prismatica | text | un: killerlegs

[He lifts his head a bit as the door opens, peering over as she steps into view for the first time. She definitely carries herself like someone important (or someone who thinks she's important, anyway), and that is certainly a tiny dragon on her shoulder. He wondered at one point if she might have been bluffing about having a dragon at all, but that doesn't seem to be the case. Noted.]

Figured I'd let you handle the door yourself, be all strong and independent. Seems your style.

[He lifts one hand to briefly gesture to the living area, as if saying to sit wherever. There are only two choices, really, seeing as how he hasn't had much time to furnish the place. There's a small wooden chair next to a table that he uses for eating, or there's the other end of the (admittedly small) couch he's already seated on.]

... that dragon's not going to relieve itself on my furniture, is it?

(She takes her time in answering, allowing Drogon to fly a short distance to perch on the back of the couch. The little Dragon seems to take offense to the question, bristling and biting the open air.)

He is house trained. (Daenerys doesn't move from where she stands, looking over Mercury intently.) There is something about you that reminds me of metal.

(And not just because he is hard-headed.)

I like seeing metal twist in heat.

[Hm. Hm. Over text it was one thing, but now that she's here in person, the way she carries herself, the way she speaks of heat and twisting... in the back of his mind, it reminds him of someone. Is that good? Is that bad?

He sits up a little straighter, peering back at her through slightly narrowed eyes.]

You might be disappointed. I don't change for anyone.

I'm not just anyone. (She never has been and that is both a blessing and a curse. It's not like she could have ever disappeared into the crowd - even if she had dyed her hair. The Targaryen mannerisms are unmistakable and she is too much a Dragon to be mistaken for a normal woman.)

They called me Mhysa in the East and that is the only title I retain. (She finally crosses the room to join Drogon, gently caressing his little face.) It means Mother.

[Big words. Nothing new. It's funny that she still thinks that, even after claiming that she's died. But hey, her delusions of grandeur are none of his business.

At her continued explanation he reclines again, hands clasped behind his head, one leg crossing over the other as he lets out a snicker.]

Is this the part where you think I'm going to start calling you Mommy? I don't think I'm really into that kind of roleplay, sorry.

(Destiny has followed on her heels since she was born. The great storm that made all the dogs in King's Landing howl was somewhat attributed to her - thus "Stormborn" - and she is the first person in years beyond counting to awaken Dragons.

Maybe she is deluded, but maybe not as deluded as he thinks. Daenerys glares at him and walks closer to him so that she is standing over him.)

You're not a Dragon, so you don't get that honor.

[His grin widens a bit as she steps closer - is he intentionally toeing the line, seeing how far he can push it? Of course. Always. Mercury is someone who was viciously kept in line for far too long, and now enjoys freedom in excess. Freedom to go where he wants, do what he wants, act as he wants.

Which is often unfortunate for those around him.]

Right, gotcha. So I should call you... Danny, then? How's that?

(The nickname makes the color flee from her cheeks and her hand twitches, almost - almost - reaching for the dagger. What is one more death, really. But she is better than that. Besides, he will likely either kill her when she tries or kill her with him. Pointless.

Absolutely pointless.

Sanity returns to her eyes and she breathes.) I prefer Daenerys.

Or Your Highness.

[Oh. Oh. That hit a nerve, didn't it? He might not have realized she was close to going for a kill, but he can tell when he's gotten under someone's skin. It's tempting, as always, to push again.

But he's just toeing the line, right now. Not crossing it. That day will come, but not right now.

He rolls his eyes as if thinking for a moment.]

Well I'm sure as hell not one of your subjects, so Daenerys will do for now. Until I find a better nickname, anyway.

I'm not fond of nicknames. (Especially not Dany. Viserys had called her that and Jon Snow. Both ended up betraying her, so, perhaps, in its own way, the name is cursed.

Or she too has a habit of taking things too far.)

You have me at a disadvantage anyway. What is the shortened form of Mercury?

Oh, there are tons. Asshole, Douchebag, Dick, Fuck That Guy, Go To Hell... the list goes on.

[At least he's honest???]

... But if Mercury's too long, Merc will do just fine.

(Her lips twitch.) I could call you Gōvilagon if you are lucky.

(It has something to do with one of his nicknames.)

And I could pretend I know what the hell that means!

[He makes a vague gesture towards her with one of his wrists, as if saying "go on, then."]

Or you could enlighten me.

To lie beneath. (She finally sits down on the wooden chair, crossing her legs gracefully.)

