Ahead of her: an unknown figure, with eyes made strange by what could only be magic, and shadow-fire. The dream does not puppet Daenerys' thoughts and feelings, and so she is wary without fear, her hands clutching into defensive fists. But she turns, in spite of her instinct to stare down likely predators, when that prickle of attention plays at her nerves, and so she see what lies behind her: a void.

She likes that less.

Chameleon-like in her own world when it comes to manners, practices, cities, and alliances, Daenerys is nonetheless a constant within her own universe that seems like it can transform with a thought, ever malleable beneath her hands, and under her eye. She could burst into flames in denial of all of this bitter cold and deathly nothing, she could transform into a dragon shape and escape into the sky, but then, she would not know what she must know from this dream.

Turning to face the figure, Daenerys firms her jaw and takes a step back as the man raises his sword and approaches, and her step back draws her closer to that absence.