Hollow Crown ↬ Daenerys Targaryen

23

If there's one thing Percival Lannister is sure of at the moment, it's that even as a dragon he absolutely hates the north.

Perhaps it's Viserion's own dislike for the kingdom worming it's way into his own mind, but even as a human Percy would rather scorch in the sun of King's Landing than freeze in the frost of the north. He would have thought that being trapped inside the body of a dragon would at least make the environment seem more adjustable, but it's turned out to he another thing that he's been utterly wrong about recently.

Sure, it may not feel as cold anymore due to his larger form and warmer - in reality much thicker - skin, but the place is still as unbearable as it was before. Maybe even more so considering the only thing he has to do now is listen to Viserions's background thoughts and watch Drogon and Rhaegal's constant and incessant need to be aggressively obnoxious creatures.

He tries not to think about the worse sides of his current predicament, which only works to fuel his dread about it. With the Night King and his army only over a weeks journey from Winterfell, his main priority has been to figure out how to navigate his way from his warged state, or at the very least split his and Viserion's consciousnesses into separate bodies. Hopefully and preferably before the dead reach their destination.

Another thing that has sat pushed in the back of his mind for the last few days, suppressed to no end as to not influence his emotions or focus; the thought of the silver haired Queen whom he left behind. A sobbing mess in a field of his blood and a lot of problems weighing down on her shoulders. Problems which she must deal with alone now that he's not there to insist on easing her stress and taking a bulk of them.

While he's done well to not let the thought of her distract him, that's not to say that he hasn't thought of her at all. When the sun sets below the horizon and the wind grows harsher to the point that he must find cover, he lays awake in some unknown cave or crevice, picturing the way they would nestle against eachother for warmth. On the rare occasions throughout the night that he drifts off into a half state of sleep, he dreams of a life when things would be simpler, a life not without conflict but manageable enough.

It's a dangerous thing, he knows, to wish for something which they will never have. Especially during a time so dire that every bit of their minds should be focused on survival. But thinking about her is also the only thing that's given him a shred of hope to cling onto when everything around him seems like it's falling apart bit by bit.

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Daenerys' eyebrows furrow in curiosity as Jon leads her away from the dining hall, the lights of the castle growing dimmer with every turn. She had been sitting at the head table, in the head seat, for hours without moving an inch. Her food layed untouched atop the table, hands folded in her lap with a polite look plastered across her face.

Nobody had seemed to notice her attitude, the lord's and ladies talking amongst themselves. Sansa had shared a brief conversation with her about King's Landing, more importantly their shared hate for Cersei Lannister, before she had been distracted by her cousin Robin Arryn.

Missandei and Tyrion had been the only ones to pay her any mind, with the translator and friend asking her if she would like to leave. Daenerys had of course declined, as not only would it be inappropriate to leave a gathering unannounced, but it was clear the woman had been enjoying herself before seeing her Queen's mood. Tyrion had only asked her if she was alright - to which she offered a curt yes, not wanting to delve into her feelings - before he had turned back to his hushed conversation with Varys.

The bastard had looked to her after that encounter, a disturbed look on his own face and his skin a little paler than usual. He had fidgeted as he asked her to walk with him, so much so that she may have mistaken his demeanor for a boy about to court a girl, had she not know better.