The queen is coming to meet him. Lilómiel's jaws slacken, his red tongue slithering out between ivory teeth to taste the air. His wings shiver, dark primaries spreading to better catch the rolling breeze off the sea—up he goes, tentatively ascending to meet his superior. It is clear through the way his tail hangs low and his lips pull back into a humbling smile that he never would have expected such an honor; and he, in a typical, boyish way, is instantly captivated by her sun-gold scales and her emerald eyes. With painful, glorious ceremony he takes Brienne's hands in his, and then he forgets his bonded (not to mention her fear) in favor for a queen worth dying for.

Nymeria's gaze flicks away from the two stallions to watch the black and gold embrace. Incredulous—and foolish as it is, hurt—she watches them pull away from the earth. There is a bitter taste in her mouth, the envy of a woman scorned; the dragons' companionship shouldn't be a betrayal, but it is. This is when she needs Lilómiel most, when her nerves are shot and she feels as exposed as a rat in a lab, but this is when he decided to take his leave. The only contribution he gives to her now are feelings of absurd glee—and those are not feelings she needs nor wants.

Scarlet eyes (glinting with old wrath) return to Reginald; his brows rise, and she allows one of her own to carve upwards in cruel return. Here I am, he declares to her. I know you're here. Her mouth, relatively soft, hardens at the slither of his appraising eyes and his tilting head; her ears slide back, casual but with a sharp message nonetheless.

Is this yours? There is no doubting his message, or what this refers to. This time it is not Nymeria's ears that go tipping back or her mouth that grows angry but a dark hind leg, raised in warning (I will fucking kick.) Would it be too obvious to say that she is angry? That her heart callouses to the nature of him and him (twins like she and Volterra) and that she instead sees a battle cry on the horizon? She is worn out from her heavy thoughts, her weighted desires—but surely much of that weight would be shed if she were to kick this arrogant shit into pieces. The only problem was the brother. The two (Reginald with eyes like a snake, the other with eyes like a wolf) she didn't—couldn't—trust, and neither did she know if Abraham would stand by or attack.

She submits to me.

Nostrils flare; Nymeria shifts her head, doing an appraisal of her own. Her weight shifts; her weight rocks, entrenching her in the sand. The anger that burns in her chest she lets out in a deep and casual breath, and without outward expression she reaches for a handful of blood—and she pulls, with all her might, attempting to draws the red fluids from the orifices of Abraham's face. (Just his face.)

She didn't belong to her brother. She didn't belong to strangers.

(No. She belonged to herself. Was it that fucking difficult to believe?)