Rust - Shujin1 - Multifandom [Archive of Our Own] (2024)

Chapter 1: The Wall

Chapter Text

She died.

She felt the Storm King’s blade bite into her neck. Her last memory was seeing her own headless body slump. The arterial spray spurting over the polished marble of the cathedral and flowing down over broken cobblestone as the lives she hoped - prayed - she saved fell beneath the earth.

Nothing explains why she woke again, choking on her own blood.

It is molten, tasting of brimstone and iron. It burns up her throat with her rattling breaths - how am I breathing? Her heart shudders as if unsure if it should even beat. Air forces its way out of her lungs by sheer habit, splitting to wheeze out her open mouth and whistle through her open throat. Blood sears her - human - lips as she coughs, spits and vomits a never ending sanguine stream as she rolls onto her side.Her free hand flies to her throat - my head is - it feels like it is gone, still spinning through the air as she opens her eyes.

A pale tree stares silently down at her, bleeding from the eyes. The face carved into its bark resembles that of a treant, gloomy and bitter. Through its crimson leafed branches, the sky is ablaze.

“V - vanquish the shadow of weakness,” she wetly whispers the first phrase of her healing aria as she attempts to stand, channeling positive energy through her birthright - for that cannot be refused. The world swims in and out of focus as she plants her feet underneath her. “Reject the frailties of mortality, mend - “

She reaches with a bloody hand to steady herself against the pale tree. Her blood sinks into the white wood and the wood reaches back.

Her very soul ignites.

She screams as a thousand, thousand greedy, grasping fingers burrow into the very fabric of her being. They feast even as they are repulsed, tearing and biting. The image of an emaciated pale man with a tree root in one eye socket and a blood red eye in the other rips through her mind. They were changing her, tunneling like worms beneath her skin as roots grow over her feet and legs to chain her to the tree.

Chain.

They were enslaving her.

Slavery was anathema.

It was the one thing the entirety of her soul agreed upon.

Including the maddening, ever present hatred and rage of the Abyss.

The hate she has rejected and ignored roars free from its confines as she tears away from her false humanity.

Silver scales erupt from her skin, her proud wings flare out, her tail free, horns sprouting from her head as she grows to tower over the trees. There is a moment of uncertainty - my body is - different, yes, but that does not matter - I am no one’s slave!

The crimson eye widens before she banishes it from her mind.

The hate is strength.

And it is power, isn’t it?

Her head rears back. Her maw opens. Rays of blackened and corrupted hellfire rain down on the forest - burn!

Burn!

Burn!

Burn they do.

She watches the pale trees ignite with a vicious pleasure. The hatred sludges through her veins like oil, feeding the flames. She does not stop, not until the heat grows unbearable - I am made for the cold - and her vision blurs. Her blood is still boiling, the fury is still burning like the center of a volcano - who dares! She lunges into the sky on powerful wings, an instinct bidding her to lair far from fire so she could heal in peace - but resurrection spells should heal all wounds.

It should, leaving no trace of fatal injuries. Yet wounded she still is, is she not?

And alive.

Her head turns as she searches at the fiery sky, at the endless plain of snow below her because she died in spring, in the middle of the city she failed to protect, Kenabres.

There are no cobblestone streets. No marble walls of the Cathedral of St. Clydwell nor the gray brick of the Gray Garrison. She looks for the divine light of the Wardstone, or its remains. The invading demonic horde is missing. The decaying, twisted land of the Worldwound and the corrupted portals to the Abyss are nowhere to be found.

There is nothing but rock, trees and snow, snow, snow.

Where am I?

Sound echoes through her horns and she banks sharply. She almost wasn’t fast enough. She bellows in pain and rage as something - an ice spear scores her side, bursts out by her shoulder and nicks her left brow ridge.

She panics - I will not die again! She violently wings away from the spear’s origin. She wants to fight the threat, to dominate it, break it, she burns with the need to destroy. Everything burns. She’s burning - I can’t breathe! Her next roar is weaker, half-gurgle, full of air. Fear drives her - how much blood have I lost? Blood is blinding her left eye as she flies.

And flies and flies.

There is a wall.

She has a moment to notice that it is coated with ice before she slams face first into -

We are the shields that guard the realms of men!

It rejects her.

She bellows as judgment crashes into her with the weight of a million sacrifices, stern, unyielding and ruthless. It knows what she is, seeking out the seed of corruption, the molten core of her rage as if it could be rooted out. A hand of ice reaches into her chest, attempting to tear out her heart.

It is an attack on her being and she responds in kind.

Her natural breath is ice, pure and glittering. She is half-blind, her body lacking in the usual forelimbs and with a wounded wing. Her aim is off, but the screams of men as they scramble for safety is music to her ears. All dressed in black, they scatter and scurry along the wall, small and insignificant like ants -

This is not me.

Yes, it is.

Shame chokes her next breath - I am to protect! Nothing comes out but air and blood. Her heart stops, then starts, then stops. Her left wing gives way, crumpling. She lists to the side and falls.