Hm.

[He tilts his head a bit, silver locks drifting along his brow as he shoots her a crooked grin.]

See, now I have to wonder if you mean to lie six feet beneath the dirt, or something a lot more fun.

You'll have to keep wondering. (She gazes right back at him, almost smiling.) Do you have anything to drink?

Feisty.

[Is that frustrating, or entertaining? Little bit of A, little bit of B.]

I might.

[In a motion that is as smooth and effortless as it is completely unnecessary he flips himself backwards over the couch, landing easily on his feet as he turns to the small kitchenette that the apartment came with. Nothing spacious, but it has what it needs to have and that's all he cares about.]

Water or soda. That's about it.

And you're not?

(It is one of his better traits in her opinion. He also doesn't seem like a total lost cause. Rather, strangely, he acts like someone who used to be restricted...or chained...in his past. She knows all about that.)

Soda? (What. She rises to see what soda could be.)

Edited 2019-09-28 04:00 (UTC)

Never said it was a bad thing.

[He's not altogether lost, though he's come to see himself as being pretty set in his ways. Just someone with a lot - a LOT - of issues to work through. Comes with the territory.

At her confusion he spares a glance back in her direction, blinking once.]

First "doctor", now "soda"... you're going to have to pay for these lessons in modern-day things eventually, you realize.

[He pulls a can of some generic-brand cola from the fridge - he considers tossing it to her, but with his luck she'd see that as an attack and go for his throat while her dragin nibbled at his ankles, so instead he holds it out for her to take whenever she comes over to get it.]

Easier to learn what it is by drinking it than trying to have me talk you through it.

What do you accept as payment? (She examines the can before carefully, gingerly, taking it. The strange smooth and cold texture makes her put it down on the counter rapidly. Since she has no idea about tabs, either, she gives him a look of confusion.)

How do I open it? (This is a woman who has lived off of horse milk, water and sometimes, rarely, fruit juice and wine.)

Don't worry about it - I'll put it on your tab for now. We'll iron out the details once I decide you're due.

[It's not really an arrangement he's taking seriously - but it's still fun to tease at every opportunity, and so that's what he'll do.

... He probably should have figured that the can would be an issue, though. Seems obvious in hindsight, though the way she seems to have such a confused reaction to the temperature of the can makes him laugh a little.]

Follow my lead. [After pulling a second can from the fridge he (overdramatically) holds it up to grip the tab between his fingertips, demonstrating how to pull on it so the can pops open with the usual accompanying hiss of carbon dioxide.]

Don't joke or I won't ever take you seriously.

(Is she being serious? Who knows. However he gets some small revenge when she jumps at the hiss issuing from his can. That sounds exactly like something you shouldn't drink.

But she is a Dragon. Brow furrowing, she grips the tab on her can and pulls it until she hears a similar hiss. Lowering her face to the small opening, she sniffs the brew. The small bubbles tickle her nose and the scent is unlike anything she has encountered.

If he had more interest in her, she might think he was poisoning her.)

I promise you, if this takes my life, I will return and haunt your days.

You wouldn't be the first.

[In other words no, the jokes start coming and they don't stop coming.

Her overly cautious attitude towards the soda is somewhere between hilarious and adorable, though he'd never be one to admit to the latter, and at her visible apprehension he raises his own can to touch it to his lips.]

Might not be so bad. My nightmares are usually made of uglier stuff, anyway. You'd be a pleasant change of pace.

[A shrug, before he takes a sip - see? If he's drinking it, it shouldn't be poison, right?]

Is it comfortable living that way?

(Never believed; always brushed off as if what you say holds no weight or value. Being a woman has ensured she is treated that way in some cultures.

When he sips from his can, she considers the possibilities. One, he could be right and it isn't poison. Two, it could be poison and he is immune. Or three, poison could be in her can and not his.

Two out of the three are not pleasant, but she isn't a coward. Picking up the can, she takes a sip and blinks in surprise as the beverage tingles on her tongue.) It's...sweet?

Makes it fun when people learn they were wrong to underestimate me.

[The look on their face when they realize just how bad they fucked up? Priceless. Ten out of ten, every time.

He leans his hip against the counter, watching as she finally tries the drink - it was really, really hard to not lie and make up a quip about how now she was going to die in five minutes, but it's fine. They're probably going to be stuck in this world for a good while, anyway.

There'll be plenty of chances to mess with her.]

It is! Congratulations. You're a master of observation.

[... Doesn't mean he won't still be kind of a shit, though.]

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