closed.

[jalan]

WHO: Daenerys Targaryen and Sam Merlotte
WHERE: De Chima
WHEN: Now!!
WHAT: Dragon's day out.
WARNINGS: Extreme dragons.

The dragon in the sky is getting bigger as it approaches.

No, really, that's not just a trick of perception. Daenerys flies in on the agreed upon location at first astride a more agile, less conspicuously sized Drogon, if such a thing exists. But sighting the verdant green of Virginian woodland inspires him to stretch, transforming into his full size beneath, wings labouring to keep up with his own mass gain even as they grow larger, more powerful. In the battering of the wind, she shakes her head, adjusting her straddle to accommodate, avoiding getting pierced or bruised by lengthening spines.

She's owed him this trip, with her being away from the Porter cities this long, and she's owed herself too. There comes a point when high heels and hair spray and flashing cameras and white alls all begin to prick her pride. She is a queen, and the blood of dragons runs through her veins. Her place is here. A braid of silver-blonde whips behind her as Drogon tucks himself into a dive, and the air glances off her coat and trousers of tailored leather, all commissioned into a more Essos sensibility than American, her boots corded along the calves.

She squints, trying to see past Drogon's massive skull to ensure he isn't diving on a deer and is, in fact, landing to meet Merlotte at the agreed upon meeting place. It could go either way.

Comments

[shifting]

The forest surrounding the meadow and pond goes quiet just before the pair are in sight, and then every bird's raising the alarm. Sam can't exactly blame them. Primal instincts and childhood wonder still do their own number on the shifter's adrenal glands every time he sees the Dragon Queen atop her namesake. Drogon's just something you never get over seeing.

He waves with one hand hand shielding his eyes from the afternoon sun, and steps back beneath tree-shade to watch their landing, curious if Drogon will take for the stretch of grass or straight for the water - like judging a dog's nature. Trying to pigeonhole a few tons of lizard into 'Greyhound' or 'Labrador' probably counts as some breach of etiquette, but he can't resist. It's easier to think of Drogon as some fire-breathing dog breed than a fantastical monster, and from what he's seen (and embodied) it makes a good lick more sense.

(It also lets him feel better about the small cooler of meat scraps he brought as an offering. It had seemed rude to pack a lunch for Daenerys and himself and ignore her companion.)

"Well, this is it," he calls out once they touch down, smiling a welcome and gesturing expansively. "Plus all that surroundin' acreage I mentioned bein' for sale, but this part here has my name on it."

He jerks his head. "The dirt path leads back to my cabin, and I'll show you that later, but I figured your dragon'd have an easier time stayin' out this way, at least to start. Plus it's just too damn pretty today not to be waterside."

[jalan]

Landing is always a gut-sinking jolt that Daenerys has gotten used to bracing for, and Drogon has gotten used to allowing her to dismount before attending to himself. He turns his head to look at Sam, nostrils flaring, the jagged mess of his teeth shown in his permanent lizard smile. Daenerys gets firm ground beneath her with all the grace available to anyone when climbing down the side of a dragon, backing up so as not to get clipped by a wing as Drogon rolls on towards the lake.

The water churns as he sinks his maw into it, the scales and spines on his throat rippling as he drinks his fill.

Daenerys turns to Sam, offering a smile, more miniature adventure hero than fantasy princess in clothing fit for diving from the sky. She holds her hand to shield her eyes as she heads on over. "Most would prefer fire-breathing beasts of old to stay away from their cabins," she agrees, dropping her hand once within the shade. "But you're right -- it's beautiful out here."

The summer had finally bloomed into climates she was better suited for for virtue of being used to them, fair skin or no, if nothing quite like the dry desert heat of Essos.

"Were you gifted it, this place?"

[shifting]

"...The fire might've been part of the consideration." Especially since at the rate Drogon's drinking, he may not leave enough pond left to put out even a campfire.

Sam nods an invite to two folding chairs he's set up, hideous and ancient but apt to at least keep their behinds from any ant hills. A pair of coolers and towels sit between them, the latter admittedly somewhat more presumptuous than the former. But even if Daenerys declines to swim, Sam figures the splash zone around a dragon at a pond is bound to be a wide one.

"I've got some beer if you want one, and some water if you don't. I hope you're all right with turkey sandwiches. I should've thought to call and ask beforehand, sorry 'bout that. And as for the cabin, no." He shakes his head, popping the tab on a beer. "That I bought. But you could say the land back here was sort've a gift. Were you here back when the government rewarded a bunch of us with our choice of cash or requests? The pond came out of that."

