Guinevere breathed out, exasperated, as Balerion spoke. Her eyes narrowed. “I speak in languages I know. My home tongue is easier for me and so I tend to revert on accident.” She did, when she was angry or confused. But this time she hadn’t done it by accident.
“Like what you see? You’re welcome to join Tarben’s army. However, I may want to claim you for myself. You’re pretty, and I don’t care much for the females my father has already conquered here. If it’s not me who does conquer you, it will likely be someone else who does.” Guinevere had to hold a snort at the phrasing. As if somebody could “conquer” her. She would rip anyone who tried forcing her apart. God, she would destroy them. Guinevere had no intention to carry whelps or be a man’s plaything. She held Balerion’s gaze. “I’m curious to know what this keista žemė is. Surely you know its name?” she inquired. Guinevere’s wings flapped. She folded them in. How she hated these things! They were too colorful for an assassin and warrior like she, and they got in the way. For crying out loud, this whelp thought she was pretty! Nobody called the White Lady’s daughters pretty.
Guinevere noted Balerion’s blazing yellow eyes. She had to admit, they were scarier than hers. Her mother, on the other hand, had dark orange orbs. But Guinevere knew from her sisters and brother that she could have the coldest, sharpest eyes when she was angry.



"She comes for your bones, she comes for your blood"