Reginald's laughter splits and disintegrates on her ears.

Nymeria cuts her scarlet eyes to him—hostile and discomfited—and her ears lock tighter to her neck. There is a brief (and yet eternal) moment when their gaze is united: his gaze malicious, hers angry—and then his eyes dance away. They crawl across her, like a layer of drunken and unwanted kisses, and she abhors him for his feralness (it only reminds her of her purpose.) And yet more than that... she feels as if she was sinned, as if he can detect her every insecurity and knows exactly where to press. Don't be a fool, she chided. You can take care of yourself.

A humbling shame expands, balloons, beneath her gray skin. At the very center (in her heart) is a kernel of fear.

Control her. An order, a reprimand, a suggestion, maybe both—she doesn't know and can't tell. It doesn't matter anyway. When Reginald turns (never turn your back on an enemy arrogant swine) she decides she will take advantage of it. Her wishes had been granted: she only had to deal with one. There is a glint of smile (a hint of teeth) as she turns towards Abraham; her resolve strengthens.

There is sea salt and dead things in the air and there will also be blood.

Nymeria blinks, black eyelashes curling together as she focuses on the tantalizingly pull and tease of his blood. For a savage and satisfactory moment she can imagine his pain as his ears pound and his thoughts fade into unidentifiable smears; then she lets her magic slip away, allowing a return to equilibrium.

Abraham's teeth clench, a glorious grinding that lightens the burden of her fear. A faint smile quirks her lips; then the ground erupts around her. Vines spurt up rapaciously, lined with thorns like rows of teeth. They curl, entwine, nibble at her legs; she jerks back, but they grow so swiftly and hungrily she cannot escape. Instead they sink deeper into her skin, worrying at thin flesh and fragile bone.

No—Lilómiel screeches as the gold's hands twist tighter around his. His fear (how shallow a word it is to describe his roiling, thrashing emotion) washes over her in a relentless tide. The wolf closes her eyes; sand falls away and she is in the sky, surrounded by a flurry of gold and white wings. The black's jaws snake open as Brienne flames (ices?), a retaliatory burst of flame. Ice and fire meet in a hissing collision. With a massive jerk and a flailing of his sinewy black wings, the drake yanks himself away from the python's flexing coils. Down, down he dives—fire following him, licking at his tail. Agony sears through the bond; Nymeria shrieks, pulling at her chains, terror obliterating fear. Instinct takes over.

Water roars up from the ocean, formed like a massive dragon (summoned once before in the midst of a storm) which engulfs the black in a shell, setting him sizzling and steaming but putting out the flames. Come back, Nymeria calls to him, but Lilómiel banks away from the shore, restless, frustrated, furious at Brienne and Gwyneverre's blockade.

The water dragon dissipates into the sea.

Pain crackles up her foreleg as Abraham reprimands her; Nymeria snarls. Blood, hot and wet, slashes across her forehead in a red splatter. For a pitiful moment snappy retorts jostle for position at the tip of her tongue: she holds them in check. They can rip your soul in two.

"Not 'they'," she spits. "You."

The ocean waves slap against the shore. There are no seagulls in the sky. The vines twist tighter.

"You don't fucking own me."