[ Dany is silent, watching in awe--but inwardly, she feels a tinge of fear. She will never be certain whether Drogo's wound festered from a befouled poultice, or whether the maegi had merely given him directions she knew he would disobey, but in the end, the result had been the same. She'd lost her sun-and-stars that night in the tent, just as she'd lost Rhaego the instant Ser Jorah had carried her writhing past the threshold.

But Sieglinde does not make blood offers to shadows. She does not ululate shrilly, nor does she dance. Her words are the offering, some deep measure of respect. And in her prayer, some goddess answers. Slowly, the pain fades: The weeping fluid crusts over, and dark pink skin grows around it, sealing it until she no longer feels the sting of air or sand.

When it is done, Dany holds her hands halfway to her face, turning them over in wonder. ]

You have my thanks. [ She offers a smile, enough to gentle her face. ] For returning my hands to me, for your truths. For your kindness. Unless ... [ she pauses, ] The price you paid for the spell--were your words the end of it?