a spiced Volantine sauce."

"Wonderful."

They did not speak of politics while they ate. Rather, Varys asked after the wife he helped Mopatis win, and the Magister position that came with it. Mopatis asked after Varys and the affairs of King's Landing. After the pheasants were consumed, with spiced fruit rice and the sweet sauces Laedn worked so hard to prepare, they each helped Laedn wash up from the meal before sending the younger man to bed.

Alone then, with only two oil lamps and a jug of wine, did they speak of pressing matters.

"The girl is smart," Mopatis said. "She sent Selmy to Lys first, and then bypassed their offer to hire her fleet as Sell Sails and took Torturer's Deep directly. She told those fools from Myr and Tyrosh that if they protested, then obviously the cities were supporting piracy not just against Lys, but also all other merchant traffic in the Narrow Sea and Beyond. She implied Dorne, Pentos and Volantis would step in."

"What have the Magisters of the other cities said? Will they move against her?"

Mopatis shook his head. "It is not worth the cost. She fortified Torturer's Deep, and did so efficiently. Stone catapult platforms at the mouth of the harbor, hardened as forts. She's settled many of those Volantine slaves she hustled there as well. We estimate her total fighting force to be eleven thousand now, even after her losses."

"I'm still surprised that neither Myr or Tyrosh wish to move against her," Varys said. "They would do so by proxy, after all."

"Myr, at least, made a token effort." Illyrio was, like Varys, a man given over to great appetites. He had a vast belly barely held in check by his silken doublet. It shook now as he chuckled. "They offered every man of the Golden Company a fist full of gold and a slave girl of his choice to take ship and destroy her."

"Oh? When did this happen?"

"From my raven? Three days ago. Two days ago, the Golden Company broke their contract with Myr completely. For the first time in their history, they broke a contract. I understand one of their captains was in Torturer's Deep when it fell."

"No!" Varys couldn't help but rear back in surprise. "But...she is no Targaryen. She can't be."

"Neither was little 'Aegon'," Illyrio pointed out. "But Jon Connington believed us when we told him the lad was. Well, this Rhaenys has her own Connington in the form of Barristan Selmy. But there's more, my friend. Far more. Prince Doran Martell was seen in Lys. He walked, Varys. He walked freely, flanked by those vicious bastard nieces of his. He did not sail from Dorne, though."

Varys heart thudded in his chest. "My friend, I don't know what to say. What do you know of her, personally?"

"My best account comes from Nyessos Vhassar, my pet Triarch from Volantis. He said she was a strikingly tall woman, taller than most men. Slim, but powerful. He said he saw her rise into the air in the gallery of the Triarchs by magic, wielding a flaming sword in her hand. The Red Priests of Volantis preach that she is the Princess that Was Promised, and urge their followers to support her. She recruited an officer corps from New Ghis and appears to have a good mind for tactics. More importantly, I learned from one of my captains who was on Torturer's Deep that the young woman is a powerful fighter in her own right."

"And the dragons?"

"The smallest is larger than a man. She has subborned our spy completely-Ser Jorah is at Ser Barristan's side. In fact, those she takes into her confidence remain there, unshakable. Even my captain spoke well of her. As well as Black Tooth Tara can speak of anyone." He laughed. "On an aside, the woman finally came to her senses and pulled that rotted tooth. Now she's Gold Tooth Tara."

Varys chuckled at the image. Both of them had an interesting and profitable relationship with the notorious pirate. "You believe this usurper can serve our purposes, then?"

"She has the dragons. If the Golden Company join her, she'll have over twenty thousand of the best, most experienced soldiers in the world. And if the Prince of Dorne declares for her, she has the name and twenty-thousand more. With Daenerys's tragic death...this may be our last chance, my friend."

"What will you do?"

"The Tattered Prince owes us a debt," Illyrio said. "It was you, after all, that warned him to flee when the Magisters at the time wished to name him the Prince of Pentos."