She barely feels it when she hits the ground. The impact starts her heart again, but she is numb. She skids and a deep snowbank finally stops her momentum. She lays there, exhausted. Her good eye stares up at the sky as the snow melts with a hiss under her panted breath and burning blood.

The sky is on fire with stars.

There is a meteor shower of hundreds, thousands of brilliant white-crimson streams trailing through a dark sky behind the magnificent plumage of a large asteroid above her - another Earthfall? It too is a dark red, giving it the appearance that it is bleeding as it falls, like her.

She does not know how long she lays there, watching. The anger has cooled, receding back into the small kernel of hatred hidden away when the men approach her.

She stirs, snapping her jaws and hears through her horns as all but one and their animals startle back. The brave one speaks to her in an aged voice. She does not understand him, but his words flow pleasantly and there is no rancor in it. His language reminds her vaguely of Elven, more in the flow than in the vocabulary. She allows herself to relax - he means no harm to me.

She says nothing in return.

The common trade language of Golarion has been the default for centuries. Either he does not know it, or he does not expect her to be capable of speech. Both options are unappealing.

Where am I?

Lost.

There is a gentle touch on her flank. Then another further up her body. As much as it rankles to be treated like a wild animal that would bite from surprise, she understands, because she is much worse.

She lets her mind drift as the brave one steadily makes his way closer to her head. She no longer cares if she lives or dies again. Her proud, beautiful wing is lying beside her broken. The other crushed underneath her body. Her scales, once a pure shining silver, had dulled near the edges. Tarnished. The bone spur emerging from the joint was no longer white, but black.

Here lay the mighty defender of Kenabres, protector of civilization, guardian of justice, shield of men -

She remembers the wall of ice and its repudiation of her, how it was deserved - how far I have fallen. It is an aching, hollow resignation - I came back wrong.

She thinks of a little over a single decade before. She came back as one of the few survivors of the demon ambush with a rot infecting her body and soul. She would blame the malady of the Abyss, but even before then, her mentor saw something in her that concerned him. She knows not what it was. She was afraid to ask.

Was it her willingness to involve herself in the worldly matters of the lesser races? Her lack of piousness, perhaps, is more indicative of brass than silver. Or was it how she found her rules far too easy to break, leaving jagged, ill fitting pieces behind? The way injustice scorched her soul, so much so that she needed a grand purpose - any purpose as an anchor?

She can feel the phantom weight of her mentor now, Halaseliax’s powerful forelegs crushing her into the ground, his wings entangled in hers and his teeth at her throat. He had begged her not to make him kill her then. It is hard to breathe and she cannot cry.

“Keep the faith.”

The brave one finally comes into sight. He is old for a human. His hair had long turned white and sparse with age and the skin about his face sags. He is frail and thin, swimming in his black robes and there is a chain of metal links hanging from his neck. His eyes are a lovely purple color, but cataracts had begun to set in turning his pupils hazy. Those eyes are looking at her, wide with wonder and tears are running down his face as he gently pats her neck.

It is too close to her injury and for a moment, her blood boils in blind hatred.

“Keep the faith,” her memory of her mentor insists in a rumble and her snarl dies in her throat. “Do not give in to hate, anger, despair or fear. Do good and that is all that matters!”

She is tired of fighting.

She breathes out and closes her eyes.

She died.

Her last memory was seeing her own headless body slump, the arterial spray spurting over the polished marble of the cathedral and flowing down over broken cobblestone. Not of the god she chose to venerate - Iomedae, the Inheritor, when did I lose your favor? Nor the god she called Father - Apsu, my Waybringer, am I not your daughter?

“Do good and that is all that matters,” the gold’s authority reminds.

Was it?

She was ushered unto no Heaven. The Great Beyond eluded her. Just her failure, then - nothing. She woke choking on her own blood, abandoned. Halaseliax would not lie to her - he just could not save me in the end.

And yet this was not Hell, nor the Abyss, not even the Boneyard of Pharasma waiting for judgement before the Lady of Graves, is it?

She stills, for it is true. She blinks her eyes open. She has seen neither the demons of the Abyss, not the devils of Hell. There are men. There is snow and ice. There are stars in the dark night sky above. Magic thrums in the air. The only hint of brimstone lies within her own veins. The pale trees were like nothing she has seen in her long years. Will the man with the crimson eye pursue her? The magic of the cold air tastes of ice and death. She remembers the proclamation of the wall - shield of men.

She died, but now she lives.

Such a thing does not happen without a reason - a purpose?

She lets her curiosity push away the apathy. She lets determination conquer despair. She has ever been drawn to the wellbeing of the lesser races. That has not changed.

She is able to reason.

Many worlds are reachable through The Great Beyond. Just because she does not remember the void, does not mean her soul did not pass through Apsu’s protective talons. The Dark Tapestry between planets had twisted noble divine Dou-Bral into the cruel god Zon-Kuthon - I would have been lost, utterly, if I were allowed to remember the journey here. It is not hope she feels, not yet, but it is similar.

She lives, and the rest will come in time.

