"An envoy from the North, before you stands—"
"Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Stormborn, the Unburnt, Mother of Dragons, of House Targaryen—"
"Her Majesty Daenerys the First!"
As the Master of Household's chant ended, Count Roose Bolton, standing below, placed a hand over his chest and bowed to the Targaryen queen seated high above.
His pale eyes flicked upward, and his faint yet perfectly clear voice carried through the hall. "Your Grace, please allow the Dreadfort to convey House Stark's respects to you."
Count Roose had disembarked yesterday at noon, when the sun shone brightest. When he set foot upon the Blackwater Rush docks, he had even thought he had arrived in the Free Cities across the Narrow Sea.
Prosperous, orderly, clean.
From the docks and through the city streets, everything he saw made it seem as though all of King's Landing had been clothed anew.
It was more than simply changing its "clothes." This City of Kings, brimming with laughter and joy, was flourishing.
It was utterly unlike the filthy, chaotic, stinking King's Landing of his memories.
Not only skilled in war, but skilled in governance as well—though he had tried to think highly of him, had he still underestimated King Gryn Crabb?
And the Targaryen descendant before him had brought not only the legitimacy to rule as her dowry, but three dragons as well...
Heh. Living in the same world as a man like that, perhaps one no longer even had the right to complain...
Daenerys, wearing a crown of dragons and flowers, briefly examined the Northern envoy below, who stood like an ice sculpture. Her lips moved, and just as she was about to speak... Grand Maester Pycelle, who had accompanied the audience, let out a cold snort first. "Count Bolton,