Daenerys Targaryen (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
dorzalta) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
theianlogs2017-09-08 07:53 pm
dorzalta) wrote in theianlogs2017-09-08 07:53 pm
[open] When I was a child I'd sit for hours staring into open flames...
Who: Daenerys Targaryen and YOU!
When: Shortly after her arrival.
Where: Library, Main Street, and house 1016.
What: Brooding queen, house mingle, and more!
Warnings: None aside from an annoyed dragon queen who might throw around some threats of violence??
Suffice it to say, Dany is none too pleased to discover the walls which surround her are not those of a Targaryen ship, but that of... well, she's not entirely sure. It's a small space, bloodied. There are two eggs in her arms: one black with tints of red in its scales, one a deep green. She stares down at these and her eyes and nose burn.
There should be three.
I. Main Street
The threat of blood is not one which frightens her. Though it is clear she is without her armies, knights, and council--that she is without her dragons--she is no stranger to relying on herself. Had she not survived the slaughter of her first khalasar? The attacks of the Sons of the Harpy? An abduction by the Dothraki?
Upon her arrival to the building which someone claims to be that of her home, Dany takes one look at the strange trinkets within--and promptly turns and walks back out. She can be found settled on a patch of grass outside, by this strange and hardened road named 'Main Street,' the two eggs set carefully in front of her. She wears black, with a dragon brooch upon her right shoulder.
Should you approach as she kneels in front of her eggs, she will frown at you. But if you come later, you may catch her in the process of building a pile of dried debris. Or maybe it's while she lovingly places the eggs atop this pile of dried wood. Or, you might catch her... setting the eggs afire? Rolling her sleeve up and placing her hand within the flames to touch an egg? Take your pick.
II. Library
This space is one which houses far more books than Dany imagined possible. There's a look of wonder, manifested in the slight widening of her eyes, the parting of her lips. Her footsteps echo within the large, brightly lit space, fingers trailing along a shelf, skimming the spines of book after book.
"I've never seen so many in one place before," she murmurs by way of explanation, if you catch her ogling.
III. Open to housemates in 1016
Alas, her exploration of the library and her attempts at hatching her eggs fail. As night crawls closer and strange noises make themselves known, Dany retreats to this supposed bedroom of hers. When she is within her room, her door is closed. A simple knock would draw her away from her eggs.
Eventually, she does wander into the common space, if only to stare with furrowed brows at the metal objects. "What is this?" she'll ask in way of greeting, should she hear nearby footsteps. There are three other rooms in this building, after all, and they look the exact same as the doorway to her chambers. Why would there not be another residing here?
IV. Wildcard
Not feeling these prompts? You're welcome to come at me with one of your own, or poke me on plurk (![[plurk.com profile]](https://plurk.com/favicon.ico)
bubblytangerine) or discord (ginger trash#3728) if you'd like to hash out a different scenario! :>
[ ooc: Feel free to come at me with prose or brackets, I'll match your preference. ]
When: Shortly after her arrival.
Where: Library, Main Street, and house 1016.
What: Brooding queen, house mingle, and more!
Warnings: None aside from an annoyed dragon queen who might throw around some threats of violence??
Suffice it to say, Dany is none too pleased to discover the walls which surround her are not those of a Targaryen ship, but that of... well, she's not entirely sure. It's a small space, bloodied. There are two eggs in her arms: one black with tints of red in its scales, one a deep green. She stares down at these and her eyes and nose burn.
There should be three.
I. Main Street
The threat of blood is not one which frightens her. Though it is clear she is without her armies, knights, and council--that she is without her dragons--she is no stranger to relying on herself. Had she not survived the slaughter of her first khalasar? The attacks of the Sons of the Harpy? An abduction by the Dothraki?
Upon her arrival to the building which someone claims to be that of her home, Dany takes one look at the strange trinkets within--and promptly turns and walks back out. She can be found settled on a patch of grass outside, by this strange and hardened road named 'Main Street,' the two eggs set carefully in front of her. She wears black, with a dragon brooch upon her right shoulder.
Should you approach as she kneels in front of her eggs, she will frown at you. But if you come later, you may catch her in the process of building a pile of dried debris. Or maybe it's while she lovingly places the eggs atop this pile of dried wood. Or, you might catch her... setting the eggs afire? Rolling her sleeve up and placing her hand within the flames to touch an egg? Take your pick.
