[What she feels from him when she takes his hand and the blue glow begins: curiosity, patient interest, concern for her, some trepidation about what they might find at their destination. Fearful excitement about what they're about to do.
If he had not seen the dragons in their shared dream, had not seen her hand a few minutes earlier, he would fear the coming dragon more. He has misgivings, but they are small: this is necessary.
Still, he's taken aback when her eyes change color, when the rage comes flooding from her, rage he hasn't felt since -- he'd felt some of it for Melisandre, for Stannis's little daughter, and less of it when Sansa spoke against his decisions in front of his lords, but in truth, the last time his rage flared hot was when he had bashed Bolton in the face with a Mormont shield and then twenty or thirty times with his fists. And even that, the angriest he can remember being in his life, is only a candle compared to the furnace of Daenerys's fury.
He doesn't drop her hand, even as the scales and claws emerge from it again. He hears a crack as her body shifts, then another, and can't control his startled expression as her arm begins to do something it shouldn't be able to do -- expanding this way, folding that way, growing webbing. Her pretty face -- when he looks at it again, that's gone too.
It's easy to tell, both from their connection and from the sounds she makes, that this hurts her. He doesn't look away. Something comes through from his side: he's worried for her, sorry for her pain. Sorry that she will suffer this to save some sort of man-made god, man-made ghost. There is nothing he can do to make it easier for her. When he has to let go of her, he does, just for a moment. Just for as long as it takes.
Then there's a dragon beside him. If he had not seen her dragons in a dream, he would think it -- her -- large. She is large compared to him, to the woman she was a minute ago, to a direwolf, to a horse, but not to a dragon. Gods. She's panting, so he puts his hand gently on her wing, as she had told him to.]
Easy there. Easy.
[He murmurs words of comfort as she heaves, the way he might if she were hurt. She is injured and not injured, he thinks. This isn't something she chose for herself.]
cw: body horror
If he had not seen the dragons in their shared dream, had not seen her hand a few minutes earlier, he would fear the coming dragon more. He has misgivings, but they are small: this is necessary.
Still, he's taken aback when her eyes change color, when the rage comes flooding from her, rage he hasn't felt since -- he'd felt some of it for Melisandre, for Stannis's little daughter, and less of it when Sansa spoke against his decisions in front of his lords, but in truth, the last time his rage flared hot was when he had bashed Bolton in the face with a Mormont shield and then twenty or thirty times with his fists. And even that, the angriest he can remember being in his life, is only a candle compared to the furnace of Daenerys's fury.
He doesn't drop her hand, even as the scales and claws emerge from it again. He hears a crack as her body shifts, then another, and can't control his startled expression as her arm begins to do something it shouldn't be able to do -- expanding this way, folding that way, growing webbing. Her pretty face -- when he looks at it again, that's gone too.
It's easy to tell, both from their connection and from the sounds she makes, that this hurts her. He doesn't look away. Something comes through from his side: he's worried for her, sorry for her pain. Sorry that she will suffer this to save some sort of man-made god, man-made ghost. There is nothing he can do to make it easier for her. When he has to let go of her, he does, just for a moment. Just for as long as it takes.
Then there's a dragon beside him. If he had not seen her dragons in a dream, he would think it -- her -- large. She is large compared to him, to the woman she was a minute ago, to a direwolf, to a horse, but not to a dragon. Gods. She's panting, so he puts his hand gently on her wing, as she had told him to.]
Easy there. Easy.
[He murmurs words of comfort as she heaves, the way he might if she were hurt. She is injured and not injured, he thinks. This isn't something she chose for herself.]