Daenerys made her next move.

Despite their talk, she'd had plans to send the Second Sons to retake Yunkai. Ser Jorah had talked her out of it, reminding her that the masters would simply retake control as soon as they had the chance to. Daenerys's solution was to kill all the masters. He advised against it, claiming that slaughtering by the thousands was no better than what the masters did to the Yunkish people; all she'd be doing would be showing them the same brutality they'd always known.

He changed her mind when he mentioned Ned Stark hadn't killed him for what he did. She altered her course of action, choosing instead to send Hizdahr zo Loraq as an ambassador to Meereen, who would explain what happened in that city to the Yunkish masters to either have them conform to Daenerys's 'new world' or have them die in their old one.

To Saera it didn't sound much better.

Her sister seemed to want to be more civil, especially after their conversation, but it was clear that their talk had done nothing to take away the jealous and paranoid feelings that lingered like an infection, growing more with each day she had to tolerate Saera's words and actions against her.

Daenerys was a fighter, no one would deny that. But as of late the difference between how they fought more apparent: Saera fought to keep herself and the people she loved alive, while Daenerys fought for power and control.

Saera knew that Daenerys really did care about these people, these slaves. But was there such a thing as caring too much? Had she done them more harm than good?

(She hated knowing her answer to that. She wished she could see it through Grey Worm or Missandei's eyes. But even when she tried, she was sure Daenerys still wasn't seeing the whole picture. They got lucky in Astapor, but it didn't mean what they left behind was right.)

Ser Jorah was the only one she could really talk to. Ser Barristan would always support her, but as Daenerys's Queensguard, he was glued to her side at all times. And whenever he did come to speak with her, Daenerys wasn't far behind, and she would make it clear with the way she glared that she wasn't pleased with any of it.

(Nothing satisfied Daenerys these days. Nothing could take away the lingering feeling that Saera was growing too comfortable with her role. She wanted a mission, she wanted to go back to Dorne– if that was what it took to end the animosity between them– but all Daenerys heard was: I want your throne, I want your power.

What was the saying? Keep one's friends close and one's enemies closer? It was horrible to think of Saera as an enemy, but even with their talk, even though she wanted to be sure of her sincerity in asking for a compromise, Daenerys still felt that her sister was a threat to her power.

The Meereenese weren't rallying behind her, but how long until someone did? Until one of Daenerys's decisions proved Saera right and the people cast her aside in favor of someone who listened and understood the long-term consequences?

She'd knew Saera had even less experience with ruling and politics than her. But for her to be so vocal against Daenerys's choices... clearly she knew something, and Daenerys refused to entertain the idea that despite everything, Saera was already aware how to be a better Queen.)

Saera tried to adhere to the unofficially-set terms. The peace would be kept until the threat from the Lannisters came to pass. Then, she and Daenerys would work something out.

Depending on how it went, Daenerys might have a realization that Saera truly did want to protect her and was not vying for the throne. Or maybe whatever they'd encounter would push her even further off the edge and convince her that Saera had grown into too much of a challenge and needed to be put out.

She tried not to think about it. Ser Jorah was useful there, a friendly distraction that she was seeking out more each day.

"Another late night visit, Jorah?" said Saera with a teasing smile as she let him into her chambers. "It seems you've grown fond of my company."

"I have, Saera," he said. "You are good company." He sat, addressing her unspoken worries first, "Is there any more word from Prince Oberyn?"

"Nothing. I am making my best effort to not let it concern me too much. It will only make me feel worse. Daenerys has yet to allow me back into Small Council meetings and has not invited me to her audiences with the Meereenese. But she is speaking to me again, so... I hope it means she has understood that I mean well."

"I would hope so. She listened to my counsel regarding Yunkai, despite... only slight adjustments. But I did not come here to speak of your sister, Saera. I think it best for both of us if we keep that topic out of our discussion."

