It was near evenfall and Dany was feeding her dragons when Irri stepped through the silken curtains to tell her that Ser Jorah had returned from the docks… and not alone. “Send him in, with whomever he has brought,” she said, curious. When they entered, she was seated on a mound of cushions, her dragons all about her. The man he brought with him wore a cloak of green and yellow feathers and had skin as black as polished jet. “Your Grace,” the knight said, “I bring you Quhuru Mo, captain of the Cinnamon Wind out of Tall Trees Town.” The black man knelt. “I am greatly honored, my queen,” he said; not in the tongue of the Summer Isles, which Dany did not know, but in the liquid Valyrian of the Nine Free Cities. “The honor is mine, Quhuru Mo,” said Dany in the same language. “Have you come from the Summer Isles?” “This is so, Your Grace, but before, not half a year past, we called at Oldtown. From there I bring you a wondrous gift.” “A gift?” “A gift of news. Dragonmother, Stormborn, I tell you true, Robert Baratheon is dead.” Outside her walls, dusk was settling over Qarth, but a sun had risen in Dany’s heart. “Dead?” she repeated. In her lap, black Drogon hissed, and pale smoke rose before her face like a veil. “You are certain? The Usurper is dead?” “So it is said in Oldtown, and Dorne, and Lys, and all the other ports where we have called.” He sent me poisoned wine, yet I live and he is gone.

–A Clash of Kings, Daenerys II