Clearly, they had started this match on uneven footing.

Vanya had misjudged what the silver stallion had wanted of her so severely that she was not sure she knew of a way out of this. Not only had Rougaru threatened to take away the very thing that she held most dear in this bug-infested swamp of a homeland, but he had so soundly beaten in this joust that she was at a loss for words. Her teeth clenched so hard that she could feel her pulse in her temples, and as he continued to taunt her, the fluted shape of her ears pinned deeply into the inky black of her mane.

She knew that Drogon considered the silver bay stallion as his father, for lack of any other influence in her life, and it rankled her that his words might have some truth in them. It would be easy enough to tell the colt that she had been raped, or taken against her will, or that he had promised her the world and not delivered, but she could not deny that Rougaru's version would hold weight with the colt too. How stupid she had been to allow him access to her precious son, how foolish to give away such a strong card for absolutely nothing.

In retrospect, she realizes how she might have taunted him with access to her child from the beginning. And how now, she might yet get back at him. The thought is fleeting, and she gives it no credence at first. The last thing that Vanya wants is to carry another child, but the prospect of getting back at him is so sweet that it might as well be a ripe pomegranate bursting with sweetness in her mouth.

This is almost immediately cast to the side as he taunts her again, and a repressed scream of anger whistles from between her teeth. One word chokes out, full of venom. "Bastard."

With no thought to the aftermath, she lunges for him with teeth bared as he reaches out to touch her. She seeks to rip at the dark lines of his throat, his neck, his shoulder. Anything that she can grab onto she does until it feels that this pain is not enough to make up for the rage that flows white-hot, and she whirls, a small black and brown dervish, to launch her black stockinged feet against his chest or barrel. Again and again, she kicks out at him, until her sides sheen with sweat at the effort and tears of anger gather in her eyes. She is no battle maiden, nor strategist of combat, and her body remains far too close to his to do any real damage.

Seemingly spent, she leans her rump against his shoulder on legs that tremble with the combined weight of her emotion and the effort it had taken to abuse him so. Her head drops to chest height, neck bowed, as she catches her breath with small pants. Her face remains sour with frustration, turned to stare fiercely away from him with wrinkled nostrils. Both ears remain pinned to her mane for a long moment before she raises her head and cranes the elegant arch of her neck so that she might look upon him. The riot of emotions in her eyes refuses to settle on any one thing but there is enough chill in them to suggest what exactly she thought of his bargain.

"Take your prize then, my king." She murmurs through clenched teeth, moving aside just enough that she might hold her tail to allow him access. "For I will not abandon my son."