Theon woke when he felt Milli move away. She rolled to the edge of the bed and slipped out from under the blanket and put her bare feet on the floor. He almost asked where she was going before he heard the soft cry, and realized it was coming from the other side of the curtained doorway.

"Don't get up," she said softly. "I'll quiet him."

"You have a child?"

She scoffed. Smiling, she said, "You didn't notice my teats were a little bigger than you remembered?" She wrapped her undergarment around her waist. "He's nearly weaned, but he'll settle for milk till we get up and you're gone." She lifted the curtain and disappeared. A moment later, the cries stopped, and Milli began cooing, as women do with a babby in their arms.

He rose and pulled on his trousers, tying them as he approached the curtain. When he put a hand on it to pull it aside, she said from the other side, "If you're looking for a place to make water, it's the door on the other side of the hall."

"No."

"Best stay there, then, it's pretty ripe in here."

His nostrils twitched. The man once called Reek had sometimes spent days bound to the crossties in Ramsey's playroom, and gone weeks without bathing; bad smells meant nothing to him now. Theon lifted the curtain and stepped inside. The room beyond was no larger than the one she slept in, and even plainer. More pegs and shelves on the walls held a variety of clothing and other possessions. Far from the doorway stood a wooden crib and a stool. Milli sat at the stool with a toddler at her breast. She must have gotten pregnant as soon as he came here, he thought…

He couldn't see its features, but the child's head was capped with curly brown hair lighter than its mother's. Theon raised his eyes and saw Milli watching him.

As many times as I've fucked you, I might have put a bastard into you by now.

He swallowed. "Is… is it mine?"

"He's mine," she said. "And he shat himself in the night. Do you want to watch me clean his arse?"

He backed out and let the curtain fall.

"He's a good boy," she said through the curtain. "More than a little spoiled, I daresay, but that's what comes of being surrounded by women all his life. One of the others would have taken him for me if we weren't all sharing our beds last night. But I knew he'd sleep through till morning if I put a good meal in him."

Theon's head spun. His claim to the Salt Throne had disappeared when Ramsey had sent his cock to his father in a box, because Theon could no longer offer the Ironborn an heir. But the rules of inheritance in Pyke were different from most of Westeros: the children of salt wives were legitimate…

No. The lack of an heir is the least of the reasons you're not fit to rule the Ironborn. "What's his name?"

"Addin. I named him in the manner of my people, not yours. I expect I'll tell him I don't know who his father is. He'll have your girl-pretty looks, that's burden enough, especially in a place like this. He doesn't need an excuse to put on airs besides."

He swallowed. "What if I claimed him?"

"Claimed him?" She repeated, her voice suspicious.

"And you," he amended. "Give you both my protection, and a share in whatever I have."

"My lord," she said, her voice edged with sarcasm, "You're going off to war in the morning. I can't go with you. You'll never be back. Like as not, you'll be in the arms of your Drowned God before this little fellow learns to walk. If not, well, now that you know you can still please a woman, you'll be back to your old ways before long, amusing yourself with whores and tavern wenches and tradesmen's daughters."

"No."

"Yes. You'll need to, to prove to yourself you're still a man." She said thoughtfully, "You've changed. It's hard to say whether the change is better. Before, I wanted you, and I wanted you to take me away, but I didn't like you much. You were so cocky and arrogant. I liked that and hated it at the same time, somehow. I knew you were using me, but I was trying to use you as well. But it seems I badly overestimated the worth of my charms. Now … I think it would be easy to get a promise from you, but I don't want anything you could offer me." She came out, still naked from the waist up, nipples shiny with moisture. "You don't look ready to go back to bed. Dawn isn't far off. Let's get you dressed and put a proper meal into you before you go, what do you say?"

…

"I wish we could be together on the voyage," said Missandei.

"My place is with my men. Yours is by her side." Grey Worm put on the last of his garments, adjusting the hem of his jacket. His movements were crisp and precise, very unlike his slow, gentle, almost hesitant manner when he touched her. He was the Captain of the Unsullied once more, self-assured and single-minded, a man of wood and steel.

