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

her eyes followed the sweep of his tail, the rise of his breath, the sting in his words as lowborn turned to blessed. she did not smile. not yet.
then what legacy you wish to make? she asked, voice low, shaped by mountain wind and old snow. her common was rough but clear, the weight behind her question as firm as stone beneath ice.
not what he would take.
not what he had lost.
but what he would build.
she took a step forward, breath silver between them, not challenging—but not soft either. free men still bleed. still die. so what you leave behind must matter.
a pause.
then, her eyes narrowed.
what does dracarys give to the earth, when he is gone?