A slender young man steps to the forefront, a great white wolf at his side. The others tremble, but he just stares, still and contemplative. Her breath hitches in her throat when she meets his grey eyes- he has a peculiar look about him, as though he’s seen beyond the sphere of this world into the mysteries beyond. It’s a chilling sort of knowledge, but she finds herself unable to look away. "Who are you?" he asks.
And it is a worthy question- who is she anymore? The last Targaryen, the Khaleesi, the Queen of Meereen, the savior of the weak, the burner of cities… "Daenerys Stormborn."
When he stands a hand-span away from her, he leans forward, a lock of inky hair falling into his impossibly-full eyes. She feels a chill creep up her back; there’s something strange about him, to be sure, something otherworldly that she likely should not trust. And yet… ”Do you believe in prophecies, Daenerys Stormborn?" [x]