What was she doing with him, really? Why not another man? Why not any other man?

But then his gaze fell on her, and he was hers again. "But whenever duty allows, I will be looking toward her ship, trying to catch sight of you."

Though true dawn was still an hour off and the windows were still dark, the room brightened around her. "I don't know if I will be able to find your ship among so many. But I'll wear the brightest colors in my chest when I come up on deck, so you can find me."

…

Tyrion said, "You are entirely too good at this game."

The girl smiled as she shook the cupful of dice. "I am skilled in all manner of ways to separate a man from his coin." She cast its contents gently across the table.

A bit blurry from drink, Tyrion counted the dots revealed on the little cubes of bone, unsurprised to see that they added up to the precise number required to win. He pushed another copper coin across the table to the small pile at the girl's hand. "Are you sure you're not cheating somehow?"

"I'm quite sure that if I am, you'll never catch me." She returned the dice to the cup and passed it to him.

He picked up the cup and rattled its contents: they sounded different somehow than when she did it. "You're a witch of some sort, aren't you? Do you worship the Red God?" When she gave him no answer he went on, "What's your name?"

"I have many," she said. "Whores often do. I've forgotten the one my parents gave me. What would you like to call me?"

Tyrion spilled the dice cup, letting them tumble out: the number matched her last roll. She pushed the copper back to him. He met her eyes. "Sansa."

Her brows gathered. "Your second wife, the highborn one? You'd give her name to a whore?"

He refilled his glass. "I just wanted to see if you recognized it. You didn't include her in your list of aggrieved women." The liquid overflowed before he stopped pouring and set the bottle down. "She had more than one reason to hate the Lannisters, and the marriage was not by her choice, but I think even she would say I treated her kindly."

"She didn't love you." She took the dice cup in hand. "Perhaps that was her salvation. Go again?"

…

Varys gave a gentle smile to the young man who appeared at his doorway. The man who in certain circles was called 'The Spider' had not stated a preference when he had appeared in the brothel's parlor and asked for a room and some companionship, but he knew that a man with a woman's voice and the look of a eunuch would likely be given a boy. In any other of the Seven Kingdoms, preference for one's own sex – if one was a male, at least - was treated very circumspectly even in its brothels, being a crime against the Church, but here in Dorne, attitudes were more enlightened.

In truth, either boy or girl would have suited his purpose. But as a broker of secrets, he kept his own close. And as a backroom manipulator, he trusted almost no one with his personal history, motives, or desires.

"Please, come in," he said. "Shut the door."

The boy complied, but took no more than a step or two inside. He was darkly handsome, as so many Dornish were, curly-haired and clean-limbed. But the way his eyes darted about the room indicated uncertainty. He's new, Varys thought. But not too new. Very good. "What is your desire, my lord?"

"Come. Sit," he said, gesturing to a pair of divans flanking a low table set with two glasses and a bottle of good local vintage. "Let us talk a bit. What is your name?"

"Moldova," the young man said. He hesitated, then sat at one end of a couch, sinking deep into the cushions, waiting for Varys to join him.

Varys poured for them both and slid one glass across the table before seating himself across the way. "Moldova. A very strong-sounding name. How old are you, Moldova?"

"Fifteen, my lord."

"And how did you come to be here?"

"I signed a contract, my lord."

It was always about money, especially in this business, Varys thought. He touched the glass to his lips, not drinking, only wetting them. "You seem rather young to be making such a decision for yourself."

