VI
Jon expects to be conducted to the palace where Daenerys Targaryen resides, that he may seek an audience with her, but he and his party are instead led down wide, paved streets, away from the great stone buildings that are unlike anything he has seen before, widest at their base, rising hundreds of feet, and gradually tapering to a narrow point. One, set in the heart of the city, rises taller than any other, and he assumes that this is where Daenerys and her court resides.
The building they are led to is long, stretching the full length of the street, and two storeys high. While some of the structures he has seen in Meereen look as old as any great castle in Westeros, he judges this one to be no more than a few years old. The base is constructed from sandstone blocks, but most of the building is wooden. He wonders if whoever ordered its construction was unwilling to go to the expense of having it made entirely of stone, or if their priority was to ensure that it was built as speedily as possible. He would ask his guide, but although the soldier who acted as spokesperson is not hostile, there is a chill in his manner that tells Jon that he is unlikely to welcome questions.
Their guide opens the door, and leads the way into a long, high-ceilinged room filled with beds; wooden bunks three-deep against the walls, and narrow pallets lined in rows on the floor. Jon begins to count as he follows, but their guide moves so quickly that he gives up the effort and matches his pace to his, but he estimates that there must be a thousand beds, most likely more. He wonders if this is a barracks for the Unsullied army that Sam spoke of.
A door at the back of the room leads to a hall with a staircase leading to the second storey, and through the hall is another massive room, about the same size as the other, except that instead of beds, this room is lined with at least a hundred plain but sturdy wooden tables and benches that remind him of the ones at Castle Black. At the far end of the room, he can see long tables set horizontally, most of them laden with huge, steaming cauldrons, each with a man or woman standing behind it, and a tall stack of bowls next to it. The table at the end is laden with baskets piled high with the flat loaves of bread they were offered in the market place. The closer he gets to them, the more the smell makes his mouth water, his longing for a hot meal so powerful that it almost brings him to his knees.
"Food. Sleep," their guide tell him, gesturing first to the tables at the end of the room, and then back in the direction of the room with the beds. He then turns on his heel and marches away, either not hearing or choosing to ignore Jon's protest that he needs to speak to Daenerys Targaryen.
Jon would run after him, to find out where she is, and how he should go about seeking an audience with her, but hunger wins out. He can seek out Daenerys Targaryen just as easily after a meal as with an empty stomach.
After almost three moons of travel on scant provisions, the food distributed at the market place could only blunt the very worst of their hunger for a short time, but Jon notes that this time, instead of crying for food with little expectation that their hunger will be sated, the children seem excited and hopeful, quickening their pace.
The Hound, dogged as always by the three orphans who have been his constant shadows since they left Winterfell, pushes forward with his little band, roughly jostling Jon out of his way, and Davos is quick to encourage the two little girls who, with no kin left, have attached themselves to him to come forward.
"Children first," the Hound declares gruffly, his scowl daring anybody to defy his edict. At his word, the other six children in their party step forward, or are gently nudged to the head of the line by the other adults.
The woman who stands behind the first cauldron, wielding a huge ladle like a scepter, nods her approval at the Hound, and though none of them can understand her words, the sentiment is clear. She and her fellows begin to fill the bowls, but instead of handing them to the children, and risking that they might spill the steaming contents on themselves in their haste, they carry them to one of the tables, setting out a dozen full bowls on either side of the table, and a spoon next to each bowl, and motioning for the children to take their places. Once they are seated, the first woman all but shoves the Hound down to sit with them. Gilly and the other parents, Sam excepted, are quick to follow suit. Once the group is seated, the men and women bring a basket of bread, tin cups, and two big jugs, setting them at the centre of the table.
Once the children are safely situated, food is distributed to the rest of the party in short order.
Jon accepts a bowl of some sort of stew, hoping that the man who serves him can understand his words of thanks, and moves down the line to take one of the flat loaves of bread and a cup of water.
Just behind him, Sam is holding out his bowl to be filled with stew, and the woman serving him asks a question, of which Jon can only understand one word: Volantis.
