Books.

She sits cross-legged on the cold stone floor of Pwyll's tower. Stacks of books on either side of her. The one on her lap, crumpled paged and old, opened to the center.
She's not the best reader and Pwyll never has the energy outside of her standard classes to sit with her and help translate. She thinks that his patience gets shorter the older he gets, and he's already SO old.

The book has rough drawn pictures, coloured with inks and colours that she can barely imagine existing outside some rich nobles estate, and one bigger than the Chester's.

Long grasses that look like green and brown waves, a bright sky, and dirt and dust as far as the eye can see. The people depicted are tall, so much bigger than Quinn, with sun-bronzed skin, dark hair and impossibly dark eyes. They hold silver blades, long and curved and never shown without the bright red splash of blood covering them.

The Dothraki.

She sees beautiful painted women, tanned the same as the men, with bright blues and purples swirled over their faces. She can barely sound out the word 'khaleesi' but recognizes it all the same and can't stop the smile from gracing her lips, she remembers Charlie and the words that warm her heart, 'like a great khaleesi with the horses. They know you'

She feels like her father would be proud of her way with those animals. And there's a pang in her chest that reminds her of what could have been... if the war had ended differently.

It's probably just an idle, childish fantasy, but she wishes desperately to be on the other side of the world. In that land of 'savages' as Pwyll would tell her; she knows that she'd prefer the open savagery to this world of political games and subterfuge. The dry heat and the open grasses for miles. Where to ride a horse is akin to sitting on an iron throne.