Ice, forming like skin over the depths of the lake, a sound like creaking glass and splinter. Something beneath it catches Dany's eye, churning, sliding against it less like an attempt to escape, and more like a caress--

But she turns to the battle at hand in time to see steel cleave through cold flesh and bone.

She glances down at the rolling head, but doesn't feel compelled to back away from it where it comes to a halt at her feet. It looks more human, and so to does the man with the sword. For a moment, she is stiff and wary, as grateful for his having saved her life as a wild animal might be for having been freed of a trap, before better manners overtake better instincts.

She nods to him, ever the monarch.

The last time she opened her mouth, a dragon scream had torn from it, unbidden. She doesn't risk that happening now, so another gesture is needed. Perhaps a token. She is dressed in the same white as mountain-capping now, her feet bare, her hair wild -- but here. She unpins a brooch of heavy silver, and gives a dainty, if unqueenly underhanded throw for him to catch.

It is, of course, a dragon, its wings spread and tail curling, the intricate details of its teeth defined.