II. Library
This space is one which houses far more books than Dany imagined possible. There's a look of wonder, manifested in the slight widening of her eyes, the parting of her lips. Her footsteps echo within the large, brightly lit space, fingers trailing along a shelf, skimming the spines of book after book.
"I've never seen so many in one place before," she murmurs by way of explanation, if you catch her ogling.
III. Open to housemates in 1016
Alas, her exploration of the library and her attempts at hatching her eggs fail. As night crawls closer and strange noises make themselves known, Dany retreats to this supposed bedroom of hers. When she is within her room, her door is closed. A simple knock would draw her away from her eggs.
Eventually, she does wander into the common space, if only to stare with furrowed brows at the metal objects. "What is this?" she'll ask in way of greeting, should she hear nearby footsteps. There are three other rooms in this building, after all, and they look the exact same as the doorway to her chambers. Why would there not be another residing here?
IV. Wildcard
Not feeling these prompts? You're welcome to come at me with one of your own, or poke me on plurk (
[ ooc: Feel free to come at me with prose or brackets, I'll match your preference. ]
no subject
She's walking down Main Street, her cape billowing behind her in the swampy breeze, when she sees a new face, one that wasn't at the party yesterday. And she has eggs. Kara's sure they're from the chest, not that she's been able to solve any sort of Harry Potter-y riddle in her egg or anything, but she watched people try and get two - and it wasn't... possible?
But this person has two, so that's odd.
And then there's fire, which is... odder.
And then her hand is reaching for the fire and - nope. Nope, Kara can't stand back for that.
"Stop!" she calls, flying over closer and landing in front of the woman, kicking dirt on the fire and accidentally putting it out. She kneels down, trying to get a good look at the woman's arm without... scaring her off. "Are you all right? Did you burn yourself?"
no subject
Dany frowns, glancing first at her eggs, spattered in dirt. She's quick to dust them off, undisturbed by the heat which they hold. Then she's casting a heated glance at this stranger, not one of complete animosity--the likes of which she held for Lannister men--but not one of happiness to be disrupted.
"Take care with kicking about dirt." The admonishment rings sharply. "They may be unhatched, but that does not diminish the respect they deserve."
Not many would take great pains to ensure her safety. It's been so very long since someone, stranger or not, cautioned her against the heat. For that reason alone, Dany relents upon being questioned of her wellbeing.
"Fire cannot kill a dragon, my lady." She lifts her palm, dirt-streaked, and reveals unblemished skin. "How did you move so quickly?"
no subject
When she asks how Kara moves so fast, Kara bites back the temptation to just answer with I'm Supergirl because that answer hasn't worked out so well for her in this place so far. Apparently none of these people have heard of Supergirl until now.
"I'm an alien, from the planet Krypton," she says, after a beat. "The sunlight here is different from Krypton's, and it lets me have powers. Like being fast." That's... more than she's told anyone here, really, but this woman can touch fire. Maybe they have some similarities.
Kara can't deny she'd love to be able to share something with any of these people. It hasn't been long here, but she already misses home.
"You said these eggs are unhatched. A lot of us got an egg, but... I mean, I guess they could hatch into something..." Kara's worried, now, about her own egg, sitting on her bedside table in her fake room. "What do they hatch into?"
no subject
By now, she's come to terms with the fact of alternate worlds, but it's the dragon brooch that catches her attention first, and all that earns is a curious glance then something of a smile. "Excuse me. I-is that a dragon brooch?"
no subject
The young girl inquires about her dragon, and Dany's looking at her once more, something warmer in her gaze. "It is." Reaching up, she gently traces the silver. "Fashioned for both my children and family. The Targaryens are known for our bonds with dragons. You're familiar with them, my lady?"
no subject
"I am, yes," Fumiko says with an empathic nod, face brightening. "I have a dragon myself; she's very cute. Also, o-one of my Elites comes from an Old Dragon Clan. A-Are Targaryens a clan?"
no subject
Dany looks visibly thrown, stopping short to spare this girl a thorough look over. "Dragons are not cute. They are fierce and beautiful. Not pets to be tamed." Explaining that to people proves to be a frustrating thing, if only because so many take for granted the magic her children bring to the world.
"I'm unaware of dragon clans, old or not. The dragons were lost to my world, before my children were born. House Targaryen is one of the great houses of Westeros. My family embraced its role as the ruling royal House of the Seven Kingdoms."
no subject
Whatever else she was going to say is sidelined. "W-What d-do mean d-dragons are gone in your world? T-that's.. H-How? N-Nothing can best them...?"
