[ Morgause has crossed the Summer Sea to be here, and she is clad in mail as boldly as any knight, her long blonde hair woven with sorcery-cut jewels of her Valyrian ancestors, her visage as cruel and noble as those busts of Aegon Targaryen. She has spent a long time isolated, learning letters and stone-shaping, history and dragon-taming, magic and religion and manipulation, and now she stands before Petyr Baelish as he works at his desk and does not bow or curtsey. ]

I see you in my fires, ser, and I see you in my crystals.

[ Her voice is sweet and lilting, not quite accented, though there's something of the Summer Isles to it despite her pale skin. ]

Whenever I seek to see my destiny in the Seven Kingdoms, it is you I see, with your gold and your whores and your smile.