Fleeting regret tightens through crow’s feet as he looks over to her, grasping for delicacy. It’s really none of his business. Another slow breath decides as much. This isn’t the news he’d spent the ride up here drafting out in careful advance. ]
No.
[ Gently put, for a one word disappointment. One more syllable, and there might be enough space to read between the letters: you wanna fuuuuuuuu-- ]
He turned your attention to a greater and more terrible threat to the North, [ he says, with no trace of ire, and stops, truth dark as his armor. The better to square to her, bleak and black as any other fixture of Dragonstone in the dappled forest path. ]
[ The word no brings with it a small flicker of relief that Daenerys can't and doesn't conceal, and no further commentary. Her gaze turns forwards, intent to keep roaming, but Jorah says more and then he stops, and so does she as if he'd cast anchor.
The picture of her time in Westeros that he paints now is a more vivid rendering of the finer imaginative sketches she'd attempted to anticipate. There is no surprise or disbelief on her face when he says this last thing.
She nods, instead, a subtle gesture. ]
The wights, [ she volunteers. ] And their masters. They progress, then.
[ Jorah dips his head, mild in return for the knowledge she already has. It spares him the weight of trying to paint the picture. ]
A group of us journeyed north of the Wall in search of a wight to capture as proof, in the hope that Cersei might be swayed to parlay.
[ He presses on, watching her more closely in a still moment between bullet points He’s never had much of a poker face. Worry has already taken hold in the twist of his brows, and the blue of his eyes. A steady decay of pride and posture leads here, to guilt. ]
We were overtaken. Surrounded, until you came for us.
[ In the near distance, a furious squirrel scolds Drogon from the branches of its tree. ]
[ Her expression is painfully open, concerned and suspicious of whatever conclusion that Jorah is leading her towards. The catastrophic defeat of her forces feels abstracted, not quite real, something that will need time to integrate into her understanding of reality.
The death of a dragon takes no time at all.
In her expression, the shift from strength to fragility in the finer lines are subtle to see, but there. Likewise, Daenerys can read Jorah well, too, and finds no respite there.
She turns, focused pulled towards where Drogon is oblivious to the both of them, and the future, and showing off the inside of his mouth to chittering forest creatures. A step forward takes her to where the stream has left rocks shining, but no further. There's no racing across, or flying off to the sky, no physical thing she can do to leave knowledge of the future behind.
He can hear notched steel in her voice when she asks, without looking back; ] How?
One of the white walkers, [ says Jorah, stone to her steel, low and quiet against the burble of water and the stirring of trees. ] Their leader.
[ He hasn’t moved to follow, anchor sunk in deep. The forest entire is hers to stalk; he’s just visiting with bad news, rooted to an an invisible front stoop. ]
He struck Viserion out of the sky with a spear.
[ A magical spear made of ice. Ser Jorah keeps his teeth parted only to work them shut again without lending voice to elaboration. He looks away, and eventually, to the center of Daenerys' turned back. ]
[ At a remove, she thinks: that should sound strange. A spear, capable of such a thing, and while he was (will be) flying. In skies that belong to them alone. This world has taught her not to think so literally. There's a dream world that, also, describes a future in which warfare has felled one of her children. Metal pieces fired at rapid rate, fire and impact. Why not a spear, cast from something just as mythic?
Her chin tips down. A hand, to her face. Dampness gathered at the corners of her eyes, vinegar, bitter, slipping down past her nose, caught by her palm at her mouth. To be the Red Waste. Unfeeling, endless, arid.
There is no sound from her immediately. If there is more, she would hear it before she trusts herself to put thought and feeling to words. Whatever strange, ineffable link exists between herself and her dragons has Drogon steer his focus towards her, giving up on terrorising forest animals and small fish. Instead, he moves towards her at his cumbersome wyvern crawl, tail swishing to and fro. ]
[ That’s the only truly terrible word Jorah has for her, cut loose and let drop.
Given time and space and silence, he dares to take a step in at her back, only to stall out short of touch at the sound of Drogon slithering closer through the brush. He’s just a presence, after that, reserved in his cloak. Not yet dismissed, report set aside like a newspaper.
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no subject
Fleeting regret tightens through crow’s feet as he looks over to her, grasping for delicacy. It’s really none of his business. Another slow breath decides as much. This isn’t the news he’d spent the ride up here drafting out in careful advance. ]
No.
[ Gently put, for a one word disappointment. One more syllable, and there might be enough space to read between the letters: you wanna fuuuuuuuu-- ]
He turned your attention to a greater and more terrible threat to the North, [ he says, with no trace of ire, and stops, truth dark as his armor. The better to square to her, bleak and black as any other fixture of Dragonstone in the dappled forest path. ]
An army of the dead.
no subject
The picture of her time in Westeros that he paints now is a more vivid rendering of the finer imaginative sketches she'd attempted to anticipate. There is no surprise or disbelief on her face when he says this last thing.
She nods, instead, a subtle gesture. ]
The wights, [ she volunteers. ] And their masters. They progress, then.
no subject
A group of us journeyed north of the Wall in search of a wight to capture as proof, in the hope that Cersei might be swayed to parlay.
[ He presses on, watching her more closely in a still moment between bullet points He’s never had much of a poker face. Worry has already taken hold in the twist of his brows, and the blue of his eyes. A steady decay of pride and posture leads here, to guilt. ]
We were overtaken. Surrounded, until you came for us.
[ In the near distance, a furious squirrel scolds Drogon from the branches of its tree. ]
Viserion was killed.
no subject
The death of a dragon takes no time at all.
In her expression, the shift from strength to fragility in the finer lines are subtle to see, but there. Likewise, Daenerys can read Jorah well, too, and finds no respite there.
She turns, focused pulled towards where Drogon is oblivious to the both of them, and the future, and showing off the inside of his mouth to chittering forest creatures. A step forward takes her to where the stream has left rocks shining, but no further. There's no racing across, or flying off to the sky, no physical thing she can do to leave knowledge of the future behind.
He can hear notched steel in her voice when she asks, without looking back; ] How?
no subject
[ He hasn’t moved to follow, anchor sunk in deep. The forest entire is hers to stalk; he’s just visiting with bad news, rooted to an an invisible front stoop. ]
He struck Viserion out of the sky with a spear.
[ A magical spear made of ice. Ser Jorah keeps his teeth parted only to work them shut again without lending voice to elaboration. He looks away, and eventually, to the center of Daenerys' turned back. ]
Drogon narrowly avoided the same fate.
no subject
Her chin tips down. A hand, to her face. Dampness gathered at the corners of her eyes, vinegar, bitter, slipping down past her nose, caught by her palm at her mouth. To be the Red Waste. Unfeeling, endless, arid.
There is no sound from her immediately. If there is more, she would hear it before she trusts herself to put thought and feeling to words. Whatever strange, ineffable link exists between herself and her dragons has Drogon steer his focus towards her, giving up on terrorising forest animals and small fish. Instead, he moves towards her at his cumbersome wyvern crawl, tail swishing to and fro. ]
no subject
Given time and space and silence, he dares to take a step in at her back, only to stall out short of touch at the sound of Drogon slithering closer through the brush. He’s just a presence, after that, reserved in his cloak. Not yet dismissed, report set aside like a newspaper.
Considerate. ]