[It was a complicated question, born from a strange journey in the Red Waste. She could remember Jorah's voice, "The dragon knows, do you?" There had been thoughts of simply staying on Drogon's Dragonstone, the hill where he made his nest. A place they had eaten charred horse meat, sat amongst blackened bones and the sharp smell of smoke.

How would she ever explain what happened after she ate the berries? When the fever was at its worse and her wounds were growing pus filled. If she could tell him, break it down in a way that he might understand the revelations she had come to, about how Drogon was free, so must she be.

Fire and Blood.

Instead, she watched her dragon, red and black, his eyes obscured by his upturned head. His neck was craning towards the sky, as though he were testing how high he could truly fly, that he might pierce through and return to Essos.]

No. [She envied it, in all truth. Her voice was wistful, missing the wind in her face as he rose higher and higher as she clutched to his back. Higher and higher.] He and I are of an understanding now. We are bonded.

I think that, while I don't know the secrets that my ancestors did of dragons, I do know how to keep him under control.