𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 ... the day before the gathering of lords 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 … some miles from king's landing, the northern camp 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 … edric ( @aislamxnto )
the sunset is washed with blood as dragon and rider crest over the mountain and valley below, the moving scar of its peak swathed in red light as the sun promises its plunge into night. a retinue of northmen materialise beneath the belly of the beast as the great loom of her shadow parts the cluster of clouds above, bannermen appearing more like carcass to awaiting carrion at the altitude they soar within. but they do not flee or bellow, in some measure sure that the militant months in her company have freed their flesh from the stripping of dragonfire, from the steam that had rushed their enemies spines before black flame licked the screams from their ranks.
sgaeyl cants them through the throat of the wind, the leathery expanse of dual wings tucked in as they surge toward the ground. then spreads them wide in a rush as she banks the dale, weight shifting to her legs as she eases them to the grass floor. vaeles slips from back to the idle slant of her wing, where the clamorous sounds of men and women erecting camp reach him atop the hill. his sable glove traces the contour of her neck as he passes the length of her, its texture marred by a pale line that mirrors his own wound when unseated by a bolt to his chest in exchange for the lord stark’s survival. as he nears the silver glint of her eye, a deep rumble rolls up from her throat, her wing arcing its shape in an action that sees the approaching man’s hair caught on a brief gust. but vaeles is slow to turn, his greeting cautioned by the thought that perhaps edric, in their prolonged separation, had experienced a fade in sentiment whilst devoid of the high of war.
