Indeed, the skin is unblemished. She stares at it for a moment, then remembers herself. A light pat to his palm--a show of her satisfaction--and then she releases him, pleased. At least it didn't cause him damage. Far better than her own wounds, at least.

"Balerion the Black Dread was two hundred years old when he died, my lord. Mine have only lived for a handful of years, since my husband's death." She doesn't mention her sweetling, Viserion. She can't. She won't. "In matters of agelessness, I am like any other man or woman in my world. One may choose to take my life, or I may be fortunate to live for a hundred years."

She listens, because he deserves her ear. There's a wisdom to him to respect... and from the sounds of it, likely, that is due to--

"How many years?"