Encantador isn't sure how long Dany has been home: it may have been days, hours, or minutes. He's been stuck in a time warp, his husk of a body still and cold despite the heat, with a maelstrom of sensations swirling within, and his mind racing to make sense of something, anything. He's well aware that he had been more than cool to her when she'd returned, barely able to conceal how much she had hurt him and how unsure he was about how best to recieve her. And now he's watched as she's taken first Scylla, then El Aran aside and spoken to them each in turn.

Seemingly, now it's his turn.

Despite the fact that it's probably winter in more temperate climes, the sun is unbearably hot as usual. For Canta, of course, the blinding white rays and intense heat are daily trivialities. His dark eyes are focused completely on Daenerys and her shimmering black and white form as he answers her summons with a silent, purposeful approach. His expression is solemn, stoic even, but he can see how clearly Dany's radiating nerves and this, in turn, makes him nervous. By the time he's stopped in front of her and has lifted his gaze to meet her eyes, he's so close he can smell her sweet musk and his heart is thumping almost painfully.

Oh Gods, he thinks, as he raises his brows questioningly at her and struggles to keep his composure. There are a million things threatening to slip from his lips, a million things he's dreamed about saying to her, but now he only wants to touch her again. Does it matter that she's had two children from two different stallions? Does it matter that she's disappeared time after time again, to the point where, following the collapse of Cimarron, he'd believed her dead? In these moments... no, it doesn't matter. But Encantador has a certain amount of pride, and it's quite possible that everything about him is indicating quite the opposite as he stands there, brooding.

"Say what you have to say," he finally murmurs, his voice a hoarse croak.