“Keep the faith.” Her mentor’s commands now seem as warnings. “Keep the faith.”

She will.

Very good, child. Now go fail again.

“ - are you even listening to me?”

Maester Aemon jolted in his seat and tore his eyes away from the window. “My apologies, Lord Commander,” he said quickly, almost too quickly. An embarrassed flush was fighting to make itself known on the old man’s cheeks. “I allowed myself to become distracted.”

Lord Commander Desmond Qorgyle snorted. “I could see that.”

“It will not happen again,” Aemon promised, but he was having a hard time looking appropriately sorry. Not with the stars still in his eyes, excitement evident in all the lines of his body.

As maester of Castle Black, Aemon Targaryen sent his messages, received his news, wrote down his records and healed his men. He was respectful, brilliant and effective. The Sandy Dornishman could admit he was neither a kind nor good man, but he prided himself on being competent. He made a point of pissing off no one he needed.

That meant no yelling.

He was also not going to hang the old man over the edge of the Wall by a rope around his ankle and wait until he saw reason.

The sane response to an angry dragon was to f*cking run.

f*cking Valyrians.

Desmond let out a quiet breath. None of them could run without getting their heads chopped off as oathbreakers, but it was the principle of it!

“See that it does not,” he said instead.

“Still say we should’ve jus’ killed it,” his steward, Elan Waters muttered under his breath and Desmond nearly threw up his hands. Aemon’s sight may have started failing him, but his hearing was just as sharp as when he had been a boy. He knew what the old man was going to say before he even opened his mouth.

They had just f*cking gone over this -

“With what army!” Aemon nearly snarled at the man.

That.

“Any army!” Waters drew himself up in his seat, his pock marked face twisting. “It attacked the bleeding Wall - “

“She is not a threat!” Aemon cried.

“Now!” Desmond corrected him sharply. No yelling. “It’s not a threat, now - we’re fortunate no one was caught in that breath - “

“She is severely wounded!” Aemon retorted with all the righteous indignation of a knight on a crusade. He may have been pushing through his eighth decade, but he had all the fire of a man half his age and half again as much respect in his tone. “Likely driven half-mad with blood loss and pain!”

Desmond slammed his hands on his desk as he leaned over it. “Then tell me it will die!”

Aemon shut his mouth, rocking back in his seat. His purple eyes were wide. Then the man looked down, but not before he caught the sight of frustrated, angry tears. Desmond inhaled a deep breath in through his nose and out his mouth. He looked at his officers, cramped up with him in his solar at Castle Black, the headquarters of the Night’s Watch on Bran the Builder’s Wall.

His First Ranger Brenn Flint was still in full gear. Mad man had grabbed his sword, knives and a few volunteers just as mad as he was willing to challenge the dragon themselves. The Rangers had to be brave men to risk the cold, wildling savages and dangerous wildlife, but he drew the line at stupid. As best he could tell from him and his cousin Byam, no matter where in the North they were from, Flints had wool in their heads and ale in their veins, big and burly with curling dark hair, full beards and yellow brown eyes like those of a wolf. Brenn looked half-amused still, like he heard the start to a grand jest and half-shocked with the dawning realization that it was no jape.

His First Builder Elan Waters was a grasping bastard from the Crownlands, a mason’s apprentice who took the Black to avoid the headsman after his master was found guilty of embezzling funds from the crown. His origin bothered him little, but some men were bastards and some men were bastards.

Elan was competent enough in the builders maintaining the castles on the Wall where his ambition wouldn’t get anyone killed. The man took after his no doubt smallfolk mother, common brown hair, plain face, missing teeth, two fingers and his backbone. He had to order the man to get out, change his breeches before the meeting and the faint stench of urine still wafted about him.

First Steward Bowen Marsh was far more comfortable counting coppers than swinging a sword and it showed in his fleshy appearance and unfortunate receding hairline, but the man held true to his vows and he could ask for nothing more. He was rigid in his ways, but earnest. No matter how much he tried to hide it, his pallor gave him away. He was shaken.

They all were.

“Tell me it was wounded fatally,” Desmond continued softly, leaning back. “And we need do nothing more than collect in time. Dragonbone still sells for a good price.”

Aemon flinched in his seat. “I - “ His throat bobbed. Tears were in his voice, but he looked up, face composed once more. “I would need to - to examine her to be sure…of her condition.”

“We shan’t let it recover,” Flint said, not unkindly.

The look he sent the old Targaryen had some small pity. He’d looked the same when he went out to put down those wolves a sennight ago. Three emaciated, but unusually large mangy wolves had haunted the edge of the forest beyond the Wall, scaring off game while too weak to net any of their own. He had no knowledge if they were true direwolves, the sigil animal of the ruling house of the North. In absence of a Stark, Flint had volunteered to do the deed in either case.

“Wildlings would give it a wide berth, aye.” Flint admitted. “Don’t see them raiding the Wall or the North with that beast in the air, but we wouldn’t be safe either.”

Desmond grunted in agreement. “No guarantee we can herd it far north to take care of that problem, anyhow.”