"My father is gone – not run off, he was a sailor, and his ship disappeared at sea two years ago. I have two younger sisters and a baby brother, born after my father set off. My mother did everything she could to keep food on the table and a roof overhead, but it wasn't enough." He took a nervous sip from his glass. "She borrowed money. Things were better for a while, but it wasn't long before no one would loan her any more, and men began coming to the house pressing for payment. We started having to miss meals, and the landlord threatened to put us out. A woman approached my mother and offered to cover the family's debts with some extra, but she wanted … security for the loan." He looked into the cup. "Her first offer was for my sisters. But I…"

The bald man nodded. As a whore's story, it needed polish, but it was still compelling for being true. He wondered briefly if the procurer prowled the neighborhoods of the destitute looking for opportunities, or if she had arranged the family's troubles to create one. "When will the contract end?"

"When I pay it off. I send money home for my mother to give to the woman, all I can spare, but I have to pay for my room and board here, and my family still needs things…"

Varys nodded again. "And I'm sure your benefactress charges interest." No doubt the boy had been speaking with his coworkers, many of whom had arrived here years before under similar circumstances, and was just starting to realize that there would be no end to his 'contract,' that he would be a prostitute until no one would pay for his services anymore. But before that, his sisters would be old enough to join him in servitude paying the endless debt. He relaxed his grip on the goblet. "How old are your sisters?"

The boy raised his eyes to meet his client's. "Eight and nine, my lord."

Varys touched the rim of the cup to his lips again. "You don't have much time, Moldova."

The boy swiped at his eyes with a knuckle. "Pardon, my lord, I-"

"Stop." Varys leaned forward. With a fingertip, he gathered the moisture from the boy's eye and touched it to his tongue. It had been a very long time since he had tasted tears; they brought back memories best savored in small doses. "Don't call me 'my lord,' Moldova. I'm given that title only as a convenience, no one really thinks of me as a nobleman. I have no House, no lands, no family to carry my name. I have risen high, but only because I have proven myself useful to the powerful time and time again." As you may.

"What shall I call you, then?"

He leaned back, cup clasped in both hands, and smiled. "Uncle."

…

"It's good to see you eating." Sharing a bench at the kitchen table with Theon, Milli smiled at the fallen Ironborn prince as she bounced her infant on a knee. "Thin as you are, I thought perhaps you'd given up the habit."

"It's the best meal I've had in years." Theon shoveled another big spoonful of eggs and vegetables into his mouth – simple, hearty fare, but it tasted wonderful. He met her eyes. "Everything's good here."

Her smile widened, but she returned her attention to the boy in her lap. "That's the first thing like a compliment you've ever given me. I would have blushed to hear it, once."

A girl appeared at the kitchen door. "Milord, your escort, the Unsullied captain, he's arrived in the parlor."

"I'll take him," Milli said to her. "Off with you."

They strolled down the torchlit halls, seeming in no hurry. Theon said without looking at her, "When everything is settled back home, I'll send for you. Refuse if you like, but if you'll come, you'll share my roof, at least, and the boy will have my name. I swear it."

The corners of her mouth turned up. "Oh you swear it, do you? How grave and determined you sound. Do you have any idea how many oaths and promises a whore hears?"

"I've broken oaths and promises, more than once, and betrayed good people's trust. And paid dearly for that faithlessness." He touched the little boy's hair. "If I live through what's to come, my sister will be Queen of the Iron Lands, and I'll have a home to offer you. If you move, leave word, so I can find you."

She huffed softly and held her child a little tighter. "You won't find us anywhere else, one way or another. I won't make you any promises, Theon, except this one. If we do come to your house, no matter what titles the Dragon Queen lays on you, I'll never call you 'my lord' again."

"I'm sure you'll find something else to call me." He tangled his fingers in her hair, and touched his lips to hers.

…

Varys lay on the soft ornate bed, staring at the ceiling. Beside him, Moldova slept with one hand on the older man's chest. They hadn't coupled, but the old spymaster thought it prudent that anyone looking in should see them together, and had ordered the boy to share the big bed.

Come morning, there would be much to do, and little time. Daenerys might already have left Meereen by now, and the fleets of Dorne and the Arbor were assembling hurriedly, intending to meet her at sea. He would have to be aboard one of the departing vessels if he was to meet his queen. But first, he needed to be sure that she was safe from her 'allies,' and that he would have advance warning of their plans and intentions, schemes and plots.

