[ When she awakens, her struggle to break free from her glass prison is as graceless as can be expected. Daenerys doesn't wait for the fluid to drain entirely or the tube to be removed -- she raises her hands to try and force the thing out of her throat early, thrashing violently. By the time the doors of the pod open, she staggers out of them and spills onto the floor, naked and covered head-to-toe in blue fluid.

Silvery blonde hair is streaked blue as it hangs wet around her face, giving her the impression of a very wet, angry animal as she raises wild violet eyes to scan the room. The unfamiliar surroundings leave her body all but paralyzed as she looks around, composing herself steadily while silently processing.

Unfamiliar cannot begin to describe the cold, sterile environment she has entered. Slowly, like a retreating predator trying to get a new perspective on its terrain, she pulls herself back to a sitting position, hands dragging over the slippery floor as she pulls them back toward her.

Hers is not the only open chamber. She watches the wave of passengers burst forth, some more composed than others. ]

[ It's not until later, after someone has shown her how to start the showers and she has purged the last traces of blue fluid from her hair, that she makes her way into the adjacent room to watch rows upon rows of steel boxes and the passengers opening them to root through.

Her eyes flicker over the numbers inscribed on the metal doors, turning over mental math until she finally looks down at the black markings on her arm. She rubs her thumb across them once more. The portion of her forearm marred by nanites has already been rubbed red and raw by her attempts to scratch them out of her in the shower, but now she takes renewed interest. She follows the numbers, watching the rows count up until she reaches 31. While she walks, stark naked and making no move to cover her dripping form, she continues to scrape absently at the numbers, lips pursed as she silently studies her environment.

She finds the appropriate locker and it opens without issue -- though, when that leads her to try the one beside it, she finds no similar luck. The comms device is quickly turned over in her hand, deemed mysterious and unfamiliar, and thrown over her shoulder with casual disregard so that she can reach in and rifle through her own belongings.

Three familiar dresses are stacked with a blue cloak, small clothes, and a series of trinkets. The pendant she had worn to take Astapor. The whip she had liberated from the slave masters. Her fingers brush over the curved blade there, and the weapon is unmistakable. Drogo. Her head whips around as if she expects him to be standing there, broad and soft under the sharp edges, looming over her.

All she sees is another row of metal boxes, identical to the one she is searching through. Her heart sinks, and she mentally scolds herself for ever allowing herself to expect otherwise. ]