He half-expected Aemon to respond to that by claiming he could bind the beast to him with some kind of Valyrian blood magic like the dragonlords of old for the good of the Wall. Make it play guard dog for the Night’s Watch against the wildling tribes.

He didn’t, but if the man had been that brazen, Desmond would have considered pretending to believe him.

“Unfortunately for us, we don’t have Scorpions on hand - “

“No?” Flint broke in loudly. “What kind of Uller are you?”

“Half of one,” Desmond returned dryly. “You know how long it takes supplies to reach Eastwatch-by-the-sea from Sunspear?”

“At least two moons with favorable winds,” Marsh said quietly and he would know, considering how often he heard the man cursing the slow, meager trickle of what supplies they do get from the realm.

Desmond nodded his head at him. “A sennight to petition my mother’s house by raven, two moons at sea, by the time the bolt launchers arrive, the beast will be gone, dead or we’ll be.” Silence met his words. “We’ll set out. Arm who we can with spears and bows - can it be poisoned?” He spoke the sudden thought aloud.

Aemon hadn’t been wrong when he questioned ‘with what army.’ Even a grounded dragon still had teeth, claws, the armor of its scales and the threat of its fire ice breath. He had to hope it was injured grievously.

His leading strategy right now was to vex the beast into bleeding out and hope they didn’t all die in the process.

“Perhaps it can be,” the old man whimpered. Aemon looked as though they were discussing his own execution. “But, Lord Commander, I would beg you to reconsider - “

“It dies.”

“It needn’t have to!” Aemon leapt clean from his chair with the force of his yell.

“Have a care how you speak,” Desmond said slowly with a dangerous edge. “You are no prince of the blood here, but a black brother and I am your Lord Commander.”

“My apologies,” Aemon said stiffly, sitting back down and unlike the last apology, Desmond does not believe it. “You all know the history of my house and its dragons - “

Desmond moved to interrupt. “You swore an oath - “

“I swore an oath, yes!” Aemon nearly hissed at him. “To take no wife, father no children, hold no lands, wear no crown, win no glory, but not to forget my blood!”

“The Watch is neutral - “

“Our involvement will begin and end with the dragon!” Aemon looked about the room, eyes wide in almost mania. “The prince could be here within the moon and with him the authority of the Iron Throne to reward us!”

Desmond’s mouth opened and then closed.

Well, sh*t.

That hit him right in the greed.

“A dragon is a mighty prize,” Brenn said softly, looking at him. Unlike himself, it likely wasn’t greed that got the mountain Flint to think twice. Northerners had fanciful ideas about the honor, glory and prestige of serving on the Wall. Anything that could bring reality closer to their ideals would be welcomed.

“Priceless,” Bowen said thinly.

“But it’s an ice dragon, innit?” Elan asked.

And he’ll be damned if the daft Crownlands bastard didn’t sound right confused about it.

Desmond sighed because he himself was trying not to think too hard about the glittering shelf of ice now sticking out the Wall.

Dragons breathe fire. Everyone knew that.

Everyone but this f*cking dragon.

“What about it?”

“I - “ Elan’s head swiveled on his thin neck as if it were a stick. He swallowed and patted down his dirt brown hair. “The Northern tales - bleedin’ ice dragons and ice spiders and f*ckin’ Children of the Forest an’ allat.”

“So?” Desmond asked and then paused.

Ice dragons and ice spiders.

There better not be more frozen horrors out there. The giants were bad enough.

“So?” Elan repeated. “King Scab’s a c*nt. He’d be more o’ one with a dragon.” He said bluntly. Usually, talk like that would get a man killed or sent to the Wall, but the bastard was already here so Desmond shrugged it off. “We can sell it to the Starks!”

He said like they were about to haul a barrel of fish to a f*cking market.

“Ha!” Brenn Flint chuckled, stopped and then laughed again. “That there’s an idea! Haul Rickard’s ass up here, let him offer a price for it!” Flint sighed happily. “I can see the look on that frozen f*ck’s face now.”

Rickard Stark had that dour long Stark face like he shat ice and pissed snow last time Desmond saw him. Back then his wife had still been alive so he doubted throwing the dragon at him would improve Stark’s face, but it would certainly do something to it.

“Yes,” Bowen Marsh said dryly, with a thin lipped smile. “And I can see the one on King Aerys’ face when he learns we chose to give House Stark a dragon.”

Flint’s broad smile withered.

“A Northern dragon,” Waters said weakly.

It was a strange turn of events when men at the Wall at the arse end of the world knew more about the king than nearly every other house in the North. It wasn’t much more, but petty criminals, arrogant noble sons and poor innocents were making their way to the Wall in greater numbers and all were from King’s Landing. It said something, whether guilty or not, when a man would rather swear away his life to freeze at the Wall at the first opportunity than to risk facing the King’s Justice.

The big Flint rolled his eyes. “Aye, fine, I see your point, Marsh.”

“The Watch’s neutral,” Elan said petulantly.

