@anathemin / @songtouch
“You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, the Unburnt, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the first men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Shackles, and Mother of Dragons.”
Missandei’s voice rang sweet and clear, counting off her titles like so many peals of a bell. Though it was no Iron Throne, there was still strength in Dragonstone’s chair; when she placed her hands on that rough basalt, it was if she became one with the ancestral seat of her house, down to the fires of the Earth smoldering leagues beneath them, the molten lifeblood of the island. Her hands rested there now, upon the same stone that once shouldered Aegon the Conqueror, as the Northern party made their way deeper into the hall. Daenerys welcomed them with a soft, albeit subtle smile.
“Welcome, my lords -- my lady. Thank you for traveling so far. I know the winter seas are not always so kind.” Each of them in turn received the weight of her gaze: the older gentleman who stood tall and proud, burnished bronze armor gleaming low in the candlelight, and the younger, more slender lord in his silver finery. Then the lady, last of all, upon which her eyes lingered. Elegant, poised...and arranged between them, almost in deference. None of them matched the image of the dark haired youth Tyrion described, this Jon Snow who rose to the ranks of Lord Commander and beyond. His absence was a weight that strained at the corner of her lips.
“Does your King not travel with you...?”