"I remember," Daenerys says, teeth baring, old anger fanned back into flame as words find mark, "everything."

Tempting though it is to move, she stands where she is, rooted to the spot. Her hands are in small fists at her sides. "Without you, I have become Daenerys Stormborn, First of Her Name, the Unburnt, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons. Not the chattel you would bargain for your savage army, nor the wife you would possess in your grasping hands, not your sweet sister who you could not stand to see grow beyond you."

She can hear Jorah in her mind. He isn't worth this, khaleesi. She can hear, even, Petyr Baelish. Diplomacy is prudent, your grace. But she thinks that some men have the luxury of separating the personal from the politics, and others, to have loved someone they still, well, love.

Tyrion would probably understand, if while wincing.

"And that is what killed you that night in Vaes Dothrak. If you would have peace with me, in this world, you will not make the same mistake."