At dawn the next morning, Drogo ordered the handmaids arranged by Morrafos to bring him a black cloak. He bade Missandei wear it and cover the freshly dyed silver-gold of her hair so that none might see.
Though she had grown closer to her king, the little scribe knew her place.
Once, as handmaid to the Great Master, Missandei had known no freedom. Each night she was sent to men—sometimes one, sometimes several, sometimes so many she could no longer recall their faces.
So it seemed only natural to her that the king's tenderness was but play, that he saw her merely as Daenerys's shadow. Why else would he dye her hair in the silver and gold of House Targaryen's bloodline?
Still, Missandei went about her duties as ever, carefully braiding the khal's hair, tying his long mustaches. With sweet memories in her heart, she followed him from the chamber.
Upon the long table in the mansion's hall lay a steaming breakfast. For the first time, Drogo permitted her to sit with him, even spread the sweet butter upon her bread with his own hand.
The butter melted not only upon the loaf but upon her heart, wrapping her in its sweetness.
Never had Missandei eaten with such delight. She etched the moment into memory, fearing it might be the last time she tasted such gentleness from him.
No one interrupted them. Morrafos did not appear—Drogo guessed the cleansing of Nyessos's partisans was not yet done.
When they had finished, the khal ordered another breakfast, packed just the same.
The command puzzled Missandei, but she dared not ask. Seeing her hesitation, Drogo told her it was for his wife.
The sunshine fled her face. Forcing a smile, she said bitterly,
"It has been so long since Your Grace visited the queen. She will surely be glad."
"Perhaps," Drogo sighed.
He carried the package himself, bidding Missandei wait in the hall while he visited the privy.
When he returned, the bundle seemed fuller. She assumed he had stopped by the kitchens for extra pastries.
The queen truly is a fortunate woman, Missandei thought. The perfect woman, beloved of the khal.
Jealousy gnawed at her. The gods had favored Daenerys too much—giving her not only flawless beauty but Drogo himself.
"Come," Drogo said.
"Yes."
She followed him as always, but today her steps were light, her spirit soaring like a new bride's.
Outside the mansion, Drogo mounted the horse prepared by the bloodriders. He pointed to the silver mare in Rakharo's hands.
"Ride her. That pretty little mare is yours—today, tomorrow, always."
Missandei's eyes stung with tears. That silver mare had once been his wedding gift to Daenerys. Perhaps she had been wrong after all.
Grateful beyond words, she mounted.
Volantis was vast; it took long hours to leave its gates. Along the road, they passed bloodstains and corpses. Many bore tattoos of elephants or tigers. The strong triumphed, the weak perished—such was life, and none spared pity.
At last they reached the great harbor. Drogo led Missandei aboard the warship that held Daenerys captive.
The Unsullied deputy commander, Hero, awaited them at the gangplank.
"My king!"
Their voices rang strong and deep, as always—the voices of men who guarded his queen night and day.
Drogo nodded. "You have labored well."
Such words were rare from him. To hear them was an honor, and the Unsullied straightened with pride.
Hero led them to the cell door. Drogo turned to Missandei.
"The air is foul within. Cover your face."
The king was unusually gentle today. Trembling with emotion, she obeyed.
"Yes, my king."
She drew forth a black veil from her satchel—ever mindful of her image—and hid her features.
Drogo waited until her face was covered, then said to Hero,
"I would speak with my wife in peace. Give me the key. Take your brothers to the deck."
"Yes, my king."
The Unsullied obeyed.
Missandei thought it best to leave them be.
"My king, I shall not intrude upon you and the queen."
But Drogo seized her wrist.
"No—you stay, with me."
Her cheeks burned as she remembered the night before. Yet here, before the queen, it seemed perilous.
At length, he released her and unlocked the cabin.
Even outside the stench was heavy. Inside, it nearly turned his stomach.
The chamber was dark. Two great violet eyes stared back at him, dim and lifeless.
He led the silver mare inside. Missandei hurried close.
They remained within for more than half an hour. When they emerged, Drogo locked the door tight. He had left the mare behind—for the queen needed her more.
On deck, the Unsullied stared. The king's companion—once cleanly dressed—now looked as if she had rolled through a midden, garments smeared with filth.
Drogo cursed under his breath, complaining to Hero,
"Gods, the stench! Like a stable in there!"
The filth had come from the queen, but Hero dared not respond. Fortunately, Drogo did not linger, only mocked the woman at his side as they left.
His voice was loud, for all to hear:
"Missandei, how clumsy you are, to fall and cover yourself in such filth! You are my scribe. Wash well, lest you shame my majesty!"
The Unsullied exchanged uneasy glances. It was strange—their cold, taciturn king spoke far more than usual.
"Clumsy woman," some muttered. "Falling like that, covered in dung. A pity—that fine cloak ruined."
"How could the king see anything in her? She is short, thin, foolish. The queen is fairer by far."
"Aye, our queen is the most beautiful woman in the world. How could the king let such a jewel suffer?"
"Fools. Did you not see? He gave her the silver mare. Soon enough, she will be free."
"Free or not, what matters? I'd give anything to peer through that reeking vent and glimpse her each day."
"Silence! Only the king may have her. Why do you think he set us eunuchs to guard her, and not the Dothraki beasts?"
Their crude talk spread unchecked, until Hero silenced them with a roar.
"Mind your tongues! If the wrong ears hear you, it will be your heads!"
Terrified, they fell silent.
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