Lost Creek Hollow There's delays on the planes out of Eastern Montana

her head tilted, the motion subtle but sharp, like a bird of prey catching movement on the horizon. his name—dracarys—still rolled in her mind like distant thunder, strange and weighted, gilded with lineage. fourth or fifth, he said, and she watched the flippant wave of his paw with the narrowed eyes of someone who had never known the luxury of dismissing blood.
a pause.
then, voice low, carved from snow-drift and ice-thaw, she spoke.
you are jarl, then?
not awe. not derision.
just the plain weight of fact, offered as one might measure the heft of a blade in their hand. her tone did not question his right—it questioned what he did with it. she had met jarls before. some were worthy of the name. others choked on it.