"Treason, right," said Saera, shrugging her shoulders. "Ser Barristan also refuses to talk about Daenerys with me after he told me to speak with her about my concerns. Everyone is so worried about what she will think. That is a bad sign to me. One that says she is not patient or understanding; everyone interprets it that way but doesn't realize that is not right nor normal. She will take everything badly."

She smiled, "I, however, do not take everything badly. I am pleased to have you here." She stood, fetching a leftover tray of goblets and a pitcher of wine, pouring them both something to drink.

At first, he was hesitant to accept, then wrapped his hand around it, holding it up before taking his sip with her. "Kavarro and Black Fist speak loudly and proudly about your sessions together. You master the arakh more each day, and the Unsullied have incorporated several techniques from the Dornish style of using spears."

"If only I could improve in sword-fighting as I do with everything else," she said, sitting beside him. "It's the one thing I have attempted that has responded with a frustrating plateau. Though, I shall keep practicing and hope to one day be as skilled as you and Ser Barristan."

He looked down, cheeks redenning. "You flatter me, Saera. I suppose there is a trade-off of knowledge. I could only ever dream of wielding a spear as elegantly as you. And yet you envy my abilities with the sword."

"I'd not say envy, Jorah, but I definitely wish I could be as good as you. You are a good man; I wish I'd known you earlier. We might've been friends."

Jorah laughed, "I doubt I'd have been allowed in the same room as you, Saera. Twelve years separate us. As do several titles. It seems our common ground is found in our talents."

"I never thought I'd have such abilities," she said thoughtfully. "I thought I'd wed a man who would do all the fighting for me. I'd stay in a castle, birth several children, be happy. I prefer this. If I do choose to have children, I'll be able to protect them. Did you ever think you'd become a father?"

He shrugged, "I believe it is expected of us, is it not? To not become a father... it did feel right. It was not an option to live without making heirs. I... I had an example of a wonderful father. I wish I could speak with him again, to let him know how he inspired me."

"You could send him a letter," said Saera quietly. "Can't you? I'm sure he would like to hear from you."

"I brought shame on him. On our house. I am left a man with no honor, with no title or lands left for me. Ser Barristan spoke to me about what sort of man will be at the Queen's side when she retakes Westeros. My reputation there continues to suffer."

"And yet you advise her and protect her," said Saera. "You learned from what you did and you are righting your wrongs. I am sure that when Daenerys takes the Iron Throne, she will give you your titles back. For even if she cannot, what is true remains here–" she placed her hand over his heart, "and that's all that matters. Forget what others will think. I know something for certain and that truth is that you are good and true, Jorah."

He put his hand over hers, setting his goblet of wine down. For a moment he only looked into her eyes, then slowly moved her hand aside, turning away. She reached back up, tilting his head to face her. "Are you ashamed, still?"

"I am not worthy of your kindness," he insisted. "Nor your affections. You are the Queen's heir, the Princess of Dragonstone. Should anything happen to Daenerys... should she not produce children... your blood will sit the throne, one way or another."

"And you believe because of that, I should not find in you a friend? A handsome, sweet man who I aim to comfort, who has comforted me?"

"I should not have come."

"But you did. In the hours of eels and ghosts. You sought me out while the rest of our city is sleeping. From where I come from," she smiled mischievously, "that means something." She took his hands, "Tell me something, Jorah, do you intend to be glued to my sister's side even after we give her the Iron Throne?"

He shook his head. "Ser Barristan is right, I should not be."

"Then come with me. Let us give her what she wants, let us both do our part in protecting her and making her happy, and let us go anywhere we want. Free of obligations, free of judgment. We could travel the world. Prince Oberyn told me that it was an important part of his youth, that he is so thankful for the time he was able to spend in Essos. We could explore the whole continent, we could settle back in Dorne or the North when we are old and grey, when all those who wanted us gone have forgotten us..." she used their linked hands to prop her chin up, staring up at him hopefully. "Think about it, will you?"

"I will, Saera," he promised, finding it hard to listen to the voice in his head that told him to step away, to not succumb to the temptation to kiss those sweet pouty lips, to tickle her neck and make her giggle again. A fierce woman, his match, a Princess where he was a pauper.