“I’ll not inflict the king’s attention on Winterfell,” Desmond said finally. He was trying to convince himself that this was just like selling furs and herbs for more coin in their coffers and it was mostly working. “The Watch is neutral, so that means we chose for the deepest pockets and nothing else.”

“If she does not die from her wounds,” Aemon ventured softly. “It may take moons for her to recover enough to take to the air. Dragons can be chained, Lord Commander. Let me bid the prince to come.”

A prince with a dragon could dethrone a dragonless king.

That was also not his problem.

The Night’s Watch cared not for the affairs of the realm. As long as the Iron Throne paid, it was no concern of his whose arse sat on it in the end. However, if they were lucky, the arse on it would remember the Watch's neutral contribution that let him sit there.

He was actually considering this, wasn’t he?

He was.

“Marsh,” he said, resigned. “Do the numbers.”

Flint let out a loud cackle, thumbing his thrice broken nose as he bounced out of his chair like a boy on the morning of his name day celebrations.

“We’re selling a dragon, boys!”

It took it’s sweet, f*cking time, but that was when the absurdity of it all hit him. First, every weirwood in the f*cking North started bleeding. The stars got tired of being up in the sky and then he was woken from sleep by a f*cking ice dragon attacking the Wall.

He was selling it.

What was f*cking next, grumpkins for a few silver stags? Snarks for a groat? Ice spiders? The f*cking Others?

Desmond sighed.

The f*cking sh*t he did for the Watch.

He shifted in place, letting the side of his arm linger against the hard bulge of his stomach hidden underneath black clothes a few sizes too big where some illness grew endlessly. He didn’t know how many more times he could survive going under the knife cutting out the growth.

He preferred not to think of it. The pain was manageable.

“Flint, gather the men.”

“Spears and bows, aye!”

“Elan, wood, chain and stone for a dragon pen.” It didn’t sound any less absurd coming out of his mouth.

“Yes, Lord Commander.”

“Thank you,” Aemon Targaryen whispered. “I would ask that you come as well, Lord Commander. The more dragonlord blood on hand, the better.”

That was not something he wanted to hear.

It wasn’t often Desmond was forced to remember the blood of Maron Nymeros-Martell and Daenerys Targaryen in his veins. He was a Sandy Dornishman from head to toe of black hair, dark eyes, proud nose and tanned skin. Nothing like the Valyrian pale skin, silver-gold hair and purple eyes for all that he was Aemon’s distant kinsman. The last time he was forced to remember was when the second son of House Martell fostered at Sandstone. Last he heard of that boy, he’d been exiled to Essos for killing a man over a paramour.

He’d say Oberyn didn’t get that from him, but he’d be lying. They were both second sons. A prince of Sunspear is sent across the Narrow Sea until tempers cooled, a lord of Sandstone must take the black.

He’s not bitter. It’s simply the way of things.

“You sure the Uller blood doesn’t counterbalance the dragon blood out?” He jested weakly, half-serious. The slaying of Queen Rhaenys and the dragon Meraxes she rode over two hundred years ago was something the Ullers of Hellholt, his mother in particular, remained proud of.

As a young man, he’d maintained that the problem hadn’t been the dragon, but the Valyrian c*nt that rode it.

He was starting to rethink that opinion.

Aemon gave him a look.

Desmond sighed once more.

The f*cking sh*t he did for the Watch.

It might have been three hours, perhaps four and either option was too soon before he found himself at the head of the column marching out from the Wall. He had looked behind him, at the old dark brick and iced courtyard of Castle Black with old wood posts and stables that would have rotted to dust long ago if not for the cold. It wasn’t much, but it had been home for nearly two decades now and he was leaving it with a good chance of never coming back.

Marching to confront a living, breathing dragon in the North. Where the f*ck did it come from?

Did he even want to know?

He hadn’t thought about his blood in decades and now he couldn't stop thinking about it.

“What do I do if it likes me?” Desmond hissed out the side of his mouth, suddenly right f*cking concerned.

“Praise your good fortune?” Aemon replied, his eyes shining. The old man was just about bouncing in his saddle, pleased as a pig in mud now that he was getting his way. "The first dragon rider since the Dance!"

Desmond scowled.

“I’ll be disowned,” he muttered. Dragonfire had burned Sandstone back in the First Dornish War. It had burned every keep save Sunspear.

“You are already serving at the Wall,” Aemon pointed out smugly and he swatted at the man.

It didn’t take long before he saw their quarry, the shape looming in the distance. The crunch of the spring snows under the hooves of their horses was loud in the still air. The sky was still burning red. The smaller stars had finished falling, leaving an empty darkness split in two by the drifting large bleeding star. He glanced back behind him, taking in the lines of black brothers, faces grim, disbelieving, excited or all three. Mance Rayder, the cheeky sh*t, was riding on one of the horses dragging carts of building supplies and every spear they could scrounge from Castle Black, Eastwatch-by-the-Sea and the Shadow Tower. The young man winked back, lifting his lyre in silent proclamation that he was going to write a song about this nonsense and his brothers would be hearing it until his tongue fell out.