Fortunately, this brothel had been the final place where he had planned to recruit in Sunspear – whores made excellent spies, when they were properly motivated. But now he needed to travel to Highgarden and extend the network he had already begun there. He judged Olenna Tyrell to be the greater threat, and his preparations there needed to be more subtle and far-reaching.

The boy beside him stirred and rolled closer, still asleep. Varys let out a heavy sigh, gave in, and slipped an arm around him, pulling the boy to him. He sighed again at the almost–forgotten pleasure of simply sharing warmth and contact with another human being. What might he have given as a child for even this much of a show of tenderness? He shook his head. Perhaps it had been better that he had been friendless and alone and self-reliant. This boy beside him, desperate though he was, was still a stranger to true privation. Missed meals were nothing. Submitting to the carnal attentions of strangers was nothing. He had had a good childhood before the sea had taken his father, and he still had a family to love and worry over. It made him soft and easy to steer.

Not that Varys intended him harm, far from it. The harpy who held his promise would be convinced to keep honest books and forego adding to the sum owed. A man Varys could trust would pay regular visits to both the brothel and the moneylender, and if Moldova was clever and cautious, he would be free and well-off before his sisters became women.

Perhaps by that time, Daenerys would have won her way to the Iron Throne. The Seven Kingdoms would be united and prospering. And children would be safe and cared for, not starved or beaten or mutilated or worked to death. It was a pleasant dream.

…

Heavy pounding on the door brought Tyrion blearily out of slumber. "Just a minute," he called, not yet aware of his surroundings or what he had done the night before. His headache awakened before his memory returned or his sight cleared, and he groaned, passing a hand over his eyes. "Gods."

He was lying on a divan in the bedroom suite's parlor. He stirred, and felt a weight on him. The girl had fallen asleep sitting on the floor beside him, her head on his belly. They were both clothed. She lifted her head and met his eyes.

The pounding resumed. "Little man," Rago called through the door, "Are you alive in there?"

"After a fashion," he said, as the whore – if whore she truly was – slipped off him and stood, looking as fresh as when he had first seen her. She went to the door and opened it.

The Dothraki stepped in and looked Tyrion over. "You look like you've been struck by lightning. If I carry you, will you at least try not to vomit on my back?"

"I'll walk. Just give me a moment to gather myself."

The girl knelt and fussed over him, straightening his clothes and finger-combing his hair. He was nonplussed by the attention until he realized it must be for Rago's benefit. Let it not be whispered that the Garden of Joy failed to give its customers full satisfaction, he thought. With her face a double handwidth from his, he said softly, "Did we?"

"Hardly," she answered. "You were far too drunk, and I wasn't nearly drunk enough." She placed her forearms on his shoulders and touched foreheads. "Perhaps you're not the monster you're made out to be. But you're a wretched creature nonetheless. You should devote yourself to becoming a better man. You've the potential for it, I think."

"Your concern for my future is touching," he said. "First I shall devote myself to winning the coming war. Then, perhaps I will have time for other things."

Her eyes locked to his. "Tyrion. Don't trust her."

"What?" He blinked. "The queen?"

"Not the one you're sailing to Westeros with. The one she intends to push off her father's throne."

"Trust Cersei." He scoffed.

Her voice dropped further. "You love her. You have since you were little, even though you knew how futile and perilous it was. You tried to help raise her children when their father couldn't, to make them good people – and succeeded, except for the oldest, the one shaped by his mother into a vessel for the family ambitions."

Her fingers laced at the back of his head. "It would be easy to pity her now. Family gone, children dead, nothing left to her but that cold throne, a shattered kingdom, and a fading love affair. And that dark prophecy still weighs on her."

"Prophecy? What prophecy?"