"He would have been the fifth that year, as I recall," Varys said. "On the one hand, he'd get to deflower the maids of the field and sea every year. On the other, he'd have his throat sacrificially cut if anything went wrong. Still, we ourselves were just children at the time. Would he remember?"

"He remembers. He now commands the Windblown, a sellsword company five thousand strong. I will offer twice what the Slaver Cities offered to help them quell the unrest in Astapor. Ships, food, soldiers bought and paid for for a year. Gold. But I can only risk doing this if she has Dorne's support."

Varys nodded and finished his cup. "Then I am bound for Lys on the morning tide, it seems. A shame. I do see Laedn so rarely."

"You could take him back to Westeros with you, you know."

"No, my friend. He is a weakness, you see. And in King's Landing, weaknesses are always exploited."

~~Quintessence~~

~~Quintessence~~

As a girl of twelve, Talisa Sae Avhassar watched a slave forfeit his life to save her brother.

It was a typical day in Volantis-blisteringly hot and humid. Her parents were a second day away at the Nympodaeis wedding, leaving her and the family slaves to care for her brother. What was a girl and her brother to do on such a day but go to the Rhoyne and swim with all the other free children?

Even seven years later, Talisa could remember the feeling of horror when she dragged her brother from the water. Pale, unmoving, all she could think was that her father would kill her. Girls were a commodity-she would be married off for a business gain. But her brother was the future of House Avhassar.

She didn't understand what the man was doing at first when he left his work and leaned over the boy-she was twelve and didn't understand that those who drowned could sometimes be saved. He did so, pushing down on Adiphos's chest until water spilled from his mouth and the boy began to cough.

Talisa remembered falling to her knees in tears and reaching out to hug the man in thanks, only to recoil when she saw the fish tattoo on his cheek. A slave. By touching the child of a free family, he had condemned himself to death. The man sat calmly looking at her, as if the prospect of death meant nothing.

That, more than anything, shook her. "Why?" she whispered.

"Valar Morghulis," the slave said. "The Lord of Light guides me. Even should I die, I am content to have saved a life."

Those words, as much as the slave's selflessness, changed her life. She made sure no one ever knew of the slave's action.

She had to sneak to the Red Temple of Volantis after that. R'hllor was a slave's god, her father told her, and she was forbidden to attend. But Talisa didn't care. Her father would never have willingly risked his life to save another man's child, not like that slave did. She studied under Kinvara and Benarro, the high priest and priestess of the temple. She had no gift in the flame, but she had a sharp mind and skilled hands, and learned healing arts from the Red Priests.

The moment she was of age, she took her dowry and fled the city with Eriale, her priestess and friend, determined never to live in a slave city again. Who could have imagined just three years later she would have the love of a northern barbarian king?

She stretched in his arms, smiling as she felt the life within her stir. But at the moment, that new life pressed rather urgently on her bladder. She climbed from the cot she and King Robb shared on the march toward the Twins and quickly made water. She dressed against the increasingly chill morning, and then left the tent for morning prayers.

Eriale was there, the only other in the Northern Army who prayed to the Lord of Light. Together, the two lit the bonfire and sang the hymns praying for the Lord to bring his light once more to the world. The words brought her contentment.

When the morning prayer was done, though, Eriale took her hand. "My queen," she whispered. "There is something I must show you. Will you come?"

"Of course." Eriale had been by her side since the first days of her indoctrination into the Red Temple. She was more than Talisa's friend-she was her spiritual counselor and personal priestess. She followed now without hesitation toward the small tent Eriale used near her own.

Within, a small brazier burned, heating the tent. The priestess had a small folding table, which was used as a backing for her tent and brazier when they packed to continue their trip. Talisa sat on the tripod camping chair and watched with interest as Eriale dug through her bundles of clothes.

When she returned, Talisa's heart thudded heavily within her chest, making her baby kick. "Is that...Eriale, where did you get a glass candle?"

