Stavanger Bay we are graveyards reaching, with haunted bones

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Drogon was definitely going to ration it, he tells himself, try to make it last for as long as he possibly can. But the meat is succulent and decadent and it is a test of his self control not to just devour it all now, or eat what he can until his belly bulges with food. Rationing the meat will ensure he’ll have a meal for later and maybe the following morning and would be smarter than giving into instantaneous gratification. As a lone wolf, Drogon had learned very quickly, every scrap of meat counted and could make the difference between starving and living. Between an empty stomach and a grumbling, but not empty stomach; and that becoming a scavenger wasn’t pitiful: it was smart. He eats his fill of the fawn, satisfied that there is enough left over and works on cleaning his muzzle of the blood and bits of flesh that stick to it, savoring the morsels.

Now the crux was finding a place to stash his kill where he would remember it and where it would not be disturbed by other hungry carnivores. It was as he searches the immediate clearing for a spot to dig a make-shift cache that he realizes he’s not alone. He does not see her, but he smells her and he recognizes the scent near immediately. It’s her, the woman that had known Cascada. The one he’d chased off and lets out a low huff at his luck; but he continues on with his search for a cache as if he hasn’t caught her scent wondering which one of them would be the first one to make the breach.