A year. Ice pours down her spine, its chilled touch spreading as a plague to the rest of her body. Against all that she is, she shudders at the thought. How could nearly a year have passed, when their time together in Westeros...

She turns to face him with disbelief deep in the blues of her eyes and brows pinched together in a frown. He wouldn't lie to her. It's not why she reacts as she does. He hadn't lied about the dead, and look what happened when she hadn't believed him. She lost Viserion. The sting of that loss is still vivid and painful, like a missing limb. A piece of her heart, cut away.

Fingers grip his sleeve, tugging, coaxing him to face her. It's not enough. So she takes one step closer, into his space, near enough for his cloak to brush the front of her dress. A hand cups his cheek, her thumb describing the arch of his cheekbone ever so gently.

All those months would be ample time to accept what's occurred. Not so odd a concept, with the perspective of time to support these claims. And with his family here, a father and a sister... it was a second chance. She couldn't fault him for his earlier words in that respect. If it were possible for her own family to return, what might she have felt?

"Have I--" She clears her throat. "Have I been in that... that thing the entire time?"

This was more important. She would address her dragons again later.