"From the High Priestess of Volantis," Eriale said. Erial looked only a year or two older than Talisa, with the olive skin, white hair and violet eyes common to the Valyrian descendants that lived in Volantis. "It was seen in the fires of the temple that you would rise high, Talisa Stark. The Lord's light burned within you, and his touch sat upon your back, guiding you to this day. I have ever been your loyal friend, and I was gifted this candle in the event the Lord's servants ever needed me to speak to you. One has done so."

She then spoke words that made the hair on Talisa's neck stand on end-ancient, powerful words-as she held her hands over the candle. To her shock, the glass candle lit. Shocking, painful white light filled the tent. Looking at it burned the eye; and yet Eriale did just that. Her violet eyes turned white as she stared into the candle flame.

"Eriale I am, Priestess of the Flame, honored of R'hllor."

Talisa fought back a shock when a voice spoke back. "Zhan-Li I am, Priestess of the Flame, honored of R'hllor. I greet you, sister."

"And I you, sister. I have done as you asked. With me now is Talisa, a daughter of Avhassar, now Queen of the Northmen of Westeros. She will hear your words."

"I greet you, Talisa Stark, Queen of the North. I speak to you now from the Stepstones, in the company of Quaithe the Shadowbinder of Asshai, she who sees the flame and has the ear of Her Grace, Queen Rhaenys Targaryen, First of her Name, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and Ahor Azai reborn. And I bring you grave words."

It should have been impossible. Except Talisa grew up in one of the daughter cities of Valyria. Her family lived within the Black Walls that the Valyrians made, and she grew up reading about the magics that made Valyria so powerful. She knew of Class Candles, even if she had never seen one before. And she knew that her personal priestess would not have one by accident.

"The night is dark, and full of terrors," Talisa said, letting the familiar words come by rote. "Let the Lord's wisdom illuminate me."

"His blessings are on you now. For the future has been seen. Hear now the words of the Lord of Light, Talisa Stark of Winterfell. The flames have shown flayed twins taking you into their embrace, feeding you bread and salt, only to then cut the babe from your womb. The flames have shown a king's body desecrated with the head of a wolf. The flames have shown kin slaughtering kin and the mother's lamentations lost in a river of blood. Whatever path your steps follow at this moment will lead to the death of all you know."

While no expert on the intricacies of Westerosi politics, the prophecy was unusual in its clarity. Flayed twins? That had to mean both the Boltons and House Frey.

"I...these are hard words to hear."

"Then hear this, Talisa Stark of Winterfell. A priestess of Volantis am I, but I have seen a truth even my brethren have not seen. I have seen the Princess who was Promised heal a man who had a knife driven through his chest with naught more than a touch. I have seen the Princess who was Promised fly in the air, borne of the Lord's power. Her words are truth made sound, and her message is love tempered by strength. I serve the Lord of Light through her, and it is her will that I speak to you now. It is the will of Queen Rhaenys that you and your husband live."

"But...why?"

"A debt of blood. Rhaenys' grandfather burned your husband's grandfather and uncle to death in spite and madness. With this warning, the debt is paid. Do with the information what you will, but know when the Long Night falls, your husband must bend the knee if the world of man is to survive. Farewell, my sisters."

Abruptly the candle light went out. Eriale shuddered, cried in pain and covered her eyes. Though a part of Talisa wanted very much to comfort her friend, she sat paralyzed by what she had learned. It was more than just the words of warning and the fear that came with it. The implications of this moment percolated through her thoughts.

"Were you ever my friend, Eriale?"

"Always, my queen." Despite the pain-despite still covering her eyes-Eriale did not hesitate to answer. "Kinvara did not select me to be your friend. Kinvara chose me for my role because I was your friend. I refused at first. I would gladly die a thousand times before I betray you." She blinked back tears-her eyes glistened and were bloodshot from the strain of using the candle. "Tell me now, my queen. My sister. Is this betrayal? Say the word and I will cut my own wrists."

"No." Talisa spoke without hesitation. Because it was not a betrayal. It only made sense. Talisa knew the red priests and priestesses were trying to convert the people of Westeros to the red god's light. And she knew that Eriale was a priestess of that faith.

"Come. We must speak to my husband."