Game of Thrones Iron Stark

While Tony's ship cut across the Narrow Sea, Daenerys was on the Dothraki sea learning how to choke down raw meat.

In a few days she would stand in Vaes Dothrak before every dosh khaleen and swallow a stallion's heart whole. The thought alone made her stomach roll.

She spat another chunk of bloody flesh into the grass and gagged. Her handmaids patted her back while Jorah offered a waterskin.

"Khaleesi, the meat is clean," Jorah said gently. "Tony wrote about it in one of his books. Raw flesh carries vitamins the Dothraki can't get from fruit or vegetables. That's why they eat it this way."

"Which book?" Daenerys asked once she could speak again.

"Bear Grylls the Jedi Knight. The man who claims to be the strongest in the world and eats whatever he finds on the trail."

Daenerys wiped her mouth. "He sounds like a Westerosi knight. I've never heard of him."

Jorah gave a small, wry smile. "Most of what Tony writes is half invention. Like that dragon-slaying knight with one magic sword. You know better than anyone how real dragons are."

She thought of her name, her blood, the last dragon. Something hot and proud stirred in her chest. She picked up another strip of raw horse meat and forced it down without flinching.

The great tourney was finally over. King's Landing stank worse than ever, but the crowds were thinning and the streets were no longer choked with corpses and broken lances.

Tyrion Lannister, newly named Deputy Hand, had already lit his first fire.

He sat at the head of the Small Council table while Robert and Eddard were off hunting. Baelish, Pycelle, Varys, Renly, and Stannis watched him with careful, unreadable faces. None of them had expected the Imp to suddenly sit above them.

"Wine," Tyrion said.

Podrick Payne, the young squire from House Payne, stepped forward and filled every cup. Tyrion took a long swallow, then leaned over the map of the city spread across the table.

"My first order as Deputy Hand is simple," he said. "We are fixing the sewers."

Pycelle blinked. "The smell is unpleasant, my lord, but the city has always smelled this way. People still flock here."

"The smell is the least of it," Tyrion replied. "The main outflow runs straight into the bay. In wartime an enemy could slip inside through those tunnels. Smugglers already use half a dozen hidden passages from the water into the city. We are going to close every one of them."

He looked at Baelish. "You will find the coin."

He looked at Stannis. "You will give me men from the fleet and the gold cloaks. I want the work done properly and quickly."

Baelish and Varys exchanged the smallest glance. Both of them used those same secret routes for their own people. Neither of them argued.

Back in the Tower of the Hand, two very different teachers had arrived.

Syrio Forel stood in the practice yard with a pair of wooden swords, slim and ordinary-looking. Arya stared at him like he was something she had found under a rock.

"You're the Braavosi sword master?" she said. "You don't look like much. Not tall. Not handsome."

Syrio smiled. "That is the point. Plain men are easy to overlook. I have been First Sword of Braavos for nine years. Now draw, little wolf. Let us dance."

Arya pulled Needle from its sheath. "I already have a sword."

Syrio flicked one of his wooden blades and sent Needle spinning across the yard.

"A good blade," he said. "Myrish steel. But water has no shape. Water cannot be cut. That is what we will learn. The water dance."

Arya's eyes lit up with sudden hunger.

In the hall across the yard, Sansa stood in riding leathers instead of a gown. Brienne of Tarth towered over her, broad-shouldered and solemn, a real steel practice sword in her hands.

"You are the knight my father hired?" Sansa asked, trying not to stare at the woman's size.

"I am no knight yet," Brienne answered. "But Lord Renly sent me at Lord Eddard's request. I can teach you sword, lance, and horse if you wish. Today we begin with the blade."

Sansa looked at the naked steel. "Shouldn't we use wooden swords? Like Arya's lesson?"

"No," Brienne said. "They learn the water dance. We learn the dance of steel. The knight's dance."

She held out the blunted practice sword, hilt first.

"It will not cut you. I will not strike to harm. But you will feel the weight. You will learn balance. You will learn what it means to stand your ground."

Sansa hesitated, then wrapped her fingers around the hilt.

"Draw your sword, Sansa," Brienne said.