The merchant must have taken her for Dothraki, with her clothes and her oiled hair and sun-browned skin. When she spoke, he gaped at her in astonishment. "My lady, you are... Tyroshi? Can it be so?"
My speech may be Tyroshi, and my garb Dothraki, but I am of Westeros, of the Sunset Kingdoms, Dany told him.
Doreah stepped up beside her. "You have the honor to address Daenerys of the House Targaryen, Daenerys Stormborn, khaleesi of the riding men and princess of the Seven Kingdoms."
The wine merchant dropped to his knees. "Princess," he said, bowing his head.
Rise, Dany commanded him. "I would still like to taste that summerwine you spoke of."
The man bounded to his feet. "That? Dornish swill. It is not worthy of a princess. I have a dry red from the Arbor, crisp and delectable. Please, let me give you a cask."
Khal Drogo's visits to the Free Cities had given him a taste for good wine, and Dany knew that such a noble vintage would please him. "You honor me, ser," she murmured sweetly.
The honor is mine. The merchant rummaged about in the back of his stall and produced a small oaken cask. Burned into the wood was a cluster of grapes. "The Redwyne sigil," he said, pointing, "for the Arbor. There is no finer drink."