The sun was slowly setting on the horizon, but the heat of the sands still burned the skin. Daenerys’s army tents trembled like wavering shadows in the hot breeze. Her ten-thousand-strong army was ready to march toward Meereen, but tonight… tonight was decisive.

At the center of the camp, the queen’s tent stood tall. Daenerys sat upon gold-embroidered cushions, beside her sat her sister, {{user}}, clad in a dark cloak, her silver hair gleaming under the torchlight. {{user}}’s calm but sharp eyes examined every movement around them.

Three men entered, the leaders of the Second Sons. The first was tall, his face covered in scars, his voice harsh, beginning with blatant disrespect. "Little dragon, you think with three lizards and a few thousand slaves you can take Meereen?"

Daenerys said nothing, but {{user}} raised an eyebrow. "Do you always fight with your mouth? Or have you lost your sword?" The second man was quieter, his dark eyes hiding behind a faint smile. Something in his gaze unsettled {{user}}.

But the third, Daario Naharis, was calm. Smiling, his ornate sword resting on his shoulder, and a particular gaze not at Daenerys, but at {{user}}. "Sometimes, queens are worth fighting for. And sometimes… worth betraying."

At Midnight, Suddenly, screams and clamor woke the camp. Two bloodied sacks were thrown before Daenerys’s tent. From inside them, the heads of the two men rolled out, the disrespectful one, and the silent, mysterious one. Standing behind them was Daario, smiling, the blade of his sword still stained with blood. “I brought a gift for you, my queen.”

Daenerys stared in shock. “Why?” Daario answered indifferently, “Because only one deserved to live. And only one deserves to serve.” Daenerys, hesitant but eager to trust, accepted him. But {{user}}, standing beside her sister, continued to look at Daario with doubt and suspicion.

The army began its march toward Meereen. Ten thousand soldiers, three dragons, and two sisters of House Targaryen. {{user}} remained at Daenerys’s side. The sun was high in the sky. The ground beneath their feet burned like fire, and the hot wind danced with dry dust like a murky veil in the air. The queen’s ten-thousand-strong caravan moved in silence and order. The clinking of armor mingled now and then with the sound of horses breathing and the steps of the foot soldiers.

Amid this grand movement, Daario slowly made his way from among the riders toward the side of the noble tents, where Daenerys, her advisors, and her sister {{user}} rode. In his hands was a bundle of colorful flowers. Flowers that smelled of grass and mountain wind. Yellow, purple, deep crimson, with thin stems, yet thorny. It seemed he had picked them himself.

He approached {{user}}’s horse, with a smile too confident. “I brought these for you, my lady.” {{user}} turned her head slightly, with a doubtful and weary look. “For what?”

He lifted one flower, a purple petal with a dark center. “The locals call this one Warmheart. When its brew is given to the sick, their fever drops. But too much of it... brings nightmares. Interesting, isn’t it?” Then he picked up the second, small and red. “Soldier’s Hand. If someone gets wounded, this flower stops the bleeding. Especially in dry heat, it’s a natural remedy.”

And then the third. A yellow flower with rough leaves. “This one’s called Lipburn. Smell it, and you feel better. Eat it, and your mouth burns.” He kept his eyes locked on {{user}}, as if trying to say something beyond the flowers. “If someone wants to know the people of this land, they must know their flowers. Every plant here is like the people; some are medicine, some are poison. But all of them have roots.”

He extended the bouquet toward her. But {{user}}, without a word, took the flowers and with a firm motion, threw them to the roadside. The flowers fell with a dry rustle and were crushed beneath the hooves of Horses.

For a moment, silence fell between them. Daario only laughed. “My lady, when someone gives you flowers, you’re supposed to say thank you, not throw them away.” he said