"No, we're not from Volantis, we're from Westeros," Sam explains. The woman only nods, apparently caring less about where they might be from than she does about how they are very clearly in desperate need of a good meal.
Jon leads the way to one of the empty tables, nodding for Sam, Davos and Sansa to join him. Brienne follows close at Sansa's heels, Podrick trailing behind her. Sam casts a worried look towards Gilly and Little Sam but, satisfied that they are eating their own meal, he obediently scurries behind Jon, keeping a careful grip of his bowl, cup and bread, unwilling to spill a drop. They seat themselves at the table Jon has chosen and, at first, nobody speaks, too hungry to do anything other than shovel their food into their mouths. Podrick, pale and silent since Winterfell fell, brightens at the food, a hint of colour on his thin cheeks as he eats. Sansa, the courtly table manners learned from Lady Catelyn and Septa Mordane forgotten, shovels her food into her mouth as rapidly as any of them.
Jon tries to remember when he last ate something that tasted so good. The food served at Castle Black was simple and nourishing, a soldier's food, and even the Lord Commander could not expect to dine on rich dishes. Not since the feasts at Winterfell during King Robert's visit has anything tasted as good as this stew, with its hearty chunks of meat and vegetables floating in a gravy well-seasoned with spices he doesn't recognize. He spoons it eagerly into his mouth, and tears the bread into strips to soak up every last drop of the gravy. His stomach, used to hunger, groans in discomfort at the unaccustomed fullness. He sips his water slowly as he waits for the others to finish.
"This beats a bowl o' brown hollow," Davos remarks, when his own bowl is empty. "We've landed on our feet if this is how Queen Daenerys and Meereen feed their beggars."
Sansa's eyes flash with indignation at his words. "We are not beggars."
"Beggin' your pardon, milady, but we've shown up, uninvited, with near a hundred and eighty to feed, and we've not a coin or a crust to feed them with. What else would call us, if not beggars?"
"We are here to seek an alliance with Daenerys Targaryen," Jon cuts in before Sansa can give voice to her palpable outrage. "We need her armies and her dragons to fight the Night King."
"Aye," Davos agrees, "and that's a very good reason for us to seek her out to ask for her help, but it's not a reason for her to want to help us. In my experience, limited though it may be, an alliance usually means that both sides get something out of the bargain. What's in it for her if she helps us?"
"Jon is her nephew. He's the only other Targaryen left in the world," Sansa points out.
"He is, and he's also heir to the throne that she believes is hers. She may not take kindly to that, not if she has a mind to claim Westeros for herself. We'll be asking her to risk everything to save a continent she's not set foot in since she was a babe too young to walk, and to put a man she's never met on the Iron Throne."
"What are you suggesting, Ser Davos?" Sam asks warily. "Do you think that she'll demand that Jon step down in return for her help?"
"I think that we need to anticipate all possibilities."
"Jon can't give up the Seven Kingdoms!" Sansa protests. "Not to the Mad King's daughter!"
"It'll be best if you don't call her that to her face, not when we're here to beg for her help. And we need to consider it, before we go to see her, so we know where we stand."
"I know where we stand!"
"Enough." Jon doesn't speak loudly, but the authority in his voice is enough to get Sansa to subside, though the expression on her face makes it plain how aghast she is at the thought that he might have to give up his claim to the Iron Throne in return for the help they are in such desperate need of.
When Bran first told him of his parentage, he knew that he could not keep it a secret from his sisters, but while part of him hated the idea of telling Arya that he was not her brother by blood, he wanted Sansa to know the truth. When they were children, her loyalty to her mother led her to shun his company, and to ensure that she only ever referred to him as her half-brother or her bastard brother, never as simply her brother. He wanted her to know that their father was never untrue to Lady Catelyn, to remove the sole stain on the honour of Ned Stark, and to reassure that she could love him as a brother without feeling as though she was betraying her mother's memory. He had given little thought to the Iron Throne, far more concerned with the North than with the other six kingdoms, but Sansa was the one to suggest that where Jon Snow failed to rally the South to fight the Night King, Aegon Targaryen might succeed. While this attempt to gain support failed, he was nonetheless touched by Sansa's belief that, if he took the Iron Throne, he would be a great King.