As far as she knows, dragons are pretty much invulnerable.
no subject
Speak of their disappearance from her world turns her expression grim.
Remembrance of just what could best them has something sadder in her gaze. Viserion. His death cry. The spatters of blood falling through the air like giant raindrops.
She takes a moment to breathe past the burning in her nose, the constricting in her throat.
"Time. A powerful enemy. There are things."
no subject
"E-Even grown, dragons are cute." That much, she honestly believes. Dany could show her her own dragons, and Fumiko would find them cute - cuddly even. Much like her pinsir. But at the same time, this is a Dragon Tamer, so... maybe.
Yet the thought is cut off with the next words, and Fumiko's own gaze softens, mind hurled back to the final match she had before being named Champion. To the time it took to whittle down the dragons she faced, to the Twister that came down to speed.
The expression - reaction - is one Fumiko's donned herself. She forces a smile to her face; the best way to deal with grief are distractions, and not dwelling on it "W-Would you like to see my dragon? Dragons, if you count Hinoa..."
no subject
Save for this slip of a girl who speaks of cute things. With a shake of the head, she does something entirely out of character: she drops the argument. These are not details she would negotiate over. The simple fact is that dragons are not cute, and this girl's memories of childhood stories were ill-fitting at best.
And then--and then there comes an offer to show her dragons, and Dany nearly rears back.
"They're with you?" Ah, the faintness in her voice will not do. Inhaling, she steels herself, allowing a sharp nod. "I would like to see them, yes. How large are they? I'd not seen one flying the skies throughout my stay thus far."
no subject
Yet, at the same time, she's still not quite adjusted to the idea that not everyone is familiar with pokeballs; she'll fix that, eventually. Pokemon are understandable, given she hasn't seen a single one that's not hers since arrival.
It's only after she has a safariball in hand that she pauses with a sheepish look. "Though... P-Probably not inside? I-I don't want to ruin anything. S-shall we go outside?"
I
As he meanders down Main Street, he happens to spot a young woman with silvery hair, crouched in front of what looks like a small pyre built of sticks. He watches her light the pyre, noting that there appear to be two eggs resting in the flames, and he just can't help but surrender to his curiosity. These eggs don't look like the ones they were urged to take from the chest at the welcoming party--and even if they did resemble them, everyone he'd encountered had only been able to take one. How did this woman get two, and where did they even come from?
He pauses about a meter away from her and drops to a crouch. Lea of all people understands the need for a personal space bubble, and something about this woman radiates guarded caution, so he doesn't want to get too close and spook her.
"I'm gonna go out on a limb here and guess this isn't lunch," he says a bit dryly, watching as she pokes the flames a bit. Fire is, of course, always relevant to Lea's interests, and certainly finding other enthusiasts is never a bad thing, but he has a feeling this woman has a much more interesting story than anything else he's heard recently.
no subject
There is a war to be had. Her forces and allies required, if not her, then her dragons. Full grown dragons.
A man with vibrant red hair speaks, pulling her focus away from thoughts and her eggs. He has bright eyes, a friendliness to his expression which invites something calmer in her response. It's not precisely warm, seeing as he's a stranger, but she also does not address him as a queen would the commonfolk. "Certainly not, my lord. Were they their original size, my children would deem us their meals." Or him. Drogon and Rhaegal would not attack their mother.
Glancing back down, she rolls her sleeve and reaches out. The heat of flames licks at her fingers, a familiar, comforting warmth. Having only lit the fires, the shells are still somewhat cool to the touch. It would take some time for the heat to penetrate, and she suspects this small a setup will yield very little. Still...
"It took magic and a funeral pyre to hatch them once before."
no subject
"Lord?" he echoes, shaking his head and waving one hand a little. "Nah, I'm not that important." He scoots closer, sort of shuffling while still crouched, which of course looks ridiculous, but in his experience, a willingness to not take oneself too seriously goes a long way in making new allies. He offers a hand. "Name's Lea," he says, and waits to ask the question burning at the back of his tongue. She speaks with purpose, like one used to addressing people en masse, and he doesn't want to interrupt if she has more to say. He looks only mildly concerned for just a moment as she reaches into the flames, a soft, wordless noise leaving his lips before he nips off the reflexive warning.
When she doesn't recoil in pain, when the flames don't mar her skin, he can only stare, impressed and intrigued.
