[ It would be hypocritical of Daenerys to sail to Westeros, stand before the crowds of nobles and common folk alike, and demand that they do not assign to her the sins of her father, and then dismiss the gentle manner in which this girl -- woman, really, she cannot be far younger than herself -- broaches the subject of her kin.
Through the digital feed, she holds Myrcella's eye, and takes a deeper breath. What sort of gowns. ]
I'll show you.
[ She brings her communicator in closer to send Myrcella a link to a gallery of high end dresses, labelled STORMBORN X MARQ. They seem as modern as anything else of this land, but perhaps some Westerosi sensibility it its lines, its folded draping.
As she taps the correct buttons, she offers a ghost of a smile, and says; ]
And neither of those things are exactly the same as politics, for all that there exists the hope that they might be.
( Each and every one of them could stand in a circle pointing fingers and passing about blame upon each other until they were blue in the face. Here or in Westeros, it wouldn't matter; the end result would be the same: that it is a pointless pursuit. Death has marked her, changed her; but she never would have ascribed the crimes committed by the Mad King to his daughter.
She is guarded, now, but for reasons they all must be to be mired here together. )
Thank you.
( She pauses for a long moment as she taps the link and admires the site's content once it loads. She has been hesitant to fully embrace the fashion of this land, and appreciates the small similarity between these and garments she'd grown up with as a girl.
Myrcella taps away from the link, and smiles back at her, a touch warmer. )
They're beautiful. And no, they're not; but they're my reasons to pursuit it. I watched Prince Doran rule a peaceful country successfully for several years in Dorne.
I wanted the same, and want the same here, should the people choose me.
( A better legacy than what her elder brother has left behind, the gods know. )
[ Knowing what she knows of Martells, of Lannisters, and listening to Myrcella speak now, the irony is almost galling. And Daenerys can't quite keep it out of her expression, her mouth flat and her brow tense down the centre.
Her thumb idles against the edge of her communicator.
And she seems to arrive at some sort of conclusion, and asks; ]
Would you speak to me, of Dorne?
[ Instead of, say, the Lannisters, and their existing opinion about peaceful countries. ]
( For a long moment of silence, Myrcella watches her calmly — that question being one which strikes her interest. She tilts her head, and then inclines it in assent. )
Of the country itself, or House Martell? I am happy to, whichever may be the case.
( Yes, best not speak of how House Lannister approaches the concept of peace; that being it is good solely if it benefits the family. )
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no subject
Through the digital feed, she holds Myrcella's eye, and takes a deeper breath. What sort of gowns. ]
I'll show you.
[ She brings her communicator in closer to send Myrcella a link to a gallery of high end dresses, labelled STORMBORN X MARQ. They seem as modern as anything else of this land, but perhaps some Westerosi sensibility it its lines, its folded draping.
As she taps the correct buttons, she offers a ghost of a smile, and says; ]
And neither of those things are exactly the same as politics, for all that there exists the hope that they might be.
no subject
She is guarded, now, but for reasons they all must be to be mired here together. )
Thank you.
( She pauses for a long moment as she taps the link and admires the site's content once it loads. She has been hesitant to fully embrace the fashion of this land, and appreciates the small similarity between these and garments she'd grown up with as a girl.
Myrcella taps away from the link, and smiles back at her, a touch warmer. )
They're beautiful. And no, they're not; but they're my reasons to pursuit it. I watched Prince Doran rule a peaceful country successfully for several years in Dorne.
I wanted the same, and want the same here, should the people choose me.
( A better legacy than what her elder brother has left behind, the gods know. )
no subject
Her thumb idles against the edge of her communicator.
And she seems to arrive at some sort of conclusion, and asks; ]
Would you speak to me, of Dorne?
[ Instead of, say, the Lannisters, and their existing opinion about peaceful countries. ]
no subject
Of the country itself, or House Martell? I am happy to, whichever may be the case.
( Yes, best not speak of how House Lannister approaches the concept of peace; that being it is good solely if it benefits the family. )
Please, your grace. Ask whatever you like.