Then, his emotions begin to come back. It is a blessed relief, to feel something, and he shuts his eyes so he might revel in the pleasure of feeling.

But when the first thing to return is rage, when it adds to what's already bubbling in his bloodstream, he decides that perhaps nothingness was better.

"Fuck off, Nymeria." The words burst free, unbidden, from clenched lips and grinding teeth; they take him by surprise, because he's never addressed her with such anger before. It feels wrong, dirty, like getting his dick out in front of his mother or like kicking one of his dragons with intent to harm - a limit that he should never breach, a line that he should never cross.

But how dare she? How dare she address him like that, speak to him like a piece of shit, when she should be fawning and cavorting around his ankles, crooning what's wrong into his welcoming ears? How dare she rage at him, when his broken, broken mind is incapable of handling it? How dare she be unaware of his pain, his anguish, and how dare she not immediately move to comfort him, as a good sister should? How dare she not know that he is in no mood to defend himself, when his - as she so eloquently puts it - fucking has already lost him one of the most important women in his life?

How dare she threaten to be the second to leave him?

The beast's eyes are fire now; his face, his posture, is a writhing sea of rippling muscle and flailing mane. He is a man insane; a man broken. "You do not own me. I am not yours to command, and my life is not yours to interfere with. So fucking what if you're an aunt? I've had to become a father when I didn't want to be, and I've managed to handle it."

A little voice in the back of his mind - maybe one of his dragons, maybe not - laughs nastily. Handle it? it says, giggling maniacally. As you're demonstrating, you're incapable of handling anything. Look what losing Isopia has done to you - you'd be a hypocrite to accuse anybody else of not handling something.

He smothers the voice and tries to smother his temper too, but alas, it is not that easy. He has always been a man who struggles with his anger, and that was even when he was a perfectly happy, well-balanced creature. Now, he's lost something he cares about. Now, he knows true pain. So now, his already volcanic temper has moved from being slightly worrying to fucking dangerous.

It's his turn to step forwards, and he draws himself up to his fullest height. He looms over her, monstrous, muscles rigid and skull-adorned face set into a snarl. His eyes are molten pits - he is hellion. How amusing that, only a few seconds ago, he'd sworn he could never be angry at her. Now look!

Then he turns, so he's side-on to her. "If you are just going to criticise me, sister, then I will leave you be. I am not in the mood for this." His voice is a gravelly growl, his body still as taut as a canvas. He has offered the olive branch to her, albeit unconventionally - it's up to her if she wishes to seize it, or to carry on her crusade against him.

Because he's sick of letting her walk all over him. He's sick of doing something wrong - even if he doesn't realise it - then grovelling at her feet to get her to forgive him. He's sick of being so damn scared of losing her, that he'll un-man himself in order to keep her. Let her see what it's like to be on the receiving end of an angry twin. Let her see what it's like to know that you've either got to swallow your pride and let sleeping dogs lie, or risk losing the most important person to you forever.