"Now there's something you don't see every day," he remarks, eyebrows lifted. Though a fire-wielder himself, Lea can still be harmed by fire not his own. The flames he can conjure at will no longer burn him (though he did spend the first several weeks of his training without eyebrows, once upon a time), but he's not sure he's ever seen anyone else perform such a feat, and certainly not so nonchalantly. Whoever this woman is, fire is no magic trick to her, it's simply a way of life.
When she speaks again, his eyebrows once more rise toward his hairline in curiosity.
"Hatch them?" he asks, tilting his head a little. Hatch her children? An interesting way to describe one's pets or companions, but certainly not unheard of. "Can I ask what exactly is gonna hatch?" He ventures a soft smile then, tinctured with a hint of mischief. "If you need more fire, I might know a guy who can help."
no subject
When was the last time she'd laughed? Truly laughed? Hard to recall...
"Daenerys," she responds in kind, hesitating for only a moment before clasping his forearm. Asha taught this to her. A warrior's agreement, as it were, not a greeting. There's a question brightening her eyes briefly, as she meets his gaze. What were they agreeing to, exactly? (Sadly, she's very little experience in handshakes for greetings.)
The next smile he earns is a full one, a quiet huff of amusement softening her features as she shifts Drogon's egg, and then Rhaegal's. Like stone, they feel. Distant, trapped. "Fire cannot kill a dragon." The amusement bleeds away moments later, her expression growing somber. This feels far too reminiscent to times long ago, when the world was too, too large, and she was too, too insignificant. "My children slumber within. Dragons. I'd raised them from hatchlings and into adults." There were three, she doesn't say.
How they reverted back into eggs, she's unsure. Puzzling the fact would cause enough headache, so when she's satisfied the fussing is adequate, Dany leans back. He's attentive. Friendly. Interested in a way that should cause alarm, but does not. He easily her children could be stolen at this point. Vulnerable, as they were when Pyat Pree attempted his kidnapping.
"There's not enough fire in the world." Particularly not here. Curiosity piqued, she rolls her sleeve back down and considers Lea. "And this man, how skilled at fire-making is he?"
sorry for the wait! i just moved and i've been trying to make my apartment livable.
She seems a little puzzled by the handshake, clasping his arm more as though she meant to pull him forward, or perhaps strike up a treaty, and he smiles.
"It's not a blood pact or anything," he says benignly, moving slowly as he adjusts her grip a little, making eye contact as he does so to indicate he's not trying anything funny. "Here, like this," he says, gently relocating her hand so they can shake properly. "It's just a greeting, a 'hey how ya doin'?' sort of thing. Heh, I forget sometimes that people come from all over." He had been the victim of more than one misstep on other worlds before, so he hopes, at least, that the gentle correction doesn't embarrass or offend her. "Nice to meet'cha, Daenerys," he says as he gives her hand a deliberate shake in demonstration, and the name comes out with no stumbling this time.
When she goes on about dragons, though, he finds himself a little puzzled. She speaks as though she herself were a dragon, which... Well, he guesses that isn't outside the realm of possibility. From what he hears, Xehanort's Heartless turned into a spaceship when Riku and Sora were in battle with him, so... A dragon is definitely less absurd than a spaceship, in any case.
"So they were fully grown," he says carefully, gesturing to the eggs, "but now they're eggs again?" He taps his chin. That's odd, but what about their current situation isn't odd, really? His eyes glint curiously then. "I've never seen a baby dragon before," he admits. Truly, he's never seen any dragon before, outside of picture books, but a baby one seems like it would be much less intimidating for making first impressions. He likes animals, and he loves fire, of course, so he would like to think he and a dragon might hit it off. "I hope maybe I'll get to meet them, when they hatch.
"As for this guy's fire-making skills, well..."
He makes a grand show of rolling back sleeves (that he doesn't even have) and then holds up one hand, index finger raised. With a flourish, he snaps his fingers, and the tip of the raised finger lights up like a Zippo.
"He's had a few years' experience," he says with a knowing smile, twisting his hand to let the little flame rest in his palm. This trick never gets old, honestly.
no worries! :> are you settled(ish), now?
His banter reminds her of a time when Yara came and pleaded for her aid. That same spark of mischievousness flickers now, and despite her anger, the roaring need for vengeance, her dragons, she inclines her head toward Lea. "Only a little? By all means, you've no need to stay mute regarding your accomplishments. Consider me your captive audience."
