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... ing how the emerald embroidery caught the morning light. The mirror reflected a man of consequence – soon to be more than just a noble of Meereen, but its king in all but name.

His fingers traced the intricate patterns sewn into the fabric, patterns that had adorned the robes of Meereen's greatest rulers for centuries. Patterns that would soon be his by right.

The Dragon Queen had finally bent. Not to fire and blood, but to political necessity. Hizdahr couldn't suppress the smirk ...

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“Now… where should I put you both?” he asked casually, not expecting a reply. “It’s regretful that I only have one chandelier.”

“Underneath my bed? No, no, too dirty. My dust bunnies don’t deserve this,” Atticus mused to himself. “The mantlepiece? How about the vanity table? I suppose if I lop off one of your heads I could mount it over… Wife, which head do you want to stare at while you do your hair?”

“Atticus!” Daphne screamed. “I don’t want any heads! Let them go.”

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There were two identical cracks as both necks snapped at once.

Daphne gasped, horrified. This man, her husband, had just killed two men with a flick of his finger, as though he was snuffing out candles.

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“Yes, I let them go,” Atticus said. Then, his eyes darkened. “To receive divine judgment from the heavens.”

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