[ The hand upon her shoulder is comforting, fleeting. She cannot even acknowledge the touch.
Dany watches, with clouds of hot ash drifting between her and a view of the dragon whose pain has become her own. Is that why she had screamed, when the explosion had caught him in his wake? It had felt as if she herself had been struck--or perhaps that had only been anguish, and fury. Fury is a bond they have always shared between them, she now realizes. His anger is her own, and so she must be stronger than that.
We are bonded most in battle, she realizes, watching Anakin draw near with bated breath. He is a dragon, and so am I. In an instant, he could be incinerated where he stands, yet when the bandages unlace themselves, Drogon makes no move to open his maw, to unleash the fire that burns just behind his throat. A curious, tenuous calm settles, the pupiless red eyes watching with suspicion, as though temporarily taken from the brink of some fatal decision. The only battle Dany hears now is that of her heart, returning her to scorched sands and bloodied corpses, a dead man lying with a whip halfway out of his hand.
Her heart gives a lurch as Drogon's head lunges forward to snap, but so too is it accompanied by the splatter of something burning hot and silver, beginning to cool the instant it hits the sand. One of Drogon's wounds hisses, sending steam into the air, and the last of the poison leaves him. He should heal fully now, he tells her, and she closes her eyes, silently praising the Mother for her mercy. He speaks truly. ]
Thrice now you've aided me, [ she tells him, when the breath has returned to her enough to speak. ] Thrice now you've risked your life for mine. You shall not willingly accept recompense, I know, yet I owe you much and more for that.
[ She holds out her hands to take his in thanks, the gesture delicate. There are burns beneath the bandages that she dares not expose. Would that I could call him friend. Yet she has scarce had a friend for whom oaths and contracts make no matter, from whom no other request comes. ]
no subject
Dany watches, with clouds of hot ash drifting between her and a view of the dragon whose pain has become her own. Is that why she had screamed, when the explosion had caught him in his wake? It had felt as if she herself had been struck--or perhaps that had only been anguish, and fury. Fury is a bond they have always shared between them, she now realizes. His anger is her own, and so she must be stronger than that.
We are bonded most in battle, she realizes, watching Anakin draw near with bated breath. He is a dragon, and so am I. In an instant, he could be incinerated where he stands, yet when the bandages unlace themselves, Drogon makes no move to open his maw, to unleash the fire that burns just behind his throat. A curious, tenuous calm settles, the pupiless red eyes watching with suspicion, as though temporarily taken from the brink of some fatal decision. The only battle Dany hears now is that of her heart, returning her to scorched sands and bloodied corpses, a dead man lying with a whip halfway out of his hand.
Her heart gives a lurch as Drogon's head lunges forward to snap, but so too is it accompanied by the splatter of something burning hot and silver, beginning to cool the instant it hits the sand. One of Drogon's wounds hisses, sending steam into the air, and the last of the poison leaves him. He should heal fully now, he tells her, and she closes her eyes, silently praising the Mother for her mercy. He speaks truly. ]
Thrice now you've aided me, [ she tells him, when the breath has returned to her enough to speak. ] Thrice now you've risked your life for mine. You shall not willingly accept recompense, I know, yet I owe you much and more for that.
[ She holds out her hands to take his in thanks, the gesture delicate. There are burns beneath the bandages that she dares not expose. Would that I could call him friend. Yet she has scarce had a friend for whom oaths and contracts make no matter, from whom no other request comes. ]