For a long while he watches, unable to believe what he is seeing. He had turned at the cry as it resounded across his home, hardly aware of what he was doing, and stared with the blankest of expressions on his face at the scene that unfolded before his eyes. He had felt dreamy and incoherent at first, groggy and disoriented in the blinding heat and sunlight; he had even at first accepted with a defeatist air that the desert was merely playing tricks on his eyes, as it was wont to do on occasion.

But the longer he stands, the more he begins to believe. He recognizes Scylla almost instantly, which surprises him, and El Aran of course. Their reunion is happening a short walk’s distance away, no more than fifty strides. He could so easily join them. He can even imagine the laughter, the tears, the scent and touch of Dany’s skin against his – though part of this is remembered from their reunion over a year ago in the falls – but strangely, nothing stirs in him. His gut is empty and devoid of positive emotion but for, to his surprise, a small flicker of anger.

And so he continues to watch, still as a statue, knowing they will spot him eventually. He is sweating as he waits, tracing his eyes over the thin forms of all three mares, though it is almost certainly not from the heat. He is far too used to that.