He's handsome in a way that Daario isn't, dark and solemn but with kind eyes. She can't say why, but there is something familiar about him, a sense of home without understanding what home truly is. For a moment, she wishes that she were in her silks from Meeren or her Dothraki leathers. Anything but the torn gown she is in, covered with dirt and residue of smoke. She isn't much to look at in this state, though her violet eyes still shine.

She rises from the stump, her legs still a bit wobbly from under her. Her muscles ached and her head still hurt from the sun pouring over her. Was it whatever made her ill in the Dothraki Sea? She can't say, only that she wants to rest so deeply.

"Thank you. Do you know this village?"