"Enough," he says again, more softly this time. "None of this will matter if Westeros is lost."
He will see Daenerys Targaryen, tell her of the threat facing the land their ancestors ruled for nearly three centuries, and explain how desperate their need of her help is.
Once she knows that she is the last hope for Westeros, how can she refuse him?
Their guide returns after supper, staying only long enough to inform him that his Queen is to host an audience on the morrow, at the Great Pyramid.
Jon wants to argue with him, to emphasize that it is imperative that he is allowed to speak to her without delay, but the man doesn't wait for him to answer before marching away. In truth, it is almost a relief to him to know that he will be able to get a night's sleep first, and he knows that Davos speaks the truth when he points out that his people are in desperate need of rest. The pallet he chooses has a mattress that rustles as he moves, suggesting that it is stuffed with dry grass. It is cooler at night, but not so much so that he needs to use the blanket folded at the foot of his bed. He expects that he will lie awake some hours, thinking over what he is to say to Daenerys Targaryen when they come face to face, but he is so exhausted that, once he stretches out on his pallet, he cannot keep his eyes open for more than a few moments.
There is no cock-crow or bell to awaken the sleepers, and when he opens his eyes, the bright sun streaming through the windows lets him know that it is long past dawn, yet he is among the first to stir.
He is breaking his fast on a big bowl of porridge, with some sort of tart berries that he does not recognize stirred through it, leaving purple streaks in the creamy surface, when the others begin to stream into the room, accepting bowls of porridge from the servers and taking their places at the tables. They scarcely speak as they eat, but agree among themselves that Sansa, Ser Davos and Sam are to accompany him to the Great Pyramid. He knows that there is no sense in dragging all of his people on the journey, not when they can enjoy much needed rest and sustenance here. He also agrees with Davos that he had best leave Longclaw behind, as it is unlikely that they will be permitted to bring weapons into an audience with the Queen.
Once they have eaten, they set out for the Great Pyramid, which rises so far above the other buildings in the city that it is fairly easy for them to find their way there.
They are not the only ones seeking out Daenerys Targaryen.
As the near the Great Pyramid, they see others walking ahead of them, making their way towards the structure that is so immense that it takes Jon's breath away. Taller than the Wall, it stretches so high that it seems as though its apex must touch the sky. Jon follows the people into the pyramid, through the open doors guarded by sentries.
It would be a lie to claim that he is not dismayed that, instead of hosting audiences on the bottom level of the Great Pyramid, Daenerys Targaryen expects those who seek her out to climb more than thirty long flights of steps to reach her, though he supposes that this is one way to ensure that nobody seeks to waste her time with a frivolous complaint or petition. Sam is breathless, his face damp with sweat and bright pink from exertion, and the rest of them are scarcely in better condition when they finally reach a level at what Jon judges to be almost the very top of the pyramid, only to find a queue of at least sixty or seventy people ahead of them. Most of them look to be smallfolk, clad in homespun tunics, but there are several richly dressed men and women also waiting in line.
His attempt to lead his group past the line is met with an instant stream of protests and, while Jon cannot understand the words, the meaning is unmistakable.
"Please," he tries to reason with them, speaking loudly enough for all of them to hear him, hoping that at least one of them will know the Common Tongue. "You don't understand. We need to see your Queen now. Our country is at stake."
His plea avails him nothing. Those queueing for an audience are quick to block him, pushing him backwards, and when four of the soldiers march towards them to settle the dispute, they refuse to listen to what he has to say. Their only response to his explanation that he must be allowed to see the Queen immediately is to point to the back of the queue, their implacable expressions making it plain that it would not be in his best interests to offer any further argument.
Davos catches him by the elbow, tugging him backwards. "It'll do no good if you get us tossed out of here."
