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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[ 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. ]