#evershiftingmuse

Ensign Thera Pardalis, report to the Bridge immediately. Ensign Pardalis to the Bridge ...

The first part of the announcement made her jump; the second, to skip back over the last several days for anything she might have done that was especially out of line. Was this about the restraining hand she'd put on a Bajoran delegate's arm when he'd been about to start a fight? Or because she told a couple of annoying recruits to go out in the vacuum and whistle?

Regardless, instinct had her halfway to the turbolift before her thinking brain caught up. The only time anyone used her full name and in that tone was when something really bad was happening, and old habits died extremely hard.

The journey took far too long, the hum of the lift all too complacent as she took firm control of her breathing and squared her shoulders for whatever was waiting. At last the doors hissed open and she stepped through. "Pardalis, sir, reporting as ..."

Pause. Beat. Her eyes widened.

Dragonstone was the antithesis of Highgarden. Stormy, heavy-clouded, damp and grey everywhere, with seldom a trace of sun beyond the ramparts surrounding the castle. A place where a rose might wither and die, she thought. Still, despite all that, Margaery felt more at ease here than she had ever been in King’s Landing, parrying with Cersei Lannister through poisonous diplomacy. The question she’d posed upon Daenerys had been probing, yes. One could seldom survive the bloody politics in the Red Keep by being too trusting, yet her answer had been wise and just – qualities often found lacking in the previous occupant of the throne Daenerys now pursued.

Daenerys had not slept a wink – and it showed. 

Surrounded by tall walls of solid purple marble, she sat like a queen upon the simple ebony bench that she’d chosen to replace the harpy-shaped throne of the previous rulers. Fingers clasped atop her lap, fidgeting, waiting. Since when just sitting still had become such a challenging thing? Next to her stood Grey Worm, with his hands behind his back in military fashion, giving her the latest report on the casualties of the sack of Mereen.

She had to battle her impatience. Deep down, the thought that it should have been her leading the charge through the gates still nagged her – and the soldier’s diligent, dutiful account was a painful reminder that she should have witnessed it firsthand. Still, Dany listened with utmost attention. This was her duty now: to be calm and reasonable in the dealings of the crown, to measure what problems she would have to solve in the aftermath of her conquest and to consider the best ways to do that.

That was why her first reaction to the sound of opening doors interrupting their conversation was to draw in a long, irritated breath.

Until she recognized him from across the hall. Dany stared at Jorah, wide-eyed with disbelief. She hadn’t heard from him since he went on his mission-punishment. She knew he had succeeded, of course. That much was clear since the slaves had been released from the fighting pit, and yet… Either through death or free will, it had never occurred to her that he would return to her.

Not after what Ser Barristan had revealed to her.

“You had more than one reason not to come back”, she reminded him, sharp and cold. He was hurt, she noticed. Daenerys clenched her jaw, fighting whatever sense of sympathy the sight might have made her feel. Looking away, she curled her fingers above the bench. 

Remember what he did to you, she told herself. Remember what he did to your unborn child.