“A later-season one,” Tyrion said grimly. “The writing gets… ambitious.”

The screen went black. Then white. Then a single line of text appeared:

Daenerys frowned. “Tyrion assured me it was a high-quality rip.”

Before anyone could answer, a new message appeared, typed by no hand they could see:

She clicked it.

Jorah never spoke of it again. But late at night, they’d find him staring at the laptop, whispering: “Just skip Meereen. Please. Just skip Meereen.”

“It’s the Dothraki Sea bandwidth,” Daenerys said, sweeping into the tent. She was wearing her usual “I birthed dragons” expression. “It’s terrible this time of year.”

Jorah slammed the laptop shut. “I’m going back to the fighting pits. At least the violence there makes sense.”

The laptop never answered.

Tyrion finished his wine. “And that,” he said, “is why we read the books.”

But Daenerys, with the stubbornness that had crossed the Narrow Sea, opened the laptop again. The file was gone. In its place was a single folder, labeled: .