Vanya is not shy with her gaze. She knew how to cast her gaze to the floor, and how to peer up through fluttering lashes to get her way. She knew the power of a half hitched breath as her face was turned away. She knew many of the ways to get whatever it was that she wanted, but there was no use pretending with Rougaru.

He was a gorgeous specimen of a stallion, all rippling chocolate muscles and wind-tossed golden mane. Even if she didn't know the power and the force behind the charm, she would have found him attractive. She does not deny this. Hungrily her eyes rake over his body as he plays with her son, with the child she had not allowed him to sire last year. As he catches her eye, she offers him a sultry wink, well aware of the game they were playing.

Drogon, innocent in his youth, pays none of this any mind. A delighted peal of laughter lights up the clearing as Rougaru feigns an injury and he races in a small circle of victory. The tiny bow of his crest arches as the stallion's lips tickle him and he uncoils like a spring, eyes bright with the challenge. "A challenge? I'll win!"

The small colt sticks his tongue out before belatedly realizing he has no idea just what it is they're about to fight over. Who was sleepier? Well, he could win at that! "I won't go to sleep for a whole day," he says tauntingly, eyes bright with eagerness. The colt watches silently, impatiently, as Rougaru moves to Vanya. It is always a give and take with his mother, a bargain to earn her good nature, and despite his youth, he knows better than to interrupt whatever it is that they are saying. Slowly but surely as he waits, the colt's eagerness deflates in the slow build of a temper tantrum.

Vanya is not oblivious to her son's perceived plight, but there is something slightly more pressing about the way her breath hitches in her throat of it's own volition as Rougaru moves closer. She did not dance to him, but a ballerina hardly needs to move across the floor to make her point; her entire body curves around him as he moves close, the tight arch of her neck tensing as she brought her muzzle to his. Fluted ears pin as his teeth move to rake down her back and while she remembers to clench her teeth, all it does is transform her sigh into a hiss.

Vanya senses the want in him. Can feel it emanating from him as though it were a physical force radiating from his body. It thrums in her own, in the tightness in her gut and the need that pulsed like hot fire through her veins. It is not even fall and yet her whole body wants him for itself and she tosses her head in a futile effort to deny it, her dark eyes hooded as she dances away from his touch, turning to face him with a whip of her tail.

"Drogon," she says fixedly, her stare never leaving the wolf's face. "Go fetch me one of those white flowers we saw yesterday."

She does not see it, but the colt's face morphs into one of anger and his dark maw opens to protest. Vanya overrides him, the tone of her voice brokering no dissent. "Go."

WIth a final huff of protest, the colt turns away to thread his way down the familiar path. It leads toward one of the streams from which they'd drank yesterday, where the pretty white flowers with the colorful butterflies were. Most of the herd lay in this direction, although he'd not had a reason to meet with most of them, given his mother's reclusive tendencies. Nor does he know of his mother's ulterior motives, or the fact that she's just bought herself a few precious moments alone with the king of Paradise.

For a moment there is silence as his hoofbeats fade, and she smolders in the moment, eyes half narrowed to conceal her want of him. The time is needed equally for Drogon to be past hearing and for her to regain control of herself, of her true self. Rougaru was masterful at his game, but she would not be beaten at it so easily.

A wicked grin curls her lips as she steps back towards him, a soft humm of appreciation sounding in the small space between them. Boldly she reaches out to toy with his mane, her lips tracing the swell of his shoulder before she speaks again. "Perhaps. But your touch, someone else's touch, all the same really."

It is dangerous to tease him, she knows, and perhaps a mistake to send the boy away. The heat she imagines between them is electric, but she cannot help but goad him. In truth, it is not her freedom that she wants, despite her taunting. It is the easiest thing to bait him wait, to draw from him the reaction that she seeks, but she does not want her freedom. She wants to be loved and pampered. To know that the stallion she rests beneath holds no other higher than her.

And as much as she wants that to be Rougaru, it is not. His heart belongs to the mismatched set of mares and no matter her taunting and teasing, it seems to be unmoved. And so she plots, waiting for the right moment to find someone to take her from here.

Tauntingly, with a fluted ear tipped back for his reaction she trails the silken skin of her muzzle down the firm lines of his back and presses a smile into his flank before her teeth pinch at the sensitive skin there and she dances away with a delighted toss of her head. "Let me guess, my King."

Coyly she stops, her figure half turned from him even as she cranes her neck back. "You think I will give you a child, in exchange for my freedom?"

Her laughter spirals through the clearing, and the mirror of his wolfish grin spreads across her own lips. "Whatever gave you such a silly notion?"

She knows precisely where this is headed, or so she thinks. Vanya will take her pound of flesh here, she will rend his pride until it is cut back down to size and then she will retreat once more to the jungle to dream of his touch on her hide. Fall will make it difficult to stay from him, for already her body craves his touch, but she knows too well now the inconvenience of pregnancy and the demands of motherhood. Drogon had been a mostly happy mistake, but it was a mistake she was not particularly hurried to repeat.