Commander Denys Mallister of the Shadow Tower to the west was a hard man with a face more hair than skin and his head the opposite. He had been in denial long enough to be vexing, but Commander Cotter Pyke of Eastwatch-by-the-Sea had leapt at the chance to see a dragon first hand. Everyone on the wall had heard the beast’s roars and when the reinforcements arrived at Castle Black, everyone saw the Wall’s new addition.

He still thought the ice dragon thing was f*cking stupid.

Just the gods making fools of men again.

“By the Seven…” Mallister murmured as the shape became clear. They had put their backs to the Wall until they could determine which way the creature was facing after its fall.

The answer was towards them.

It was massive.

Even crumpled in the snow as it was, one could tell the shadow of its wings would cover several buildings in each direction. There was no castle courtyard he knew of that could fit the beast comfortably, not even the Red Keep of the king or Winterfell. Its bulk alone would crush Sandstone with ease. It wasn’t that it was fat, it was just that big. He could barely make out the shadow of where the head was despite seeing the tip of the tail clearly. Smaller than Balerion, the Black Dread was reputed to be, but when it could still swallow a man riding a horse whole, what did that matter?

“She’s beautiful,” Aemon whispered reverently. “As silver as the dragon Sunfyre of Aegon the Usurper was gold.”

“Sunfyre ate the Half-Year Queen after burning her alive,” Desmond reminded them all grimly. He motioned with his arms for the men to set up. They did so in silence, all hushed in the presence of a living legend.

The dragons of the royal House Targaryen had been extinct for over a hundred years, the last one being a small, sickly thing no larger than a cat. A far cry from what lay in the snow before them.

Desmond could hear it breathe. Every breath was labored and he held some hope that they would need to do nothing but leave it to die in peace. The snow beneath it had melted away, revealing dark patches of rock and dirt stained darker with dragon blood. Steam wafted off the beast’s silver scales.

“This is close enough,” Aemon said.

“Right,” he said, quietly. He swallowed thickly. “Wait here. If it kills us, follow the plan and kill it back.”

“By your will, Lord Commander,” Mallister said solemnly beneath his long beard as Pyke just grunted, beady eyes fixed on the dragon.

He took the horse for no other reason than it might buy him some time if he had to run for it.

“I cannot believe you talked me into this,” he whispered harshly. His faltering steps greatly contrasted Aemon’s slow, but steady approach.

“Peace,” Aemon whispered back.

That’s when the beast realized they were there and snapped viciously at them. Desmond fell back with a shout and so did many others, a stray arrow unleashed with panic burying into the snow behind him, but Aemon stepped forwards once again with High Valyrian flowing from his lips.

Tense, the reins cutting into his palms, Desmond waited, but the beast made no other aggressive moves. He held his breath as the old maester reached out his hand and rested it against the beast’s flank.

It didn’t move.

Heart in his throat, Desmond dared to relax as Aemon talked to the creature. He was at best conversational in the bastard Valyrian of the Free City of Braavos, but he thought Aemon might be flattering it. If he was, he couldn’t blame the man. The beast was eye-catching.

The scales of its body were a pure shining silver like polished jewelry, but now that he was dangerously close, he could see the scales leading down its legs and to the tips of its visible wing were a duller color, like old neglected heirlooms ending in blackened claws and talons. It looked a Valyrian dragon to his eyes, despite the ice, with four limbs of two legs and two wings, black horns curling back from the crown of its head, a long serpentine neck and a cruel looking jaw. The line of long black barbs down its back made Desmond wince, imagining trying to mount it without losing his co*ck.

The sudden snarl from the dragon nearly made him piss his britches, but the creature strangled it into a long hiss before it went silent once more.

The wait was agonizing.

“She is calm now,” Aemon spoke eventually. His face was upturned to the sky, the look on it was of a man seeing god, tears streaming down his cheeks. “And she will live.”

Grand.

The beast was aware. A large reptilian eye of molten silver watched them. He told himself to think of all the Arbor Gold wine the Watch could afford with this dragon.

It half-worked.

“She?” Desmond muttered as he sidled up behind, not hiding, the maester.

Aemon glanced at him, surprised. “Oh,” he said. “She… feels female?” He questioned himself. “We have not bonded, I do not think,” he said thoughtfully. The old man puttered around a bit, peering at what could be seen of its wounds. “Does it require an exchange of blood?” The maester asked no one. “Or a first flight?”

“Leave that for your nephew to figure out,” Desmond said, exasperated.

“You are right, of course,” Aemon said sheepishly. “Still, if my existence proves a barrier to him, know that I was glad to serve.”

Desmond didn’t know how to respond to that. “Aemon…”

“I am old,” the man replied with a small smile. “A living dragon may be the key to hatching new ones, perhaps eventually she will have a clutch of her own.” His smile grew. “Just as a Stark who swears to be the watcher on the walls would fight to protect the North as part of his duty to his house, this is mine.”

The dragon was still looking at them.