Everything he wanted but shouldn't be able to have.

She was in better spirits that morning, trying to set aside her worries about Daenerys's choices to retake Yunkai, about her pending decision on what would happen between her and Saera after the threat that came from Tywin had passed.

But the attack came in an unexpected form.

Saera was summoned to the Small Council chambers, everyone present save Daario and Jorah. The former, she knew to be away on Daenerys's mission. The latter, she swore, was still within the borders of the city. Where, then, was he?

"What's going on?" she asked as Ser Barristan accepted a piece of parchment back from Daenerys. "What is that?"

"A pardon signed by the late King Robert Baratheon," said Ser Barristan grimly, giving her a chance to read it. "Addressed to Ser Jorah Mormont, a reward for his work spying on our Queen."

Her chest hadn't felt this tight since she heard Elia's agonized screams while rushing out of the Red Keep.

"Why did the usurper pardon you?" Daenerys asked in a deadly voice once Ser Jorah had been brought to her.

"If we could speak alone," he said desperately.

"No, speak to me here. Explain it to me."

Jorah's voice shook, "Who do you think sent this to Meereen? Who profits? Who were we warned about? This is the work of Tywin Lannister. He wants to divide us. If we're fighting each other, we're not fighting him."

Saera could hardly look at him, knuckles turning white as she held up her spear protectively. Daenerys noted, "The pardon was signed the year we met. Why were you pardoned? Unless you're saying this document was forged."

She wanted to believe it was forgery. She could have, if the document did not look so old, and did not bear the stamp of the King, which she'd seen so very many times growing up. It had very, very specific spaces left empty on the print, spaces that could only be made by the specially crafted Valyrian stamp.

But Jorah did not try to argue that it was so. "It is not forged," he admitted.

"Why, then?"

"I sent letters to Varys, the spymaster of King's Landing."

"What was the content of these letters?"

"Information..."

Her voice grew harder with each sentence, "What information?"

"When you and Viserys arrived in Pentos. His plan to marry you to Khal Drogo. When you were married. When your brother died."

We couldn't find them for years, we couldn't track their movements, but King Robert could all this time for reasons...

"You told him I was carrying Drogo's child?" asked Daenerys.

"I–"

"Yes or no?"

"Khaleesi–"

She snapped, "Don't call me that. Did you tell him I was carrying Drogo's child?"

His eyes answered before his mouth, "Yes."

She got to her feet angrily. "That wine merchant tried to poison me because of your information."

"I stopped you from drinking his wine," Jorah pleaded.

"Because you knew it was poisoned."

Hesitantly, he admitted, "I suspected."

"You betrayed me from the first."

He fell to his knees. "Forgive me. I neer meant– please, Khaleesi, forgive me!"

She could no longer look at him. "You sold my secrets to the man who killed my father and stole my brother's throne–"

"I have protected you, fought for you, killed for you–"

"–and you want me to forgive you?! Any other man, I would have executed, but you I do not want in my city dead or alive. Go back to your masters in King's Landing, collect your pardon if you can."

He tried to reach for her, but Grey Worm and Ser Barristan stopped him. "Don't ever presume to touch me again or speak my name," she threatened. "You have until dusk to collect your things and leave this city. If you're found in Meereen past the break of day, I'll have your head thrown in Slaver's Bay. Go. Now."

With tears in his eyes, he heeded her command. He walked out, head hung in shame, listening as Daenerys commanded Grey Worm, "Lo mirre mēre finds zirȳla isse se oktion hemtubis ñāqatubis, maghagon nyke zȳhon bartos." (T: If any one finds him in the city tomorrow morning, bring me his head.)

Saera set the spear down, pumping her fist until circulation was restored to it. She knew the command was directed toward her, as well, when she saw Daenerys glare at her, perhaps wanting to see that Saera was as enraged as her.

But she wasn't.