Recognising the truth of his words, and guessing that the soldiers are likely to be ready and willing to force them to leave if he makes trouble, Jon allows himself to be led to the back of the line, inwardly berating himself. He should have sent a message ahead to the Great Pyramid, to let Daenerys Targaryen know that a party from Westeros needed to see her as a matter of extreme urgency and to make an appointment to see her, but there is little point in dwelling on it.
All they can do now is wait their turn.
Hours pass as they watch as person after person is conducted through the great, carved doors for their audience. Most emerge after no more than a few minutes, but others take longer. He tries to imagine the kind of issues they bring before their Queen, remembering the times that he sat in the great hall of Winterfell, watching his father receive petitioners. As heir to Winterfell, it was part of Robb's education to watch his father hold court for his people to lay their grievances and requests before him, and Ned Stark always made it plain that Jon should also attend, though it was certain that many must have wondered why a bastard should ever need to know how a Lord should rule.
He takes note of the expressions on their faces as they return to make their way back downstairs, and most of them appear to be happy with the outcome of their audience. Even those who don't look happy seem accepting rather than angry, which suggests that Daenerys Targaryen is fair, if nothing else, and makes him feel a little more optimistic.
By the time their turn comes, his legs feel stiff from standing in line for so long. He straightens his doublet, and it occurs to him that, though he dislikes Davos' characterizing them as beggars, it cannot be denied that they look the part. Even Sansa's gown, once as fine as anything that Lady Catelyn might have worn for a feast day, has seen better days, the once fine black wool faded and torn, and the embroidery invisible under the stains. If nothing else, he can hope that their present state will serve to emphasize just how desperately they need help.
They are conducted into a massive chamber, its ceiling at least twenty-five, if not thirty feet high, the roof supported by wide, richly carved columns. At the centre of the chamber, a stone staircase rising over half of the height of the ceiling leads to a dais, on which sits the most beautiful woman Jon has ever seen.
A pale, delicately-featured face, framed by long curls too light to be called blonde, the moon-pale silver hair of a Targaryen, looks down at him. He is too far away from her to see the colour of her eyes, and wishes that he could get closer, to see if they are tinted purple, like the eyes of the Targaryens he read of when he was a boy. It occurs to him that this may be the closest he will ever come to seeing what his father, celebrated for his Valyrian colouring as well as his handsome face, looked like, for his own colouring and features are all Stark, with nothing of Rhaegar Targaryen in him. She wears no crown, but she needs none when her bearing makes it plain that she is a Queen.
It takes what feels like an eternity for him to be able to tear his gaze from her face to take in their surroundings, and he fervently hopes that no more than a few moments passed in reality, that he has not been standing there, gaping at her like a fool, for so long that she will think him a madman.
Daenerys Targaryen sits on a plain bench rather than on a throne, flanked on either side by a tall, armed man. Neither wears the livery of the soldiers he has seen, but both hover over her as protectively as any Kingsguard. Two women stand on either side of the dais, both dark skinned and richly dressed. A third stands behind Daenerys, her face covered by an elaborate mask. A few steps down from the dais, two little girls, clad in bright silk gowns with ribbons woven in their dark braids, abandon the game they are playing to watch his party's approach. Sentries stand at the foot of the steps, and he recognizes one of them as their guide.
He tears his gaze from her to see that there are others in the room, seated on carved chairs between the columns. He recognizes Tyrion Lannister in an instant, and Tyrion raises a goblet to him by way of salute.
"That's Lady Olenna Tyrell," Sansa tells him in a whisper, nodding in the direction of an elderly lady, in a gown of green silk so dark that he almost takes it for black, and a richly ornamented headdress. She is attended by two girls of about Sansa's age, wearing gowns of paler green, embroidered with gold roses. Lady Olenna shows more interest in the tray of pastries set on the table in front of her chair than she does in their approach, but the girls whisper and giggle.
How did Lady Olenna end up in Meereen? Did his request that she send the Tyrell army to aid in the battle against the Night King and his army lead her to abandon Westeros altogether, seeking shelter in a Targaryen court?
