Thus far her return to power in the west had been proceeding smoothly. As time wore on and her condition became more pronounced, Daenerys wore looser gowns, claiming that her skin had grown used to the Dothraki climate, and thus even the warmth of Kings Landing was a bit cold for her liking. She had heard no whispers nor rumors of her condition, and her maids were diligent in listening for such words.

The South was hers, but there was still the North to reclaim under the Targaryen banner. She knew the North would always be loyal to the Starks, and that the bad blood that boiled between Dire Wolf and Dragon was thick and acrid. It would require a great deal of work and convincing to win the North. But she thanked the Old Gods and New that her man, her Hand, Ser Jorah, was born of the North. He knew it far better than she, and she hoped he would be the sort of key to the North.

Baratheon had issued him a pardon, perhaps that would mean something to the Men of the North to amend his sins thought so grievous by Ned Stark.

Daenerys was in her chambers when Jorah came to her. The maids were braiding her hair, playing really with the new jewels she'd been given as gifts from lords looking for her favor. She smiled when he entered, her fingers over her rounded belly.

"Rise, Ser Jorah," she kept her tone level in front of her maids. "Have you some manner of news for me?"