Sam sends a faint, fond look over her shoulder, appreciating the scenery and watching Drogon. There's a moment then where his memory stabs back to the whiz and crack of bullets and the stench of petrol, but he forces his smile through it. An old dream, that's all that was - nothing more. There's no one hunting them in these woods. Not anymore.

"I couldn't ask for better. Gets a little lonely, although I do get the occasional deer or raccoon visitin' me." He laughs. "And once even a bear. But yeah, it's gorgeous out here, and sometimes there's somethin' nice about the quiet."

No screeching tires or crunching metal; no screams.

"Mm, but what about you two? Where's the queen callin' home these days?"

[jalan]

The chair creaks as Daenerys takes a seat, leaning forward to help herself to a beer. Her fingernails idle around the seams in the metal, the manufactured cold, these little details still somewhat alien to her after all these months of living among them. She doesn't fidget for long -- she opens hers with its customary hiss and crack.

She glances back to Drogon as Sam does, a small smile pinching at her mouth as she watches him slide into the shallow of the pond, after the mud at the bottom as much as the water that sits on it.

Mention of encounters of the bear kind her had hesitating over a beer sip -- but surely not, surely there are lots of bears in Virginian forests! -- but now she drinks a little deeper before settling it on her knee, smile twisting crooked at his question. "I secured for myself an apartment in De Chima," she answers. "It is no castle, rest assured, but then, my last home was a pyramid."

So there is need to adapt.

"As for Drogon, when he isn't with me, he finds respite on empty tracts of beach in North Carolina, and sometimes frequents the Stark property. I'm hoping to get him better accustomed to this corner of Virginia."

[shifting]

"You did?" Sam's beer pauses near his lips, clearly as surprised as he is pleased. He'd known she was considering the area - they'd talked specifically about some of the land behind his home for Drogon - but he hadn't realized he already had a welcome neighbor.

"Well damn, congratulations." His bottle tips to clink against hers in cheers. "I hope you're likin' it so far. Even for it bein'... not a pyramid. But hey, less sand to clean up, right?"

Wry humor curls through his voice, hopefully hiding any actual nerves at being reminded again of the difference between the Daenerys of her world and the one he's he's come to know. It's a topic they've only skimmed in the past: her title and the life she lived under it. Sometimes Sam worries he knows her better in abstract than in reality.

Which may be the same as not knowing her at all. Sure, he'd fought at her side, carried her weight through clouds and gunfire, was as willing to struggle as much for her protection as for her cause - but for all that, Sam feels he can still only claim a dream.

...Something they should probably still discuss. If only to clear the air.

"Well, he seems to be acclimating himself pretty good to this pond at least," Sam remarks, cocking his head at the dragon's wading. "I know we spoke once about you buyin' up some of the acreage here for him to do just that. Is that still a goal? Do you think he'd even respect the boundaries if you tried to set them?"

A beat. Sam licks his lips, making sure to catch her gaze before he gently broaches:

"I think I came to know him - or at least aspects of him - a little better durin' that... whole dream thing, but there's a lot I'll admit I still just don't understand about him and your bond with him.

"But I'd like to. If you're willin' to share it with me."

[jalan]

She sees it too, like a phantom between them. She has practice in pretending as though her world is not immensely alien when compared to this one, allowing it to show only if she chooses to -- for intimidation, or here, for humourous effect, for more than that could threaten to create divides she would have to navigate. In this moment, however, Dany has to wonder if such veiling is a good idea, and she turns her crooked smile to her drink, taking a short sip.

Catching Sam's intent look, she hesitates over it, the ridge of her thumbnail fidgeting against the edge of her can.

"It is the plan, the acreage," she confirms, first, leaning back into her seat, one leg folding over the other. "In fact, I've paperwork readied for a lawyer's perusal -- and yours, if you're willing to lend me your advice. The authorities have agreed to a generous loan, and so, once I've raised the necessary funds, it will be all mine. All his," she adds, a glance to Drogon. "He will inevitably wander, from time to time, but once he knows a place as familiar and safe -- and abundant in food -- he'll consider it his territory."

Inevitably, she suspects, his home will be her, but thoughts of building out here can wait.

"If you would know the truth, there is little I understand about my bond with him either," she admits. "No dragon has flown the skies of my world for two hundred years, until him and his brothers. Once, they were the overwhelming military might of my ancestors, so used to claim the lands that I mean to rule. After that, they diminished, until there was no more."