Desmond watched the slitted pupil travel from Aemon to himself and then behind him to the rest of the black brothers, their horses and the carts of supplies. Tales told that dragons were smarter than dogs or horses, but no one alive knew by how much. By the time the cold, silver gaze returned to him, he had the sinking feeling that the beast understood what they were planning to do.

He found himself raising his hands in surrender and backing up a step. “Let’s not act rashly now…”

…Why was he talking to it!?

The dragon raised its head. Desmond watched, frozen as it towered over all of them, the wound on its neck becoming clear.

It looked as if it had only partially escaped an attempted beheading.

There was another wound ripping up its side and tearing through an eyebrow ridge and Desmond felt his blood run cold. The one question they had all avoided asking, had all avoided thinking about -

What lay in the North that could do such a thing to a dragon?

Its head continued to raise as it tilted its chin back. The bleeding star shone from behind the horns on its crown, casting a long, dark shadow upon them. A sudden, freezing wind picked up as the beast crooned a long, mournful note and then in a flash of brilliant white-blue light -

“What in all the Seven Hells!?”

Everything stopped making sense.

The dragon was gone. A woman wearing not a stitch of clothing stood before them in the crater of stone and muddy water.

Desmond blinked once. Twice.

He slapped himself.

“Lord Commander,” Aemon said in a tight, trembling voice with his eyes the size of plates and the blood gone from his face. “Your cloak, if you would.”

Numbly, he handed the black cloth over without comment.

The maester held it up. He stepped forward with the cloak out in front of him as a shield and nearly stumbled, gasping when it passed through the space the wing of the beast had occupied.

It was no illusion.

How by the Old gods and the New - and the Mother Royne, the Fourteen Flames of Valyria, R’hllor and whoever else he was forgetting - was this possible?

Dragons were dragons. Men were men. Even the skinchangers of the wildlings could only control animals, not change into them.

“Aemon…”

“She is not hostile,” the maester replied stubbornly, but the shock still robbed his voice of strength. “And easier - easier to house like this, easier to treat her wounds,” he rambled, eyes near popping out of his skull still. “Easier to feed - “

“But not contain,” Desmond said grimly.

Not if it could just turn back whenever it wanted. The only reason he hadn’t drawn his sword to strike at the perceived weaker form was that he knew nothing about it. Was it a natural ability?

Magic?

Some shape-changing witch of the land beyond the Wall that assumed a form she could barely control to escape danger?

That made the most sense to him, but it bred dozens of other questions. Where she came from, where the talent came from and if there were others who could do the same. He had a hard time imagining her a member of any of the known wildling tribes, because she would have stood out like a sore thumb.

If the dragon had looked Valyrian to his eyes, then the woman did as well. Hair as shining silver as the dragon scales had been, porcelain skin and eyes of a purple so deep, they looked almost blue. Above average height for a woman with a supple form. Regal features of delicate cheekbones and chin, paired with a straight nose that turned up at the tip and full lips shaped like a goldenheart bow. The wound that ripped up her side, exposing the bone of her ribs and shoulder, the bled scratch across her eye and the one on her neck was not enough to hide that she was an altogether lovely creature.

Aemon shuffled closer and offered her Desmond’s black cloak. A detached amusem*nt shone in those cold, ancient purple eyes for a moment, but she moved to take it and covered herself. He then said something in High Valyrian, but there was no indication of comprehension on her neutral face. The learned man tried several other languages, the bastard Valyrian of Lys and Volantis if he wasn’t mistaken, the Common tongue and even a word or two in the Old Tongue of the North, but the lack of response was the same.

“Let me,” Desmond blustered, stepping forward.

His assumption that this was a shape-changing witch died a swift death when those eyes darted to him with the hungry intensity he’d only seen in shadowcats and wolves. The look swiftly faded back into distant interest, but the damage was done.

The lessons he had as a child on what to do when faced with a large predator was now at the forefront of his mind.

No sudden movements.

Aemon must have received the same lessons, stilling completely.

“...we can make a run for it,” Desmond said out the side of his mouth, eyes locked on the creature. “It's still bleeding.”

Dark red blood that still smoked in the cold air was trickling down its legs from under his cloak. Its breathing was still shallow and labored, but it showed no sign of pain despite the blood still frothing from its opened throat.

It didn’t seem to even notice the cold.

“You can, perhaps,” Aemon whispered back and Desmond winced, remembering the cane the maester was getting used to using. “This is still salvageable - this - this is incredible!”

Desmond cursed under his breath.

f*cking Valyrians.

The beast slowly raised a deceptively small hand, palm up and fingers curled like it still had talons. Desmond prepared to leg it when a soft, white glow began to collect before it. His skin was like gooseflesh, a tingle running up and down his spine as the glow sunk into its skin.

He watched, terrified as its wounds began to close.

“Magic,” Aemon breathed.

“Magic,” it repeated and the maester jumped. Desmond felt his blood run cold. It replicated the old man’s Crownlands accent perfectly. It had a full bodied woman’s voice with a rasp that could either entice a chaste septon to bed or turn to promise a fate worse than death.

