His internal glee over the death of his murderer and said murderer's wife being the one to tell him of it is squashed by the conflicting glee about dragons. So close, now, he can see Drogon in the most high definition. No pictures or stories could have prepared him for this moment, could have done justice to the living, breathing beasts. He saw everything he'd ever been told and more. Heard more, too.

That was his name. A dragon, somewhere, had been born, and carried his name. A version of it anyway. His and their brother's! Dragons born, and then given the names of men who died before her. Was it a sick joke? Did she miss them, even those she had never met, even those she had watched die?

"Four—" he points to Drogon, close enough for Daenerys to touch him now, his arm even brushing against her shoulder as he gestures. His face, his torn rags from the Dothraki sea, all barely six inches away. Easy to reach out. Easy to smell and see as quite real. "—years, this? Four years old and already so fierce! Where are the others?"

Her brothers, he almost says, but no, that loops back to misery and the presence of a dragon is doing a Goddamn good job of keeping him from thinking about what that four years also means. Over four years since she last saw Viserys wear the crown that killed him.