"Your Grace," one of the servants chimed in, "'tis almost time for you to attend court. Will you be requiring assistance in clothing yourself today?" She stared wordlessly at her queen's dress, splattered with brown-red stains and flecked with bits of noble serving girl.
"As a matter of fact, I would, " Daenerys replied. Her massive meal was sitting in her stomach like a bag of rocks, distending it to the point of seeming rather pregnant. Daenerys felt like she wouldn't be able to bend downward more than an inch, let alone dress herself. She had tried to shun being pampered by her servants when she could, but today seemed a necessary exception.
Two more handmaidens silently entered the room and began stripping her, nimble fingers untying knots and undoing buttons with the grace and skill of women who had been doing this all their lives. Next came her smallclothes, whose front was still damp from soaked-through blood. Taking a moment to glance down at her engorged stomach, Daenerys found it to be as large as it felt. It was like all of her torso between her sex and her breasts had bloated outward six inches, and a cursory poke found it to be stretched as tight as a drum all over. Her stomach and intestines were both filled to bursting, some of it even backing up her gullet a little. At both sides, just above her hips, Daenerys saw the faint pink beginnings of small stretch marks.
She winced internally as a servant walked away with her clothes, a look of disgust crossing her face as she tried to avoid touching the bloodstains. Would they notice how much blood there truly was? Would they figure out where it came from? But would they care? a voice in the corner of her mind seemed to whisper. Every one of their former masters has assuredly indulged in some terrible vice before, this will hardly faze them. And with that, Daenerys relaxed slightly.
One of the servants walked into her field of vision, a rainbow of dresses draped over her arm. "Which of these do you wish to wear today, your Grace?"
Daenerys eyed them all carefully. Almost all of them were cotton or silk, so sheer that she might as well go with her breasts bared. The only clothing that seemed solid was a violet tokar, which Daenerys soon pointed to. She would not the people of Meereen, former master or slave, see her body exposed in such a state of decadence.
The servants set to work immediately, gracefully unfolding the cloth and wrapping it around her torso, pausing every step of the way to pull it tight. At each stage, another servant darted through and fastened several points of contact together with golden brooches in the shapes of dragons and harpies. On and on it seemed to go, twice around her breasts, between the legs, around the waist once more, under the right armpit, over the left shoulder, and at last wrapped around her left arm and bound by a golden bracelet.
Then came what seemed like an endless cavalcade of jewelry. Nearly every inch of open skin on her arms and hands was soon covered by silver bracelets in the pattern of snakes, strings of Myrish pearls, and thick rings carved whole from single gemstones. Her shoulders were bent slightly by a dozen gold necklaces and chains, each signifying a great honor of being ruler of Meereen and an insult of the highest order if it were removed. A golden choker that wrapped around her entire neck, topped by a ruby the size of her palm, made tilting her head any more than ever so slightly downwards impossible. The great amethyst-and-platinum pendants that now hung ponderously from her ears felt like they would tear off her lobes any minute.
Daenerys felt more like an overstuffed sausage in an undersized casing, but the fabric was thick and garishly-patterned enough that it was hard to notice the state of her belly. But before she could take a step, more servants ran up carrying another box of jewels and a strange clay container. One of the maids pulled off the lid, revealing a waxy substance that glittered silver, and began running her hands through Daenerys's hair. It must have been whatever the Meereenese nobles use to style their hair into the outlandish fashions she saw. She could only guess as to what they were doing behind her as the servants added handful upon handful of the cream to her hair, occasionally pausing to weave in another bejeweled monstrosity.
While the hairstylist worked, another walked up with a palette and began applying makeup with a thick brush. First was a layer of some sweet-smelling substance that felt like tree sap ("to help the powder keep its hold," she claimed), then layer after layer after layer after layer of face powder. Sometimes, she would pause to mix colors, add in the powder from some precious metal, or even press a jeweled adornment right into the resin. She even placed two great ovular rubies over Daenerys's top and bottom lips. Layers would go on, then be scraped away to make patterns in the revealed layers underneath. Sometimes layers would be piled on in one specific area, making those parts of her face jut out. As it wore on and on, Daenerys felt less like a human being and more like a house with a mural being painted on its walls. She could've sworn that the makeup artists began to work their way from her forehead to the base of her hairline.