Jon does not recognize any of the others present, but notes that they are all ladies, all dark-haired, most of them gowned as richly as Lady Olenna, though three of them wear tunics and leather armour instead. The oldest is no more than forty years, the others ranging in age from several years his senior to younger than Arya.
One of the ladies standing on the dais speaks as they approach. "You stand in the presence of Daenerys of House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, The Unburnt, Queen of Meereen, Astapor and Yunkai, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, Protector of her People and Mother of Dragons."
Jon opens his mouth but cannot force his tongue to speak a single word.
Sansa steps forward, speaking with a confidence that Jon envies. "Allow me to present Aegon Targaryen, the Sixth of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."
Jon doesn't think he has ever in his life felt as ridiculous as he does at this moment, standing here, looking far more like a beggar than he does a King, hailed as a protector when he has failed his people so badly.
The older of the little girls sitting on the steps below the dais scowls at this with a ferocity that reminds Jon painfully of Lady Lyanna Mormont. "Our cousin, Prince Aegon, was murdered by the Mountain when he was a babe, when the Lannisters betrayed King Aerys. He had silver hair, didn't he?"
"He did," one of the ladies, who looks to be in her mid-twenties and who wears a tunic and armour, confirms. "Father took me to King's Landing once to see Aunt Elia and our cousins, Your Grace. Prince Aegon had your brother's hair and eyes. Princess Rhaenys was the one who inherited Aunt Elia's hair."
"So my brother told me," Daenerys agrees.
"He is a liar," the younger of the little girls pronounces, glaring at Jon. "You are not our cousin."
"No, no, I'm not trying to pretend that I'm your cousin…" Jon begins, aghast that his audience should have such a bad beginning. He tries to find the words to explain that he is not pretending to be his dead half-brother, the babe left behind at King's Landing when his father ran away with his mother, but Sam is the first to speak up.
"This is just a misunderstanding, Your Grace; he is not the son of Elia Martell, he is the son of Lady Lyanna Stark."
"Yet you call him King," the second of the women flanking Daenerys Targaryen observes. "How can that be?"
"If I may speak, Your Grace. My name is Samwell Tarly, and I was the one who found out about it, from a diary in the Citadel. Prince Rhaegar annulled his marriage to Elia Martell so that he might marry Lady Lyanna," Sam explains. If he is shaken by the glares that are now fixed on him, it does not stop him from continuing. "Lady Lyanna… Princess Lyanna, I should say… bore a son in secret in a tower in Dorne, and gave him to her brother, Lord Stark, to keep hidden for his safety."
"Do you dare to suggest that Princess Elia consented to annul her marriage and make bastards of her children?"
"No, she never knew about it, Prince Rhaegar annulled the marriage in secret, with the High Septon."
The woman raises an eyebrow, a scornful expression on her face, before turning slightly to address Daenerys. "It appears that standards at the Citadel must have slipped since I earned my platinum link, Your Grace."
"Platinum… that's for law. No, I never forged that link… or any link, really. I was only in the Citadel for a very short time, you see, and…"
"And during your time there, you saved Ser Jorah's life," Daenerys interjects. Jon feels a painful stab of jealousy when she gives Sam a smile that makes him blush. "You and I must discuss a suitable reward for such a great service."
"Had you studied in the citadel long enough to earn the right to forge a platinum link, or even one of red gold, you would know that an annulment requires that both parties to a marriage must consent, and that the annulment must be publicly declared. If both do not agree that the marriage should be annulled, there must be a trial before seven Septons, at which both may make their case, and the Septons will pass judgement on the validity of their union. Did this happen?"
"No," Sam admits, casting an apologetic look at Jon, clearly mortified by his mistake.
"Then Prince Rhaegar's marriage to Lady Lyanna was unlawful in the eyes of gods and men, and your 'King' is a bastard."
Daenerys wants to laugh, to cry, to scream.
