if they are monsters. than so am i.

     ❛  I DON’T NEED Y’ help, your grace .. i know how to read HIGH VALYRIAN. ❜

injured and healer sentence starter. | @alldaddy

                      kindness in the face of this much pain shouldn’t make daenerys smile, it should not make her laugh --- and yet.  she coughs, a dry, rattling sound, blood fathers in the corner of her lips but she’s unafraid. 

this is not how a dragon dies. she’s survived many attempts on her life before, a knife between the ribs (low, shallow, blunt-edged weapon) is all but a familiar friend to the queen by now. 

                        “thank you,” she is softness against his razor-wire edge, but nonetheless veined in steel. daenerys targaryen would not die tonight, but that did not make any of this any less painful. it did not ebb the flow of blood. or slow the racing of her heart. 

The fires of R’hllor ran hot through his veins, flooding radiance and divinity through his being with every beat of his heart. His might was that of an army, his muscles unburdened by ache or fatigue. He did not tire. He did not falter. He did not YIELD.

Wicked blades and barbed arrowheads struck rich flesh and were turned away, shattering on impact. He could see the fear and understanding swirl in the black of their eyes, the men slowly coming to terms.

When leather soles struck the smooth bronze of the throne room, the stranger entered trailing no less than four of her guards, one going so far as to cling to his ankle in a desperate bid. He didn’t seem to notice their presence in the slightest, his gait smooth and strong and unfettered as he closed the distance between them.

With closer examination, it was simple enough to understand why his presence alone had caused such a terrible commotion outside the Great Pyramid. While the enigmatic man bore no apparent weaponry on his person, there was something to be said about the apparent corpse clutched tight in his grasp.

     “ My name is for you and you alone. “

No titles. No honor. She was no Queen of his.

     “ I request much from you, I know.        But I do not approach with idle hands. “

His fingers were clutched tight around the face of the lifeless figure, the man shaking off one of the ever persistent guards so that he could sling the body at her feet. It seemed to be a denizen of Mareen, swathed in a brightly colored tokar typically worn by the old blood.

     “ The Harpy. Your enemy. He is slain. “

His golden gaze lifted, twin suns coming to set on Her Radiance first, and then up, up, up as the draconic screeches continued to echo in the distance.

                                     let it be said that daenerys welcomed any and all into the ornate halls of her meereenese pyramid. sat, not on a throne, but the stone stairs that lead down to where this stranger now stands. prize in hand. 

a silver brow arches slowly, and as she rises to meet him, her guards trail a half step behind their queen. she’s earned their loyalty, and, if this gesture of goodwill meant anything, daenerys would work to earn his, too. 

outside, dragons roared, and echoes of them pooled in the lilac eyes transfixed on his. 

                                  “it seems i owe you a debt,” she lifts her hand, and the half-dozen armed men and advisors magnetized to her every move, shift away. she dismisses them, only after they’ve picked up the corpse at their feet.  her dragons would share in his bounty. 

“if you mean me no harm, then i see no harm in it. we may speak privately.” murmurs of protest filter through the onlooking crowd - what would people say of her, now? meeting in seclusion with a stranger capable of apparent violence. she is a dragon, and dragons are not afraid. 

this is her decision, and she won’t hear otherwise.

he could (and should) follow after the petite queen - the silver of her gown shifting in the candlelit halls that wind up towards her bedroom. only once they’ve entered, and she’s poured them each some wine, does daenerys turn back to look his way.

                              daenerys targaryen, queen of the three, reigning over the bay of dragons from the majesty of her pyramid. people are more amenable to a foreign rule when they’re granted freedom - when their chains are broken and those that would hurt them die SCREAMING. she is the dragon’s wrath, the dragon’s ruin; but she is also the peace when the dust settles, she is the comfort of a dawning sun after a long, dark night

exhaustion plagues her, settles and tangles between her thin shoulders, cuts a shadow into the dip of her brows.  she wears it well, however, doesn’t let her smile falter where anyone can see; queenhood ran deep in the young targaryen’s blood. she knew how to rule, if only from the echoes of a dynasty long since dead.

today has stretched on unendingly; there are murmurs of an uprising, claimants that deny the right of her sovereign leadership, and there are still those who’d ask for her to reopen the fighting pits - she has no right to strip away the culture of the people of meereen. dissent is to be expected, all things considered, daenerys knows that, but that doesn’t make her acceptance of it come any more easily.

she had not anticipated to hear the commotion on the steps outside. a man has charged forth through her guards - incapacitating, instead of killing, and there are hurried shouts when she makes her way down to the open hall that holds her throne.  

he is powerful. they’re struggling to stop him, and daenerys barks an order in valyrian, her mother tongue lashing out, more of serpent than a dragon just then, but they both have fangs.

“let him speak.” punctuated by the shriek of two dragons beyond the door, and the thunder of another’s wings above the pyramid (likely looking to roost on the ornate patio outside of her room). her eyes are sharp, curious, and when she steps closer to him, her guards fall into flank.

“who are you? and what’s brought you before the queen so urgently?”