Daenerys's announcent hit the council like a hamr — and no one reacted more violently than Jorah.
He stared at her in disbelief, struggling to find his voice before finally blurting,
"Your Grace, Varys cannot be trusted. He's the one who tracked your movents for years. It was his reports to King's Landing that led to the assassins who hunted you and your brother."
After speaking, Jorah glanced toward Barristan. The old knight's unshaken expression told him everything — Barristan had known about this already.
Yet Jorah was only learning it now.
A sting of resentnt twisted inside him. On the grasslands, the little silver-haired girl had relied on him completely — and now she was making decisions without him.
"I already know that," Daenerys replied. "And I believe he did it because he had no choice."
She was thinking of Drogon's shared thoughts.
Missandei and the others, unaware of Varys's history, looked confused but not deeply affected.
"But he is cunning, duplicitous — a master manipulator," Jorah insisted, recalling the frustrating years of Varys's instructions and interference. "He is not soone worthy of trust."
Daenerys hadn't expected Jorah's objection to be so sharp. She frowned — not because she doubted Varys, but because a troubling thought surfaced.
Drogon had once hinted at Jorah's betrayal.
And she rembered what the Warlocks of the House of the Undying had told her — three betrayals.
When she had spoken of it before, Jorah's expression had changed.
Now, seeing Jorah so emotional at the re ntion of Varys, she couldn't help wondering:
What kind of connection existed between her exiled knight and the Spider?
Jorah felt her gaze — questioning, suspicious — and panic fluttered inside him. The words he was about to speak lodged in his throat.
"Ser Jorah," Daenerys said calmly, pushing aside her doubts for now, "I may accept his allegiance, but I will not trust him blindly."
With no argunt left that wouldn't make things worse, Jorah fell silent.
Originally, the Unsullied army was scheduled to march that morning, but they had delayed departure waiting for Drogon's return. With sunset approaching, Daenerys ordered:
"We leave tomorrow at first light. Our next destination is Yunkai."
Thirty ships waited in the harbor — the six she already owned plus more than twenty contributed by the Good Masters of Astapor.
But 8,000 soldiers ant 8,000 mouths to feed, and logistics were becoming a nightmare.
Her followers were fighters — not administrators.
Only Missandei had studied supply managent under the Slaver elites, and even she couldn't handle everything alone.
They were forced to scramble, recruiting citizens and half-trained Unsullied to form a temporary support corps.
For the first ti, Daenerys felt the imnse pressure of ruling.
She had fewer than ten thousand followers, didn't even hold a single unified city yet — and already she lacked qualified people.
Astapor would be governed by a scholar, a healer, and a priest as a makeshift council — a fragile solution.
If one city already strained her leadership… how would she soday govern the Seven Kingdoms?
The army set out — a vast serpent of 8,000 soldiers stretching across miles of sand.
Drogon traveled with the marching troops for two days. When hungry, he simply flew to the grasslands, which had effectively beco his personal buffet.
But by the third day, boredom crushed him.
He needed the sky. He needed movent. He needed trouble.
So he left again — this ti toward Westeros.
And this ti, his destination was the Wall.
Before leaving, he loaded his pack with parchnt and ink — and for little Shireen, he stuffed it full of treats: several honey dates and an entire honey-roasted duck.
The bag was so full he had to push the flap down with his snout to close it.
Then, with a beat of crimson wings, he launched into the sky, leaving Slaver's Bay shrinking behind him.
Three hours later, Drogon reached Dragonstone.
He swooped straight toward Shireen's window — he knew the direction by heart now — and landed lightly on the sill.
He peeked inside.
Empty.
Drogon decided to wait. If she didn't return soon, he would co back after visiting the Wall.
Ten minutes passed.
Just as he spread his wings to leave, the door creaked open.
Shireen stepped in carrying two books — and as always, her gaze instinctively drifted toward the window.
A small shadow on the sill caught her eye.
She blinked once, twice. No, she wasn't imagining it.
She rushed forward and flung the window open.
There was Drogon — perched on the ledge, his tiny wings folded, backpack stuffed full so much that it bulged comically.
"Drogon! I missed you so much!"
Shireen gently stroked his smooth scales, then tried to scoop him into her arms.
Drogon beat her to it, hopping inside of his own accord. He climbed onto her desk, tugged off the huge backpack, and pulled out a honey-roasted duck wrapped in oil paper.
A warm, golden fragrance filled the room instantly.
"It slls amazing…" Shireen swallowed hard.
Dragonstone was poor, stripped bare after Stannis's defeat.
They lacked funds even to repair ships — good food was out of the question. Even the lord of the castle was eating poorly. For Shireen, a true feast hadn't existed in a long ti.
Seeing her expression, Drogon realized her usual als must have been miserable — but even he wasn't prepared for the sight of a princess staring at a duck as if it were treasure.
He hurriedly unwrapped the paper and nudged it toward her.
Shireen didn't hesitate. She tore off a drumstick — but she handed it to Drogon first.
He refused with a shake of his head.
And because he refused, she held back too — so the little dragon dutifully tore off a small piece from the breast and ate it, just to reassure her.
Only then did Shireen begin eating in earnest.
Half the duck disappeared quickly — mostly into her tiny stomach.
Drogon only nibbled, leaving the rest.
The remaining half she wrapped up neatly.
Drogon didn't need to ask — clearly she intended to bring it to Ser Davos in the dungeons.
He placed several honey dates on the table.
Then he stepped back, wings twitching — ready to leave. The Wall was still far away, and he planned to stop by King's Landing again before heading north.
"Drogon, where do you live? Can't you stay with a little longer?"
Shireen watched him prepare to leave, sorrow clouding her face.
Drogon raised one wing and pointed southeast.
"You live in the Free Cities?" she guessed imdiately — geography learned from books.
He shook his head.
"Farther than the Free Cities… then… the Dothraki Sea? Or the Land of the Long Sumr?"
Drogon was briefly impressed — she knew that too?
When he still did not nod, she frowned in thought again.
"There are so islands… and then there's Slaver's Bay… Is it Slaver's Bay?"
Drogon grinned wide enough to show two rows of tiny sharp teeth — and nodded.
"I guessed right!" Shireen almost bounced with joy.
"But that's so far away! How did you even get here? It must take you days to fly — and you're still so small. Aren't dragons supposed to grow fast? It's been three days and you look exactly the sa! Are you eating enough?"
She glanced guiltily at the wrapped half-duck — maybe she shouldn't give it to Davos. What if Drogon wasn't eating well and wasn't growing?
Drogon hadn't expected the little girl to talk so much when he was in a hurry.
Instead of taking out parchnt to explain, he lifted one wing and made a gesture — I can grow larger when I want to.
Shireen didn't quite understand. She opened her mouth to ask —
But Drogon was already on the windowsill.
She stopped, realizing at last that he had business to attend to.
If he weren't busy, he would be writing words for her as before.
She didn't try to keep him.
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