The name Vortigern forms like ice on her tongue, knowledge crossing between minds in this intimate mingle of dreaming, shocking through as if on a molecular level to alter something fundamental. But it's an echo of knowledge only, and when she wakes (having remembered everything), she will have questions. Is this the name of a White Walker? Some sort of General? Some other, unknown quality?

The last one seems the likeliest, as this unknown quality in front of her is the source of knowledge. So she watches with sharp study as he steps closer--

The world breaks.

The sound of ice snapping, a sudden cold like a whip, and Daenerys pitches forward, landing hands and knees in the rock and frost. The winter is like this in the northern most parts of her country, where wind can strip leaf off tree in one blast -- and that's if it doesn't fell it. The severed head is gone, and beneath the rumble of the broken ground, Daenerys can hear something else -- the familiar weight of metal-clad feet on the ground. The shift and clink of armor. The beating of spear to shield.

Another beat can be felt, joining in -- slower, heavier. She knows it as the sound of dragon wings trying to claim lift in the empty, cold air.

She looks up.