Darkness grasps after her, a cold wind that sucks back into its mouth, chasing the flutter of her skirt hem, the flick of a braid. She is cunning and readied as she watches the actions of the man and his sword and his white, moon-glint eyes.
And he surprises her. She can almost feel the shift of his manner and his focus like a current, and it's enough -- in a dream, it's enough -- that she moves too, reaching out her hand, and when her palm slots against his, she is hot to the touch. Just in time, too, for the sound of splintered ice rings sharp in the air as a figure takes shape in the churn of the void.
A sword comes out first. It is made of blue ice, a splinter plucked from a glacier's heart. Glowing eyes. Sunken face. Taller than a man ought to be.
Daenerys isn't turning back, but she can sense, hear, feel pursuit, and gamely pulls on Arthur's grip to propel herself away.
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And he surprises her. She can almost feel the shift of his manner and his focus like a current, and it's enough -- in a dream, it's enough -- that she moves too, reaching out her hand, and when her palm slots against his, she is hot to the touch. Just in time, too, for the sound of splintered ice rings sharp in the air as a figure takes shape in the churn of the void.
A sword comes out first. It is made of blue ice, a splinter plucked from a glacier's heart. Glowing eyes. Sunken face. Taller than a man ought to be.
Daenerys isn't turning back, but she can sense, hear, feel pursuit, and gamely pulls on Arthur's grip to propel herself away.