"I had expected better of royalty," Kebechet says, voice thick with obvious disappointment. The air grows more arid. Sand sifts beneath Danaerys' feet, between the grass, and slowly, long-fingered hands emerge from it. The fingers are long and white, pale as bones, and the nails are sharp and crooked.

If Kebechet has noticed what now grips at Danaerys' ankles with surprising strength, they do not show it.

"Many do."