She was Illyrio’s favorite, a fair-haired, blue-eyed wench of sixteen who chattered constantly as she worked. The old woman, small and grey as a mouse, never said a word, but the girl made up for it.
There was no slavery in the free city of Pentos. They were slaves, a gift from one of the magister’s many Dothraki friends. Illyrio’s servants entered, bowed, and set about their business. “Come,” Dany said, turning away from the window. All that Daenerys wanted backwas the big house with the red door, the lemon tree outside her window, the childhood she had never known. “The jewels and the silks, Dragonstone and King’s Landing, the Iron Throne and the Seven Kingdoms, all they have taken from us, we will have it back.” Viserys lived for that day. Sometimes his hands shook when he talked about it.
“We will have it all back someday, sweet sister,” he would promise her. In the alleys and wine sinks of Pentos, they called her brother “the beggar king.” Dany did not want to know what they called her.
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