( ᴄʟᴏsᴇᴅ ) i want to give you back the open sky

[draca]

ᴡʜᴏ: Daenerys Targaryen.
ᴡʜᴀᴛ: The man she sees in her memory has no face, he has no scars, no paint. He has no hair, no bells woven into his great braid. He is faceless.
ᴡʜᴇɴ: Late evening of the 2nd.
ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ: The edge of the city, in her tent.

If I look back, I'm lost.

It is not until almost a week later that she stops, but not for a lack of things to do. Since her arrival she has kept herself busy, negotiating with the people to aid her in erecting her tent, conversing with them. Discovering whatever she can. Loading her furs and clothes on a borrowed horse, she misses her silver she realizes quickly; resolving not to ride the spirited stallion. It took days before her tent felt like home, smelt like home, though she knew it was everything but. Her home is far, beyond the stars, the burning horses galloping across the night sky, the souls of the valiant dead.

But it is not that which stops her, it is not home or how much she longs for her people which makes her curl up on her furs, wrapped in the hrakkar cloak her sun and stars made for her. But exhaustion, a lack of sleep. And a broken heart.

The blood of the dragon does not weep.

For hours she tries to picture him, to remember his name, but with no avail. The man she sees in her memory has no face, he has no scars, no paint. He has no hair, no bells woven into his great braid. He is faceless, shapeless. His name is nothing but scratching noise. A copper shape, tall but featureless. The castle took his beautiful face, his hair, his name. It ripped her sun and stars from her and leave a copper form in his place.

The blood of the dragon does not weep.

Her grief overcomes the anger bubbling in her blood, the desire to breathe fire at it. It is one thing to take her from her people, strand her in a land not her own, but it is another to rip her lord husband from her and taint her memories of him. It is not enough to hear his voice in her mind, to remember his life. The form is a poor replacement; she cannot see his rare smiles, the tenderness in his eyes as they lay together.

She breathes sharply, forbidding the tears from falling. They defy her and come as she pulls the cloak tighter around herself. She has never felt so alone, so vulnerable, she feels like a child again.

You are the blood of the dragon, you do not weep. Be strong.

Nudging the cloak with his head, Drogon claws his way underneath it to reach her. She sniffs, extending her hand to brush a finger against his red and black scales. Drogon, the fiercest and biggest of her children. The one she named for her sun and stars.

She misses her people, she thinks as the dragon curls up beside her head, she misses them greatly. Her bloodriders, Irri and Jhiqui. She misses her bear, Ser Jorah. She longs for his company and advice, he would have an idea where she should go from here. He would tell her not to let her grief take a hold, best it swallow her whole.

You are stronger than that, Khaleesi.

A shaky hand wipes the tears from her eyes, she breathes in and out. She is stronger than this, she must be stronger than this, she will be stronger than this, she thinks allowing sleep to take her.

And when she dreams, she dreams of flames.