A Feast for Dragons

gods and stranger hair, of slavers wrapped in
fringed
tokar
s, where grace was earned through whoring,
butchery was art, and dog was a delicacy. Meereen would always be the Harpy’s
city, and Daenerys could not be a harpy.
    Never
, said the grass, in the gruff tones of
Jorah Mormont.
You were warned, Your Grace. Let this city be, I said.
Your war is in Westeros, I told you
.
    The voice was no more than a whisper, yet somehow Dany felt
that he was walking just behind her.
My bear
, she thought,
my
old sweet bear, who loved me and betrayed me
. She had missed him so.
She wanted to see his ugly face, to wrap her arms around him and press herself
against his chest, but she knew that if she turned around Ser Jorah would be
gone. “I am dreaming,” she said. “A waking dream, a walking dream. I am alone
and lost.”
    Lost, because you lingered, in a place that you were
never meant to be
, murmured Ser Jorah, as softly as the wind.
Alone,
because you sent me from your side
.
    “You betrayed me. You informed on me, for gold.”
    For home. Home was all I ever wanted
.
    “And me. You wanted me.” Dany had seen it in his eyes.
    I did
, the grass whispered, sadly.
    “You kissed me. I never said you could, but you did. You
sold me to my enemies, but you meant it when you kissed me.”
    I gave you good counsel. Save your spears and swords
for the Seven Kingdoms, I told you. Leave Meereen to the Meereenese and go
west, I said. You would not listen
.
    “I had to take Meereen or see my children starve along the
march.” Dany could still see the trail of corpses she had left behind her
crossing the Red Waste. It was not a sight she wished to see again. “I had to
take Meereen to feed my people.”
    You took Meereen
, he told her,
yet
still you lingered
.
    “To be a queen.”
    You are a queen
, her bear said.
In
Westeros
.
    “It is such a long way,” she complained. “I was tired,
Jorah. I was weary of war. I wanted to rest, to laugh, to plant trees and see
them grow. I am only a young girl.”
    No. You are the blood of the dragon
. The
whispering was growing fainter, as if Ser Jorah were falling farther behind.
Dragons
plant no trees. Remember that. Remember who you are, what you were made to be.
Remember your words
.
    “Fire and Blood,” Daenerys told the swaying grass.
    A stone turned under her foot. She stumbled to one knee and
cried out in pain, hoping against hope that her bear would gather her up and
help her to her feet. When she turned her head to look for him, all she saw was
trickling brown water … and the grass, still moving slightly.
The
wind
, she told herself,
the wind shakes the stalks and makes
them sway
. Only no wind was blowing. The sun was overhead, the world
still and hot. Midges swarmed in the air, and a dragonfly floated over the
stream, darting here and there. And the grass was moving when it had no cause
to move.
    She fumbled in the water, found a stone the size of her
fist, pulled it from the mud. It was a poor weapon but better than an empty
hand. From the corner of her eye Dany saw the grass move again, off to her
right. The grass swayed and bowed low, as if before a king, but no king
appeared to her. The world was green and empty. The world was green and silent.
The world was yellow, dying.
I should get up
, she told herself.
I have to walk. I have to follow the stream
.
    Through the grass came a soft silvery tinkling.
    Bells
, Dany thought, smiling, remembering
Khal Drogo, her sun-and-stars, and the bells he braided into his hair.
When
the sun rises in the west and sets in the east, when the seas go dry and
mountains blow in the wind like leaves, when my womb quickens again and I bear
a living child, Khal Drogo will return to me
.
    But none of those things had happened.
Bells
,
Dany thought again. Her bloodriders had found her. “Aggo,” she whispered.
“Jhogo. Rakharo.” Might Daario have come with them?
    The green sea opened. A rider appeared. His braid was black
and shiny, his skin as dark as burnished copper, his eyes the shape of bitter
almonds. Bells sang in his hair. He wore a medallion belt and painted vest,
with an
arakh
on one hip and a whip on the other. A hunting bow
and a quiver of arrows were slung from his saddle.
    One rider, and alone. A scout
. He was one
who rode before the
khalasar
to find the game and the good
green grass, and sniff out foes wherever they might hide. If he found her there,
he would kill her, rape her, or enslave her. At best, he would send her