She glances to Sam, as if to check if she's lost him, but continues anyway -- he did, after all, ask. "They were gifted to me as eggs, thought to be petrified -- considered valuable, if fitting for a Targaryen princess. But I sensed a life, boarded up inside, and I hatched them in a pyre -- and so I have been known as the Mother of Dragons.

"And so, they are my children. The other two -- Viserion, Rhaegal -- did not follow me, here."

[shifting]

"Well, I don't know how much help I'll be with it, but - yeah. Yeah, I'll take a look. Or I could just be there with you when you sign it, so they aren't as inclined to think they can try and cheat you." ImPort royalty or no, Sam's of the opinion some sleazebag in a suit could look at a single woman and think 'jackpot'. "But I'm real glad to hear you're movin' forward with it. I know that's been a stress for you from the start."

That is, keeping Drogon safe but also secluded. Size wasn't the only issue with a dragon - imPorts and natives alike learned that lesson the first time Drogon stretched his wings within city limits. Sam still remembers the feeling of the creature's roar reverberating through and around him, and the bursts of heat.

Right now, however, it's that word 'territory' giving the shifter pause. Maybe it's just the animal in him, just pure fearful, feral response, but the idea occurs that Drogon may eventually decide he likes his home better without Sam in it. Not a comforting thought. He takes a too-deep gulp of beer and forces the concern from his mind, but not without a rough swallow.

Don't give yourself more problems than you already have, Sam. It won't do you any favors.

"Well," he says after a moment, nodding to her, "I'd always known I was out of my league in talkin' with you. Good to have it confirmed, your highness."

He's quick to flash a smile - he's only joking, promise - and bends to grab them both a sandwich from the cooler. No use waiting for a lighter topic before they dig in; it's doubtful that'll be anytime soon.

"I wonder why Drogon came and not the others. Maybe even the Porter's afraid of drawin' in three of your dragons at once."

Smart.

"So..." he drawls, passing the young queen a tinfoil-shrouded turkey sub, "I can't help but imagine you showin' up with some giant dragons folks thought were gone got a few feathers ruffled."

[jalan]

Talk of her league gets the sort of smile that crinkles in the corner of her eyes, amused in place of flattered, and reaches to take the sandwich. "I make friends of all kinds, Sam Merlotte," she says, peeling away the tinfoil. "Even if the mechanics of this universe weren't something of an equalising force, I had to win back my palace in my own world too."

She intercedes the path of some dressing with her little finger. "In fact," she goes on to say, with the air of someone deciding to share more rather than leave it at an abridged version, "I've yet to win my true kingdom. And my dragons ruffled many feathers indeed.

"But if I am to tell you my story, you must promise me some of yours."

The deal is lightly proposed, punctuated with digging in to her sandwich, as delicate as is feasible.

[shifting]

"That... hasn't been my strong suit in the past," Sam says, after a hesitation he mostly spends staring too hard at the sandwich he's unwrapping. Sharing with people has been a new development in his life, and one which he still prefers in installments.

"But I'm also not the sort to take without givin'." A concession and a small smile, brushing breadcrumbs from his pant leg. 'Some' is not 'all', he reminds himself - she's not asking for the whole gory mess of him. There's no reason he has to share anything she'd risk her heels by wading through. And the least he can do is meet Daenerys halfway after how far she's already flown for him.

"So, sure. I think I can drink to that." He lifts his bottle, taking a sip to seal the pact. "Let's learn about each other. Only seems neighborly."

(That 'neighbor' being a dragon more likely to collapse Sam's cabin than borrow sugar from it, but at least he won't have to share parking.)

"No promises that my tale'll be half as interestin' as yours though, your highness. I'd rather you don't let this on to people, but I've mostly just got sandwiches to offer."

[jalan]

A guarded curiousity has established itself behind her eyes at resistance. Unexpected. Daenerys never assumed him to be a simple man, as so many aren't, particularly of those dragged in through the Porter, but the reticence is a surprise anyway. The conversation entered into, made safe in the context of neighbourly.

Well. They can be, that. "It isn't a competition," she says, teasing, and giving him an arch look as she hefts her beer. "But I have every faith you can find something interesting to share while I think of how to tell you of myself without demanding you heed a short history of Westeros first."

To ponder, she sips her beer, brow crinkled.

"My father was a king. A bad one. Cruel, likely mad, and wielding such great power that no one could stop him should he chose to burn his enemies alive for sport. I never met him," she adds. "While my mother carried me in her belly, great houses conspired to usurp the land of Targaryen rule, and they soundly succeeded. I was born far from Kingslanding, a traumatic birth that took my mother too. My brother, and I, we were alone in our exile."