She hated it all the same, yes. But surely things were more complicated than that. Kings often used the desperation of their subjects to make them do things they never thought they were capable of, things that brought them more shame than whatever their initial crime. There was more to this, there was more to why Ser Jorah agreed, more to why the burden was placed on him.

It wasn't right. He never should have done it, should have chosen to die rather than betray a young girl and risk her life. It didn't matter that he saved her life in the end; she still suffered because of his actions, because of what information King Robert had.

Yet nothing they did now would bring Daenerys's son, Rhaego, or her husband, Drogo, back from the dead. Nothing they did now would change the fact that Jorah made the wrong choice.

Just as before, he'd chosen wrong. He'd been traitorous, he'd been criminal. A stain like that could never fully be erased.

But was it right to completely brush aside the good he did? What came in the aftermath when he stopped those actions? Should he have confessed– yes, Saera would have done it if she were in his position. She would have bent the knee and let Daenerys cut her head off but at least died knowing she came clean and had nothing on her conscience. Keeping it a secret had done no one any good.

He had protected her. He had given all of himself to her these past years, dedicated himself to bringing her the throne and glory she wanted. He had lost her trust but he was not a lost cause. Saera didn't think so. Saera didn't think they should set him aside forever.

Ser Barristan saved her life then went back to working for King Robert, a man who wanted her, Viserys, and Daenerys dead. He served the man knowing he sent assassins out to find them. But he came to realize there was something else waiting in Essos, he brought Saera to Daenerys, he bent the knee to her and he served her. He made up for his mistakes and became loyal to her.

Should Jorah not be given a chance? Ser Barristan had come to her after being disrespected in King's Landing. The risk was minimal but existent– he could turn his shame into anger and tell Tywin Lannister everything he knew about her movements, about her weaknesses in Meereen.

He wouldn't. He wouldn't. He wouldn't.

"Jorah."

She skidded to a halt in front of him, stopping him from leaving with his bag, the sun barely setting. He was already prepared to leave; he'd be long gone when morning came.

"Princess, I must go," he said, voice breaking. "I must."

"Give me just a moment!" she pleaded. "Jorah... Jorah..." she cupped his face. "You learn from your mistakes, you prove you regain your honor, you... you are loving and loyal and you must come back one day. Promise me. Promise me you will find a way to prove you are not a spy anymore, that you are true and trustworthy. Please. Promise me you will find a way to come back. I don't want to never see you again."

"I do not know if I can keep that promise, Saera."

"You will try your best. Because I wish to believe you are not that man anymore and I need to see it. She needs to see it."

"You must go, Princess," he insisted. "I must go, too. If someone sees you here with me–"

"Let them call it treason! Let them say I am comforting a spy! I am upset, I feel confused and betrayed– none of it can compare to what my sister feels– but I know that the man who counseled reason is the man who can find it in himself to make things right. Find a way. I want you here. I need you here."

(It scared her to think that without Jorah, there was only one other person who would truly see her side of things instead of Daenerys's. But Ser Barristan was not going to speak up as easily as Ser Jorah. He wouldn't come to talk to her about how she felt, he wouldn't check in on her to see if she was still as worried about Prince Oberyn, who she hadn't heard from in weeks.

Where would the person who made her smile go off to? When would he return to make her laugh? When would she find herself with this warm fuzzy feeling, a feeling of home and solace that she had with him and him only– not even with her sister?

She missed him and he wasn't even gone yet.)

"Promise me," she pleaded. "That you will fix this."

"I will do everything in my power, Princess," he whispered. "I must go. You must let me go, Saera."

She set her hands down, an empty feeling already in the pit of her stomach as he darted away. She wish she could understand why it felt like a part of her had been ripped out, she wished she could put it back in and pretend it made her feel nothing.

But something was there. The comfort of a friend, the touch of a man she admired and who protected her, who saw herfor who she was.

It was unlike anything she'd experience before and she feared she'd never experience it again.

-

Prince Oberyn was dead.