Would that she had had Sarella Sand advising her in Westeros, when Jon first told her of his parentage, and she knew that the man she loved would be a greater barrier to her quest for her ancestors' throne than Cersei Lannister. She cannot help but frown at Tyrion, irritated that, for all his purported intelligence and learning, he did not know that Jon's claim to the Iron Throne was never a true one. She half-wishes that she had summoned Varys back to Meereen, that he could be here now so she could demand of him whether he was aware that Jon could not truly claim legitimacy, much less the Seven Kingdoms, or if he had simply ignored the invalidity of Jon's claim because he preferred to serve a King than a Queen, so much so that he was prepared to murder her to pave Jon's way to the Iron Throne.
She wonders what her brother was thinking.
Was Rhaegar so ignorant of the laws, and so callous as to be willing to cast aside his wife and children because he was besotted with Lyanna Stark, or had he known all along that the annulment and remarriage would never be accepted yet duped her into believing that they were husband and wife in order to have her give herself to him?
Neither is a good reflection on the older brother she never knew, yet idolized since Viserys first told her stories of him.
"Thank you for clarifying the matter, Lady Sarella," she says, surprised that she is able to keep her voice so even. "I trust that you will not offer any further insult to the memory of my good-sister, my niece and my nephew."
"No, Your Grace," Samwell Tarly says, abashed.
"Does that mean that he's a Sand, like us?" Loreza sounds decidedly put out at the thought of Jon sharing her surname.
"My name is Jon Snow."
He sounds relieved when he speaks the name he carried when they first met, in the other life, rather than dismayed to learn that he cannot lay claim to the Targaryen name or to a royal title. She should not be surprised; she never had trouble believing that he was speaking truthfully when he told her that he did not want the crown, and that he supported her as Queen. It was his loyalty to the Starks rather than his ambition that led him to refuse her plea to keep the secret, even when spreading word of his parentage endangered her life as well as her claim to the throne.
"He is King in the North," Sansa insists, pursing her lips in a pout when Jon rebukes her in hushed tones.
"Why have you come to Meereen, Jon Snow?" Ignoring Sansa, she meets his gaze, and her stomach churns in protest. She swallows the bitter fluid that fills her mouth, unwilling to show weakness by asking for water to wash the taste from her mouth.
"I have come for your help, Your Grace. The Iron Throne doesn't matter; it's yours if you want it, with my blessing."
"Jon!" Sansa protests, aghast, but he ignores her.
"Westeros has been invaded by an enemy unlike any you have ever seen, an army of the dead, and every man, woman and child they kill is another soldier in their army. There aren't many weapons that can kill them; only dragonglass, Valyrian steel, and fire. They have already overrun the North. The people who travelled to your city with me are all that is left. We need your army and your dragons if we're to have a hope of saving the rest of Westeros."
"How long did it take for you and your people to travel here, Jon Snow?"
"Almost three moons, but what has that got to do with..."
She raises a hand to cut him off. "It would take at least as long for us to travel back there, longer, since I would need to gather my forces, and arrange for ships, provisions for our journey, and to garb my people for winter before we could set out. Have you enough weapons to arm over a hundred thousand warriors?"
"A hundred thousand…" His eyes are almost impossibly wide as he takes this in. Word must not have reached Westeros that the Dothraki follow her now. "No, I don't."
"How quickly does this army of the dead move? How much ground do you imagine that they have covered since you left Westeros? How much more ground will they cover in the time it would take to travel back?"
She watches the expression on his face shift from one of desperate hope to one of despair at the realization that, with or without her help, it is far too late for him to save Westeros. She cannot help but feel pity for him, and she hates herself for it, hates this weakness, hates that after he let her down in so many ways before his final betrayal, she still feels guilty for letting him down. More than a year has passed since she made her choice, yet the guilt of not being able to save everybody can still pain her.
"You're telling me that you won't help me save Westeros."
"I'm telling you that I can't help you save Westeros. It's too late for that. Anybody who is not already dead would be lost long before we could make it back there. I can help your people, and I am prepared to do so. Meereen welcomes all those who seek to make a new life for themselves. Your people can have a home here, under my protection. We have barracks where you can be housed and fed until you can provide for yourselves, and you will be given help to find work."
