Two GoT speedpaintings, on Open Canvas, about half an hour for each of them.
Daenerys Targaryen and Jon Snow.
“When will he be as he was?”
What I never got is why the hell they left out the most important part of her prophecy.
Daenerys by uialwen
Someone also requested a Daenerys. Photoshop painting (among other things) is super difficult for me, but I’m getting better!
I love this. Love it.
“Take me up,” she demanded, the moment she had entered Castle Black.
Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons stood in the middle of the courtyard, looking like the deadliest reinforcements Jon had ever seen. She was speaking to him and him alone, though the men of the Night’s Watch crowded around them, gaping up the the three scaled beasts, as tall as houses and as temperamental as wildfire.
Jon wasted no time in showing her to the winch, and they rode in silence, Daenerys in her Dothraki garb, her bare arms covererd in goosebumps, and Jon wearing all black, from the fur on his cloak to the tips of his boots.
They were almost at the top when she spoke. “You are Jon Snow.” It was not a question.
“You are Daenerys Stormborn,” he countered. They stood quite apart, taking one another in, trying to match what they had heard with what was in front of them.
The cable pulled to a sudden stop and they climbed out onto the Wall. The air was fresher up here, and colder; she shivered noticeably. Jon thought of offering her his cloak, but did not know if she would consider it an insult.
They reached the other side quickly. Daenerys looked out onto the forest, her expression steely, and Jon knew that she was readying herself for another war. She had come north, as Stannis had before her, the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms ready to face the enemy beyond the Wall.
And yet… and yet as she looked out beyond the wall, so small that she was a moment from being lifted away with the breeze, she did not seem like Daenerys Stormborn. She shivered again, and Jon moved on impulse, closing the distance between them. He had quite forgotten that they did not know one another at all.
“I am a Targaryen,” Daenerys whispered, the flakes of snow landing on her hair and making it as bright as the full moon, “the last Targaryen of them all.”
There was a sadness to her voice that struck him, and he saw them both suddenly exactly as they were: no more than children, trying to be brave, standing up tall in spite of all they had lost.
“And what are your burdens, Lord Snow??”
“I have no burdens,” he whispered back. “I have no name.”
It was a lie, but she did not seem to mind.
This seriously needs to happen.