She received the letter the day after Jorah left, the first day she'd had to become used to the lack of his company. No one to pull her away from her sparring sessions, no one to visit her and ask how she was, to care enough to listen to what she had to say.

Ellaria had written a horrible, detailed letter telling her how Oberyn was beating The Mountain, taunting him, wanting him to admit that he raped and murdered Elia, that he killed little Rhaenys and Aegon. He wanted The Mountain to tell him that Tywin Lannister gave the order.

In his arrogance he met his doom. He was beaten bloody and his skull was caved in like Elia's, The Mountain's thumbs shoved into his eye sockets, rupturing his eyeballs and leaving a pool of blood with an unrecognizable face in the center of it. Ellaria had fled back to Dorne, broken and afraid, hungry for revenge.

She wanted Saera to come back. She wanted her to fight alongside the Dornish to bring the Lannisters to their knees.

Doran Martell forbade it, and for that, Ellaria hated him more. She hadn't liked him ever since he didn't attack the Lannisters for what happened to Elia, she hadn't liked him since he allowed Myrcella Baratheon to live among them while she got to know her betrothed, Trystane Martell.

Saera had never thought Doran to be a stupid man. To Ellaria he seemed submissive and weak. To Saera he was smart, careful, and calculating. Dorne had been brought into the Seven Kingdoms by a marriage with the first Daenerys– they weren't the same people who slayed Rhaenys and Meraxes. They couldn't risk starting a war. If they were to lose, they'd lose all their culture, a force that had stood for a long time and would be sent into extinction by the Lannisters because they had more of an advantage than anyone at the given moment.

Doran couldn't just demand they storm the Crownlands. He couldn't hurt Myrcella, he couldn't take revenge for Oberyn because he chose to fight for Tyrion, he knew what he risked battling The Mountain.

She hated it but she understood it. Lately she hated everything. She hated Meereen, she hated slavery, she hated the Lannisters, she hated what Jorah had done.

She almost hated Daenerys. The situation with Jorah had only pushed them further apart. Her sister was in a self-imposed isolation, speaking only to Missandei when she wasn't at her audiences with the Meereenese. She didn't want to talk to Saera about anything. The Princess suspected Daenerys had found out about her conversation with Jorah. Perhaps she thought Saera a traitor, too.

Perhaps she was looking for a way to send her into exile as well.

Her audience of the day was a disaster. First, a man had come in wishing to sell himself back to his master because he felt he had no purpose, because he'd lost his home, because the shelters Daenerys had put in place had turned into places where the young preyed on the old.

Daenerys had allowed him to sign a contract for a year, which Ser Barristan warned would cause the remaining masters to take advantage of the situation. Saera was confused when this was relayed to her, stating that if the man wanted a purpose as a teacher, they ought to open a school for all Meereenese and Yunkish children where such former slaves could use their skills. Homes could be made specifically for those living alone and of a certain profession.

Surely there was another way that didn't involve signing contracts and undoing what Daenerys had accomplished though excessive violence already. This man would be a slave in all but name.

It got worse from there. A man had come in, devastated, revealing the body of his three-year-old daughter, bones charred, her tiny form burned by Drogon.

Saera didn't learn about all this until after it had happened. By the time she became aware, Daenerys had already chained Viserion and Rhaegal up in the catacombs; Drogo had avoided capture.

She knew why Daenerys had left her out of it. Saera would have made several comments against it; she'd been telling her to claim one of the dragons for ages, she'd been trying to claim Viserion herself.

If they claimed and trained them, they would mellow out. If they tried to plan for more permanent solutions, they wouldn't be undoing all this work.

Dragons needed room to grow, they needed to be claimed and bonded so they wouldn't follow their primal instincts. Rhaegal and Viserion would only resent her for this. Drogon might never come back.

Former slaves didn't deserve to feel as though their only option was to go back to their masters, that they weren't safe in their own city despite being liberated.

If Daenerys just listened to Saera, this might not have happened.

Saera was tired of her.