After a short eternity, the servants all stepped back, looks of triumph blooming across their worn-out faces. One of them bore a golden hand mirror with a handle in the shape of the Harpy, holding up for Daenerys to see. "Look, your Grace!"
What Daenerys saw wasn't her; no, it wasn't even a person. It was an ostentatious statue that had grown a mouth. Her skin was painted a bright white that shone silver in the light, just as her hair. Elaborate patterns of gold and crimson and violet and onyx crisscrossed and swirled their way across her face, uniting under a chin that narrowed into an upward-curving golden hook. Her nose was covered by a similarly jewel-encrusted golden hook that blocked her nostrils and jutted into her field of vision. When she kept her jaw closed, the two hooks' points touched to form what looked like a gaudily-dressed eagle's beak. Between them sat a pair of bulbous ruby lips that scattered red points of light on her chin. Her cheeks were built up by innumerable layers of makeup and shaped into razor-sharp edges that jutted out a good half-inch from the rest of her face. The tips were pierced with small silver rings, linked by small chains to a diamond-shaped amethyst set in the makeup on the bridge of her nose.
But her hair, Gods, her hair. The makeup matched her hair color so well it was hard to tell when her forehead ended and her hair began. It snaked into three enormous braids that curved upwards and over her head, their ends shaped to look like the heads of dragons. Sparkling ruby eyes, sat above rows of pearl teeth, and their backs were ridged by silver scales and diamond spines. Two braids split off from the sides are were brought back up to the top of her forehead, fanning out in the shape of an eagle's wings. A gold figurine of the Harpy of Meereen's torso, its clawed feet perched atop her gold-painted eyebrows, was slipped over. Its scorpion tail had three small golden chains looped about it, each of them leading to a gilded collar around each dragon's neck. Though the servant described it as representing "the dragon binding the Harpy's fiercest weapon", the symbolism was obvious.
At long last, she was ready for court. Daenerys gingerly took a step forward, her entire body jangling like a bag full of gold. She felt her head begin to tip, but her balance was restored by two servants. "Shall we call a palanquin for your Grace?"
"...I suppose so." Even speaking was a chore, with the makeup caked on her face and the great collar on her neck making it difficult to move her jaw. She was loathe to use such an obvious symbol of the slavers to move, but the tight tokar and the combined weight of all the makeup and jewelry made it the far more practical option.
Within ten seconds, half a dozen muscular manservants walked in bearing the palanquin on their shoulders. It was just as gaudy and ornamental as everything else she was wearing; the sides and handles were painted gold, and adorned with carvings of soaring harpies and frolicking cherubs. Its top was purple velvet, which she sank deeply into as she sat. Due to her elaborate hairstyle, Daenerys found herself forced to recline sideways, as if on a chaise, her right hand used to prop up her head.
The palanquin gracefully lifted off the ground and brought Daenerys from her chambers. The rolling motion began to elicit a series of belches from her overfull stomach, but thankfully nothing came of it. As she entered the throne room, the throng of waiting supplicants and noblemen fell silent, awestruck by their queen's ostentatious appearance and her strict accordance with Ghiscari customs. As her violet eyes scanned the crowd, she noticed the freedmen, as well as those who had come with her, were staring in either shock or disgust. The Great Masters, on the other hand,
The servants ascended the stairs to the throne of Meereen, falling to their knees just in front of the throne. Two of them rose to help her down, their strong arms deftly righting her and setting her on the seat of her throne as if she was as light as a feather. If they felt any strain, they were excellent at concealing their discomfort. The servants carrying the palanquin bowed deeply, and soon it was as if they were never there.
Daenerys called her court to order, but before she could call the first supplicant forward, a servant bent down to whisper in her ear. "Your Grace, court must begin with a prayer by the Green Grace." And so, Daenerys called the Green Grace, a tall yet elderly woman, to lead a brief prayer. Upon its conclusion, her royal duties could finally begin.
After not even a single hour into hearing her supplicants...
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