"She never told you?" She smiled. "Best not to ask then." The smile disappeared. "Her losses haven't made her vulnerable, Tyrion. They've made her harder, colder, more single-minded. Betrayal was always one of her greatest pleasures, and now she has nothing else. Remember that, when next you speak." She kissed his forehead, rose, and guided him to the door.

…

On a dark breezy hilltop above the City, Daenerys found her dragons.

The Unsullied had brought sheep to this hilltop every day since her return and the breaking of the Masters' fleet; thankfully Rheagal and Viserion were grown used to having their kills delivered, and Drogon had established a hunting territory far from his roost, so her subjects were safe even with three dragons at large. Her children were day hunters, generally coming home to sleep when the sun went down, and preferred to spend their nights not far from one another, or from her.

Near the crest of the hill, Dany took a torch from the hand of one of her guards and went on unescorted. She knew that Grey Worm would have objected to her being alone and so far from his protection, but he was with Missandei now, unknowing. And who would dare venture among her dragons to do her harm?

They lay like hillocks on the dark flat expanse. She could feel the air flex and warm from their breathing, and their little squeaks and grunts filled her ears. Viserion was nearest, at a short remove from his brothers. Headstrong and impetuous, he quarreled often with Drogon, and kept his distance when they were grounded. He pressed forward to be petted first. She stroked the pebbled hide of the white-and-red dragon's cheek and neck, thanking the old gods and the new, and the red one as well, that her imprisoned children had been so quick to forgive after their release.

She supposed she had Tyrion to thank for that. The man was so infuriatingly right about things sometimes. She would never have guessed that he possessed the courage and conviction to descend into their underground chamber to unshackle them, to do what she dared not – not out of fear for her life, but out of fear that they would show themselves already lost to her. Instead, they seemed more closely bound to her than ever, even Drogon, who had not shared his brothers' ordeal.

Like a cat, Viserion gave no warning when he was done with petting: he just turned and put his back to her, nearly sweeping her off her feet with his tail, and settled into sleep. She moved on, to the green-and-gold dragon named after her other brother.

Rhaegal always slept between his brothers, sometimes nearer Viserion, other times closer to Drogon, but always making himself a buffer between them. Dany knew she was being superstitious, but each of her children seemed to her to share traits with their namesakes: Viserion was moody and willful, yet ofttimes playful in a way that made it difficult for her to scold him; Drogon was aloof and haughty and domineering, showing affection only for her. She hadn't known her brother Rhaegar, but Rhaegal was temperate and thoughtful and oft played the peacemaker between his two brothers, and it made her think that her father's eldest son would have made a good king. He accepted her caresses as if they were a benediction, and settled back down as soon as she passed on.

Drogon lifted his head to look down on her, regarding her with a little burbling sound. Rhaegal seemed to reply with a series of clicks. The brothers often exchanged sounds in this way, sometimes at length; it wasn't hard to imagine that they were conversing in a language only they understood.

She reached the black dragon's wing, and he spread it on the ground for her like a staircase. It had been long since she could rub the top of his muzzle from a standing position, even with his head resting flat on the ground; to reach his favorite spot, she had to climb. She stuck the torch in the ground and stepped onto the wing. He dropped his head to the ground as she reached his shoulder, and she crawled, in a most un-regal manner, over the broad skull to sit between his eyes. She leaned forward and rubbed the big dragon's muzzle, and was rewarded with a snort of pleasure and a small dark spurt of smoky flame. She looked out over the city below, past the tiny lights of the ships in the harbor, to the faint gray line where the starry sky met the darkly shining sea.

The sun would rise soon. She would board the flagship and sail away on the morning tide, never to see this place again. Her children would follow – at first, at least. But the journey would take them out of sight of land for many days. Big as the slavers' captured ships were, none of them had deck space for a dragon to land on. They would have to stay aloft the whole time, circling to keep pace with the ships' crawling progress without sleep or rest, eating only what they could hunt in the sea. Would they follow her all the way to Westeros, or tire and turn back?