"Work?" Sansa repeats in disbelief.
"What about the rest of Westeros?"
"I assume that you sent word to the other six kingdoms about the Army of the Dead?" Jon nods confirmation. "Then we should hope that they will see that the best thing they can do is to sail for Essos with as many of their people as possible."
"I don't think that they will believe me," Jon confesses miserably, his shoulders hunched in defeat. She knows that less than a year separates their births, but in this moment, he looks at least ten years her senior. "None of the Southern Houses sent their armies to help fight against the Army of the Dead. They may not flee Westeros on my word."
"That is regrettable, but there is nothing I can do to change it. All I can do now is to offer you and your people a fresh start. I hope that you accept."
She rises, signaling that the audience is at an end, and turns to leave the audience chamber, needing to take some time to compose herself before she sees the next petitioner. She hears footsteps behind her, and knows that Jorah and Daario, and perhaps a few more of the members of her little court will be following behind her, wanting to see how she is coping with coming face to face with the survivors of the kingdoms she abandoned to death.
She has scarcely crossed the threshold into the private antechamber adjoining the audience chamber when she vomits, the contents of her stomach spilling out onto the smooth, polished tiles arranged in patterns on the floor, spattering the hem of her gown.
Jorah is the first to reach her, and he wraps his arms around her, half carrying her over to a chair and making her sit. He fetches her a goblet of water and watches her sip from it, his calloused hand gentle as he strokes first her cheek and then her brow, as if checking for signs of a fever. Daario is hard on his heels, reaching her side a bare moment later.
"Don't let them distress you, Khaleesi, they're not worth it," Jorah urges.
"I know."
He scrutinizes her face for a few moments, as if to test the sincerity of her response. He must be satisfied, because he leans forward and kisses her brow.
"I'll have a bath prepared for you," he offers, and as soon as he says it, she feels as if there is nothing that she wants more than to wash both the smell of sickness and the discomfort of the audience with Jon Snow from her skin. She certainly can't hear the next petitioner with the smell of vomit clinging to her. At her answering nod, he departs on his errand.
"I'll send to the kitchens for something to settle your stomach," Daario volunteers. "I need to see them anyway, to make sure that they know to have plenty of cake ready for supper. Dorea and Loreza deserve a reward. Did you see the look on his face when they scolded him?" He chuckles at the memory, and plants a kiss on the top of her head before he leaves.
Lady Olenna clucks sympathetically when she enters, side-stepping the pool of vomit. Ellaria Sand is with her.
"It seems that your little passenger objects to Northerners, my dear," Lady Olenna remarks.
"You're blessed if that's all that troubles you," Ellaria tells her cheerfully. "With Dorea, I couldn't stand the taste or smell of spices. Do you know how boring meals in Dorne are when you can't stomach spices?"
"What are you talking about?" They can't mean what she thinks they mean; she is certain of it.
"There's no need to be coy, child, we're all women here, and we've both been in your shoes."
"No," she shakes her head vehemently, rejecting the thought, the hope. "You don't understand. I can't have children."
"Tell that to your little passenger."
"Why would you think that you can't have children, Your Grace? You're young, and healthy, and with two strong men in your bed, you've double the chance of one of them leaving you a present. When did you last bleed?"
She hasn't in years, not since Rhaego, not since Mirri Maz Duur snatched her husband and her son from her, before blighting her womb with a curse. "The witch who murdered my husband told me that I would never bear a child."
"Well, I've had four daughters, and I'm telling you that you're with child," Ellaria tells her. She reaches out and gives Daenerys' breast a light squeeze, as Irri did years ago, and the tenderness is the same as it was with Rhaego.
She touches her abdomen with awed fingers, scarcely daring to believe that it might be true. Lady Olenna lays a wrinkled hand over hers, a motherly smile on her face.
That is how Jorah and Daario find her when they return from their respective errands.
Daario, a steaming goblet in one hand, stops to look from one to the other, the puzzled expression on his face matching Jorah's. "What did we miss?"
TBC.