Lea's assurance does settle her somewhat. It seemed rude to ignore the offer, and while his explanation does lend logic to its side, this seems more a man's gesture than a queen's. Her estimations of him increase just that much more over his treatment of her. Not a delicate flower. Not someone who could break. He behaves as if they're equals.
His hand is warm and solid against hers, his hold firm, yet not painful. With the leathers of her gloves on the ground, there is some exposure to touch, but not in any way that might prompt her to recoil. "It's customary to..." Her brows crease just slightly as she returns the shake, not nearly as deliberate as his is. The fire crackles in front of her, forgotten however momentarily. "Do this, when you've just met someone? Or is it a greeting for each subsequent reunion, as well?" More importantly--her head whips up, blue meeting blue-green eyes. "You've traveled to other realms?"
That certainly makes him a valued ally. Any experience would be preferable to none.
"They were--are." Expression turning grim, Dany allows her hands to settle in her lap as she regards her eggs. No... this flame would not be enough. "The leader of this realm mocks me. Whatever magic he or she prefers, they've brought back the dead and transformed my children into hatchlings." Something in her softens as she looks back at Lea. "Few have heard a baby dragon sing. It's a beautiful sound that I hope you will hear, should these two decide to hatch. Even I believed I'd never hear it again."
Very few things in life render Dany mute. It takes extremes to surprise her, to silence her, to distract her enough to lose her footing. And yet...
The flame flickers to life with no coaxing, hovering just above a bare finger, dancing in place. Exposure to the ills of magic should prompt her to be wary; instead, she lifts her hand, meeting his gaze with a question in her eyes.
ii-ish?
The voice says he is here. That he belongs here, but he knows he does not. They do not speak his tongue, they do not share his ways. They speak in his head, not to his face. They are cowards.
They are stupid enough to let him keep his weapons. They are foolish enough to let him have Red. He has defeated Ogo, and he will defeat more, no matter the place. Drogo has been here for perhaps an hour, perhaps two, and he has found the largest building. That is where people with coin and women like to rule. That is where the people that have brought him lie, Drogo knows this. He yells as he looks up at the building, and rams his shoulder on the heavy door. It does not much. Drogo tries again.
Again, and again, and it does not move. Drogo is only more enraged, riding his silver to the next big building he sees, anger coiled in his belly. This is a door that open sand opens easily, and Drogo coaxes his Red up the stairs, storming in.
Books.
Where there are books, there are men who hide behind other people. There are cowards that refuse to show their faces. There are many books, and Drogo knows that means one thing: athmovezar. He listens, and he hears footsteps. Light ones, the kind that small men have.
Drogo shouts, and, in one swift motion, upends an entire shelf of books, letting them clatter on the floor.
"You will bring me back," He commands, voice echoing off of the high walls, and his horse whinnies nervously. "Or I will burn your books of paper and destroy this building, brick by brick."
no subject
The library's books fill her with a sense of girlish wonder. So very many books to be read. Histories patiently awaiting a loving caress, a watchful eye, an eager mind. She twists her mother's ring around her finger, absentminded as her gaze sweeps the shelves. Which to pick first?
The booming crash nearly makes her jump. Years of dragons and maintaining her composure, however, prevent the embarrassing reaction. It does not, however, provide enough wisdom to stay her feet from heading towards the sound. That voice...
Pyat Pree offered her that voice. The booming, grumbling baritone, a siren's song which tempted her to stay. She might've, if her dragons hadn't been in danger. The moon has risen and fallen many a times since that day when she'd spied her husband, and even more since the day she burnt his body in the funeral pyre. Her dragons have grown. She has grown. Dany is not the same girl she was.
Shekh Ma Shieraki Anni. Could it be?
And yet those threats and the clack-clack of hooves has her stopping short in the doorway, her heart skittering like prey as it did all those years ago. Is this a trick of the eye? Another illusion meant to cow her?
Not this time.
They'd drawn him perfectly from memory. Tall and proud, violence barely restrained beneath strong muscle. They'd even taken his mount. Everything, from the bells in his hair to the kohl painted 'round his eyes--it was all so heartbreakingly familiar and yet foreign all the same.