She turns, then, to watch Drogon rather than Sam's face, if only because she might wind up taking cues from the latter, and takes cues, instead, from the former. "The dragon eggs were a marriage present to me. I was to marry a warlord, whose armies would conquer at the behest of my brother. Viserys was not as he seemed, and nor was I; he was weak, and he died, and I was strong, and I lived. I hatched my dragons, and I knew then that it would be me who took back the Iron Throne. They've won me armies. They've won me cities. They'll win me Westeros.

"My ancestors rode his ancestors when they first established the Seven Kingdoms. If you ask me what they are to me, I would say that he, his brothers, they are my will made flesh, and fire, and blood."

She stops, there, having allowed that quiet fire to run as it may, unable and unwilling to contain it, even in the strangeness of being surrounded by summer insects, of holding beer within a tin can, of watching her dragon take a mud bath. Now, she looks back to Sam, unflinching but a little unsure of what he might make of that. She adds, then, "I've walked many paths in my life. Only in recent months have any of them resembled the halls of castles."

Someone ring the shame bell for me

[shifting]

"Mm, good. It'd be a shit competition. No prizes."

He settles into quiet after that, stretching his legs out and sitting at a slouch. Attentive, his head cocked like a birding dog's at the call of a grouse. But it doesn't take long into listening for the easy smile to leave his face - it happens right around the time she mentions people being burned alive.

Sam joins Daenerys for a momentary glance at the dragon in his lake, but not for the same reason.

So that's her stor, or at least the most abbreviated form of it she could share with him. Kings and warlords, fire and death. A motherless child growing up to fight halfway across her world. A bloody legacy and birthright on her shoulders from the moment she took her first breath. And she owns it. He could hear it in her voice when she spoke. She knows the weight of all of that, but she bears it. This is the woman who took so easily to leading a guerrilla army of resistance fighters in a shared dreamworld. Sam hadn't been able to explain to himself after waking why it had felt so natural that he'd pledge himself to her in that effort, or why he would've been drawn to her in the first place.

Now he can. And damn if that still isn't a little scary.

Sam stares between his scuff-marked boots for a bit, nodding softly. "...Well, I'll tell you what. Now you're really gonna have to explain to me how you go from all that to modeling.

"But in all seriousness," he adds, cutting off his own joke and creasing his brow, "you're as incredible as your dragons, Daenerys. I can see how important your struggles are to you. Not that you went through them, but that you learned from 'em. And I know me sayin' so isn't what you were tryin' to get in sharin' that story with me, but I just want you to know I think that's gonna make you an amazing queen to your people."

Sam leans over just enough to clink his near-empty can against hers. "So cheers to that."

nooo

[jalan]

It isn't flattery that makes her smile in her usual minor way, but the warmth behind it. His easy negotiation between pride and propriety in order to transmit that warmth, where she can feel it best in her heart. When he clinks their beers, her smile shows teeth, and she nods once in faux-graciousness, and lifts her beer in cheers, and then to drink from.

"You honour me," Daenerys says, in true-graciousness, the sort of thing that sounds stilted on paper, comes naturally to her to say. Lighter; "Perhaps when next the Porters choose to send me home and bring me back again, I'll have news to prove your faith. When last I was there, we'd set sail for Westeros. The armies of the Unsullied, the Dothraki, and the Iron Fleet. And my dragons."

The most important of her forces. The ones that herald in new eras.

"It's unfortunate, that we can't put this sort of thing to campaigns and democratic vote."

[shifting]

"...You already plannin' on a Port-out?"

Personally, Sam prefers trying to forget the machine even exists. The Porter bothers him to no end: no predictability, a complete lack of control. It doesn't help that the last time the device fucked with him, his field trip home had ended with watching his lover die.

"In the meantime, I'm gonna assume that's as impressive as it sounds. 'Cause it sounds goddamn impressive." Three armies and three dragons; hard to say what else a young queen on the rise would need to stake her claim. "And I think if you y'all did democracy as an option, your campaign would probably still look about the same. I think there's somethin' about starin' down dragons that voters'd find a very convincin' argument."

His smile is wry, a bristle-strewn cheek twitching with humor. Sam nods to the overgrown lizard in the lake.

"Speakin' of which, I brought him a little somethin' to snack on, if that's all right. Which, I figure you'd better be the one to feed him, if it is."