The other priestess is far less composed, though rather than fear at her current circumstances a bright rage shines in her eyes and a fool, a traitor and and a madman she names you. You pay her words less mind that you would the touch of a breeze upon your cheek. After all the breeze may yet herald a storm, but the words of one condemned to death or perhaps more than that are wholly without weight. It is her thoughts you seek and there you find much of what you have feared.
Five and ten of the twisted dragon-mockeries called in this tongue
Abishai have been let loose upon the world to work their will, three for every color their mistress bears, some have been persuaded to work with the Golden Company by the blandishments of the priests but others scattered through the world to work their own paths to glory and the favor of their mistress. The demon-caller before you suspects that even those who chose to align themselves with the Company may abandon them after the reversals at Pentos and Sallosh.
Damn it why can't your foes be considerate enough to gather in one place? you wonder, then realize that you had answered yourself. Turning your gaze and magic back upon the sorceress you discover that she has thankfully been sparing in properly calling other demons, besides the ubiquitous quasit, even the foul mage-slayer Hezrou had not been properly present on this world until you had sprang the trap and had the thing emerged victorious it would have been forced back into the Pit that spawned it, by the pact it had been compelled to accept.
At last you ask of these lesser dragons seemingly garbed in the scales of Tiamat herself and find that their forms do not lie for their are indeed blessed by the mother of Wyrms and the very claws of her hand, able to shrug off spell and steel as well as the dragons of old, though they do not posses the same dreadful cunning. By far the most fearsome of their weapons however is their breath which can change from frost to fire from acid to lightning and noxious vapors without warning, and indeed without the creature's conscious control, unless that is their choice is to embrace the chaos of this making fully.
Though the eyes of your foe's memory you watch one of the beasts shine impossibility bright as it spews out in impossible cascade of clashing
colors akin to one of the most feared battle-spells of the seventh circle. It is scant comfort indeed to see that the lesser dragon's scales are turned to muted to greys and browns with the sheer exhaustion of the deed, for you know all too well the power a single overwhelming attack can hold, having used that tactic yourself many a time.
When you explain the threat yo Dany her reaction is not wholly what you expect, there is worry there of course, but also an almost predatory gleam in her eye. "That is more than a blessing it is her power, bound in a
mortal shell, one that can die arrow, to sword and so sorcery... She is gambling, and stakes so offered can be lost as well. That is why those things have not been sent against us yet I'll bet. A mother of Wyrms she may be but she would much rather send her children to war than fragments of her very being."