"We might find use for those books, my sun and stars" she says, half amazed her voice remains steady. Stepping further into the room, fingers lacing together in front of her, she approaches Drogo with a wary eye, half expecting him to lash out like a wild animal. To the room, she says: "I've faced these illusions once before. This trickery failed on its first attempt; what makes you believe it will succeed now?"
no subject
His beautiful, fearsome wife, except she is and is not at the same time. She is older, and holds herself differently. She has her hair braided correctly, but her clothes are not that of horse leather and woven grass, they are fur. They are like the men in Pentos.
No, no.
They are the clothes of the men from beyond the poison water. They are like her brother.
Books have no meaning to him, he wants to say. Books are not worth the shit that comes from his Red, except that they both can burn easily. But he is not convinced. This reeks of magic, it smells tainted.
This is no doubt the work of a movek. This is not his khaleesi. His weapon may lower, but it is not entirely put away.
"Do not mock me and show yourself as the moon of my life. You will answer me before I cut out your tongue so you can no longer spin your tales."
no subject
...Wouldn't he? They'd shared a bond rivaled only by the one she has with Jon, and even so, Jon does not know her as a husband. These things are different in subtle ways, precarious to navigate. Jon is not here. Jorah, Tyrion, Missandei, Grey Worm, Ser Davos, and Varys were not here. Drogon and Rhaegal were not here, despite their eggs locked in her room. Perhaps all this was nothing more than a fevered dream. Hallucinations.
Her disappointment is near palpable, a brief manifestation saddening her eyes before the blues harden, like sheets of ice. He is and he is not her husband. Upon her exhale--when had she held her breath?--she straightens, mien adopting the cool facade of queen.
"I am Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, the Unburnt, Queen of Meereen, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons." Tilting her head just enough, she lifts a brow, stepping closer to him. Her sun and stars would not mistake her for an illusion. He is not real. She would prove it thusly. "Twice now you've appeared before me, twice a lie. The khals no longer walk these lands." She'd seen to that personally.
no subject
She is a warrior. She is wearing different clothes, and she looks older, but her tongue cuts those down sharply, and her eyes are bright and true.
"No." He uses common, one sharp word in the ugly language that is her mother tongue.
This is her. It has to be. Drogo has questions, so very many questions, and questions do nothing but irritate him. His arakh stays by his side, at the very least. Drogo takes a step forward.
"Moon of my life. You look not as you were, but you are still made of fire."
no subject
One simple word, and she's stopping short, head tilting like a bird's. Something strange flickers in her eyes, something unsure as the thread of memory unfurls from the deep recesses within her mind. A night long ago. Her wedding night. The only word they'd been able to share.
Her nostrils flare for a moment, lips thinning. Dany looks like one of her dragons, readying to breathe fire upon him. He is not real. He is not real. He cannot be, for she'd burnt his body, cleansing herself and her mistakes in his funeral pyre. No. No. No.
Moments later, as his heavy footfalls echo within the empty hall, she appears to deflate, her lower lip quivering before she takes a shuddering breath. "No," she repeats, quieter, softer. An angry Drogo is far easier to overcome than the memory of her husband, the kinder, loving man with a gentled touch for his khaleesi.
Clearing her throat, she straightens once more, steeling herself. "Much has changed." Her gaze dips to his side, where he still holds his arakh. "Too much, in some ways, and not enough in others. Leave the books be, my sun and stars."
no subject
"No more words," he urges. No more questions without being questions. This is her. This is a strange her, her where 'much has changed,' and Drogo does not want to question it. Not now. Not when she has a look about her, face nearly white like mare's milk.
If this is strange magic, let them strike. Drogo will give them a chance now, and believe this, if only to make it a fair fight for them if it is false.
He puts his hands on her hips, large and calloused, and pulls her just a little closer.
"Moon of my life." He kisses her forehead, their own gentle touch, and one hand moves from her hip to under her chin, tilting her upwards to look at her.
No more words. Words bring questions, like books do. The books will go untouched due to her bidding. For now.
no subject
This must be another trick; another attempt akin to Pyat Pree's. Drogo steps closer, and her hands clench, the leather of her gloves creaking under the force. They toy with her. Even to this day, they toy with her by using him. Not him, a part of her shrieks. Was there nothing safe from the machinations of madmen? "There's too much to say," she croaks.
It's a sign of his hold on her still, the way her eyes turn glassy. Though his image grows blurry, there is no mistaking the surety of his hands on her hips. The warm press of full lips to her forehead, the winding twist of his beard brushing against the tip of her nose. Her lips tug down into a frown, not of displeasure, but of a woman trying to maintain herself as his scent catches her focus. Spicy, smoky. Fresh air. The remembrance of home. He does not hold Rhaego in his arms, not like their last encounter.