Daenerys had come to this hilltop, on the eve of her departure, to reaffirm her children's bond to her. Hopefully that bond would be enough to draw them out of Dragon Bay and across the Narrow Sea. Or failing that, this would be her final chance to touch them, and to say goodbye.

A small voice told her that it would be folly to continue on if the dragons turned back; even her Unsullied and Dothraki, and the conditional support of Dorne and Highgarden, would not be enough to wrest the Seven Kingdoms from the hands of the Lannisters and the other Great Houses without her dragons to tip the balance of power. But she knew that, once she was on her way home, she would land on the shore of Westeros to claim her throne, no matter how small her chances.

She lurched as Drogon raised his head. No, she thought frantically, don't fly, I don't have a proper seat, I'll never be able to hang on…

But the big dragon's wings stayed splayed on the ground; he raised his head further and swung it about, making her feel unbalanced in a way that she never did when she was riding through the sky with him. He pointed his head toward the path leading up the hill, and gave a warning burble to the Dothraki climbing it.

He stopped a fair distance away – out of respect for her, she was sure, rather than caution toward the mansion-sized monster with the arm-long teeth regarding him with suspicious eyes. In Dothraki he said, "Khaleesi, we have some trouble fermenting."

"What is it?" She called down.

"Nothing big, a word from you will settle it. But the word must come from your mouth, not sent." He went on, "The khals are quarreling about who will sail at your left hand. The ship captains already have their orders about that sort of thing, but of course that means nothing to them."

She let out a breath. "Is anyone dead yet?"

"Two by the time I left," he said, "but that may be the end of it. Krogo made it known he was sending me to fetch you."

Drogon rumbled, picking up on her displeasure, and offered the young horseman a warning spurt of flame that passed ten feet over his head. The man held his ground, but dropped to one knee and lowered his eyes. "I've brought a horse for you, Khaleesi. Will you come?"

Dany patted the side of the big dragon's muzzle, and he lowered his head to the ground. Moments later, she was walking down the hill beside the tall Dothraki. "What is your name?"

He had picked up her torch, holding it above their heads to light her path. He shifted his grip on it. "Kadago, Khaleesi. Bloodrider to Krogo … before we became yours."

The corner of her mouth twitched at the polite qualification. Calling black chestnut didn't change the color of a horse's coat, and a pretty speech or two wouldn't change a culture whose roots went back farther than recorded history. She was the Queen of the Grass Sea and all who dwelt there, but her horsemen's everyday loyalty still remained with their tribal chiefs.

He went on, "If it were me, I'd want to sail as far from your sight as I could, at least at the start. If the sailsheep are right, most of us will be at the rail feeding fish for the first half of the trip."

Her smile widened. "You've spoken to sailors?"

"I overhear them. They're a mouthy bunch. Sometimes it's clear their words are meant for our ears. After a while, I stopped giving them the flat of my blade for fear of wearing it out."

The horse Kadago had brought her was a grey mare. In the moonlight, it reminded her of her silver, Drogo's wedding gift, lost so long ago in another life. Her memories of that life were fading. Once, she had longed only to live in peace in a little house with a green door, one she had dwelt in as a child; these days, she could scarcely remember what the inside of it looked like. Viserion's face was nearly lost to her, except for his eyes, though she remembered his voice well, and his words. Drogo was still very much alive in her memory – his darkly handsome looks, his touch, his voice, the sheer presence of him when he was near - but how much of that was real, and how much of it her imagination? And Daario. How soon would she have difficulty recalling his face?

The coming voyage would bear her away from everything she knew, to a home she did not remember. Already, she had been changed so much, so many times. She was so many things, shaped by the needs and expectations of others. When had her life ever truly been her own?

"Khaleesi." Kadago looked at her with concern.

If I look back, I am lost. "I'm fine," she said, straightening in the saddle and wiping her eyes with a finger as they approached the torchlights of the camp. The house with the green door was a dream belonging to someone else; she was a queen and a conqueror, made to sit a throne. "It has just been a very long night."