[ She's a little dumbfounded at the question, "which dragon won?". Gwenhwyfar could be wrong about it, the feeling of familiarity or what may be the case, her pain and desire for her home that she was willing to find familiarity with anything or anyone. She stares at him for half a moment. ]

It was my teacher that told King Vortigern that the red dragon would destroy the white dragon. The white dragon being that of the Saxons and the red dragon being the Briton people. Everyone knows that story.

[ As if to say "well, duh". Breathing fire, destroying towers... yes, that does sound about right for the Pendraig family, doesn't it? Her lips purse together in a thin line. He says he doesn't want forgiveness and won't apologize, then Gwenhwyfar wouldn't forgive him for the comment and allow it to fester in her, like so many things. An approach to her earns a cautious step back. It's painted on her face, the weariness and caution of strangers and the untold trauma that caused her to be so callous.

Callous, not kind. Gwenhwyfar could scoff at the notion; she wasn't kind, at all, she thought. She hates that she is being pressed to answer that question, frowning deeper. Gwenhwyfar so desperately wants to be stubborn and spiteful in return for the previous comment. Folding across her arms across her chest, she gives a dismissive gesture. It was stupid, to her, magic or not. ]

... Don't know, snowdrops?

[ Her mother's favorite flowers, of all things that comes to mind. ]