He does not need to. As he tilts her chin up, Dany blinks furiously. Wetness rolls down her cheeks, and she loathes it. They've found another of her weaknesses and exploited it. First her dragons. Now him.
A hand lifts, and her fingers curl around his wrist. "This is a dream."
no subject
'This is a dream,' Dany says, and Drogo sneers this time not at her tears, but at the notion.
"Then it is a dream that the sleeper will regret. We are together. We will make them wake." Drogo will force them if he has to, tear into their feather beds with his Arakh for daring to sedate his Khaleesi.
He brings both of his hands up to cup her face, now, and kisses her properly. This is real, he's trying to say. This is them. When he pulls back, he bumps their foreheads together and closes his eyes.
"I will kill the one that makes you cry," he promises. "I will make this stone house fall, and I will burn this camp to the ground."
no subject
And then suddenly, like a flash of light, the air gusts past her lips when calloused fingers will the wetness away. He touches her with a gentleness that leaves her aching. Leaning closer. Drawn to him like a flower to the sun. Could this truly be real? "My dragons--they're stone again."
She does not think of their home with him this close. Does not think of the things and people left behind as he envelops her fully, his lips claiming hers in a way that is foreign and familiar, much akin to a distant dream tickling the mind, whispering: remember me?
If only he could spy the emotions he summons forth. That one simple link of forehead to forehead... if only it could show him all her anxiety, fear, elation, pride, longing, love--all warring for dominancy, a notable distraction. Her eyes have fallen shut, and she allows their breaths to intermingle for a moment longer before she catches both of his hands with hers. Even these hands, darker, rougher than hers, honed lovingly by battle and life, seem to dwarf hers.
It does not stop her, however, from gently pulling them from her cheeks so that she may press a kiss to the middle of each palm. Reverent. Pulling back slightly, she meets his khol-rimmed gaze, expression somber at word of his promise.
"Let the flames cleanse this place and bring my children back to life." Something hardens in her gaze moments later, a warrioress' reflection, as she inclines her head just slightly. "I've killed her for us, my sun and stars. I listened to her screams for mercy as she burnt for her crimes."
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"I don't know what it is, they aren't from my world." Varian glances up from the banner, taking note that the new person is young enough, probably just a bit younger than his son if Varian had to guess. What was it with this place and kidnapping kids? Had the same happened to his Anduin, Varian would have lost his composure back home and most likely rampaged until his son showed back up again....
"You're one of the new inhabitants here, correct?"
so it begins...
His mane is not that of Tyrion or his sister. Her Hand would be of much use in this place, informing her of his connection to one who shares the same living space as she. Still, there seems to be no recognition brightening his gaze. An advantageous thing, to be sure.
"We might make use of it for scraps. Weaponry seems rather sparse," she comments lightly, sparing the device one last look before turning to face this man, linking her fingers together. A familiar, comfortable pose which masks just how discomfiting all of this is. It would make no use to jump straight to rage, though it churns in her belly like a familiar friend. "New enough. You are not?"
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"I was lucky enough to have my weapons on me when being dragged here." There's definitely a hint of bitterness when Varian says it, pride still smarting at the idea someone got the jump on him so well. "I would not know where to start with dismantling those things, but it would be worth a try. Engineering is not something I had an aptitude for no matter how many gnomes attempted to teach it."
Varian gives the smallest of shrugs. Give him a sword and an enemy and things are perfectly fine. Technology is more something to ask his son about when trying to figure out how it works.
"Still new. Most have only been here a few weeks at the most. I haven't spoken to a person who claims longer than that."
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"Gnomes?" Of all the things to latch on to, it would be the strangest of them all. She's unfamiliar with the term and its significance, whoever these gnomes may be. Likewise, engineering is another unclear concept to her. Still, she'd avoid voicing too many questions at once. Best not to appear simple. "They'd brought my children here with me," she murmurs, sparing the folded flag one last glance before stepping closer to the metal contraption.
The silver is smooth and cool to the touch, shifting enough to suddenly spurt a stream of water into the basin carved into the table. Dany nearly jerks from surprise, tugging her hand back as she regards the hissing water which never seems to cease.
"Any number of weeks is too long. Have you found much to aid us in understanding these lands? When I first came, it appeared a battle took place in the small room. There was blood smeared on the walls."