[ She's never seen anyone lean away. The wind whips at their clothing and hair, the slight chill noticeable enough. It's a strong illusion: the feeling of flying (gods, she's missed it) all the way down to the scent of smoke as Drogon circles and readies to spew forth another plume of flame.
Beneath them, Dothraki scream and Lannister men die. Metal clashes and clangs, distant. All of it is far, adding to a dream-like sensation she'd felt at the time of the attack. Peaceful, detached from the carnage as they are. No, they are the carnage. She pays it no mind--her focus is on him. ]
You're a Westerosi?
[ Most would piss their breeches, but he appears elated. There's a small flush of pleasure over catching it. ]
no subject
Beneath them, Dothraki scream and Lannister men die. Metal clashes and clangs, distant. All of it is far, adding to a dream-like sensation she'd felt at the time of the attack. Peaceful, detached from the carnage as they are. No, they are the carnage. She pays it no mind--her focus is on him. ]
You're a Westerosi?
[ Most would piss their breeches, but he appears elated. There's a small flush of pleasure over catching it. ]