Chapter Text
“Did you ever think it?” asks the mask. (well, it’s not a literal mask, but it so carefully conceals any hint of its owner’s inner workings as to be the same for him)
“No,” he answers, as the dust and snow rise up where his hand had grazed the stone. “Did you?”
The beautiful mouth of the mask curls upwards. “I stopped expecting anything long ago. Or being surprised, for that matter.” It draws a finger across the stone made clean by his palm. “So - what now?” The finger lifts upwards to scroll downwards against his cheek.
He moves his head towards the dainty line; it smells of mint and lemon and sex. “Now we wait for her.”
“The Mother of Dragons,” her voice says, its tone mocking.
“Indeed.” Her attitude would have bothered him, lifetimes ago, but he’s secretly pleased now. Surviving death makes one more lenient on certain matters, including one’s own failings.
“How much time do we have?”
“Time enough for what?”
The mask-eyes glimmer. His own glint back.
“Maybe we do. If you’re ready.”
The response is a laugh, high and cold and clear and sweet, and it sings down his spine. It’s all he needs, and he’s pressing her fingers down and lifting her figure up, up, and away, through blood and snow and ash, onto the cold, cold iron.