“Oh.” The old Targaryen turned left, then right, overwhelmed and then slowly raised his arm to point back at their spooked horses. “Horse.”

That absent amusem*nt appeared in the creature’s eyes once more.

“Horse,” it repeated.

“Why are you teaching it - “

“The first step to cooperation is communication. Dragons have always been said to understand spoken commands. She can learn!” Aemon hissed back at him, before gently scooping up a handful of snow in his hand, holding it out. “Snow.”

“Snow.”

Its gaze drifted and they both followed it. It was looking at the seven hundred foot tall wall of ice and stone they served on.

“Wall,” Desmond said carefully.

There was a cruel curl to its lip as it said, “Wall.”

Desmond closed his eyes for a moment. Teach a dragon to understand what ‘don’t kill me’ means and hope it agrees not to is not the worst plan he ever heard, but that wasn’t saying much.

When did this become his life?

Aemon gestured to himself. “Targaryen.”

“Targaryen.”

The maester searched its face for any sign of recognition, but there was none.

“Qorgyle,” Desmond introduced himself.

“Qorgyle.” It said exactly as he did, the soft ‘r’ of the Rhyonish influence and all. Desmond took a risk and pointed at the creature with a finger and raised a questioning eyebrow.

Its lips turned up into a gentle smile that did not fool him.

“Terendelev.”

“If we all die, it's your fault,” Desmond said.

“Noted,” Aemon replied calmly. “Lord Commander.”

“Don’t you f*cking ‘Lord Commander’ me.”

Two things were keeping him from vomiting up last night’s dinner from sheer nerves. The first was that the beast continued to remain non-hostile, showing no aversion to men or animals getting close. Aemon was brave enough to touch it, guiding it to sit on Desmond’s poor horse.

He half-expected its weight to remain, even if its bulk had not, but by all accounts it weighed as much as it should.

It was unnerving.

The second was that it was non-hostile.

After an aborted spear charge by frightened black brothers, an unnatural harsh wind had blown all the stray arrows off course. Desmond had taken one look at the wooden shafts in the snow and the arrow heads cut clean off each and every one and decided to wrangle his men back into order.

He had been half-tempted not to, but so far they were all alive, he’d like to keep it that way and f*cking off to leave the beast on their doorstep was not an option. Never mind if it decided to repeat that night’s performance once its wounds finished sealing, the thought of a wildling chieftain getting bright ideas about it was a nightmare.

So it was coming with them.

The rest of the journey back to the Wall was spent in shocked, sullen silence. There wasn’t a black brother that didn’t have his eyes glued to the silver dragon-woman sitting side saddle on his horse. Whether it was because it was a f*cking dragon-woman or the fact that they there were no women at the Wall and it was wearing the very comely guise of one, he didn’t much care.

And he knew it to be a guise.

That same hunger in its gaze sought out every quick or unexpected movement. The turn of its head was quick and serpentine. It walked like it was floating on air, ready to sprout wings and take flight at any moment. He laid a gimlet eye on it the entire way.

Dorne had a reputation for being sexually freer than the rest of the continent and it wasn’t an entirely undeserved one. Not as much as claimed, but the hot sun year round and Rhoynish sense of community had an effect. He’d been a man long grown with a lover and had toured the Free Cities before taking the black and knew the signs of a seductress.

It bothered him that he didn’t find any in it.

It kept the black cloak tightly closed. It held itself like the horse saddle was a throne. It was uninterested in eyeing any man, just their movements. It did not shy away from touch, but neither did it welcome it. Its fair face was set in a look of distant, polite attention with flashes of inquisitiveness as it took in Castle Black.

If he didn’t know any better -

And he did -

He would have assumed the other form was a common cat, not a dragon.

Aemon took the initiative in leading the creature towards the maester’s tower, babbling to it and leaving the rest of them milling about aimlessly, unable to believe what had just happened.

“What the f*ck.” Desmond exclaimed into the quiet.

His castle courtyard exploded into noise like he blew the signal horn instead.

“Hey!” He shouted over them all. “HEY!”

He put two fingers into his mouth and whistled sharply, cutting through the exclamations and questions. He glared around at every stubborn pocket of chatter until it went quiet.

“Any of you f*ckers touch that - “ He pointed at the maester’s tower. “If you don’t get us all killed, I will geld you. If you’re already co*ckless, I will take a hand." And wonder why you bothered. "Pack this sh*t away and get back to your posts!”

Mallister fell in beside him. “I do not like this,” the Riverlander spoke quickly, hushed. “We should have killed this… abomination .”

They could certainly try, but Desmond started his tenure as Lord Commander being cautious and he wasn’t going to stop now. In his opinion, if it ate food and drank wine like a human then it was that much easier to poison. He wasn’t certain how much easier, because magic , but failed attempts would still be less costly than spoiling whole goats.

They needed those.

“Kill it,” Desmond repeated. “I’m curious what plan you have concocted that will end in our martial victory of a thousand men against a magical ice dragon.”

Mallister’s sour face twisted up further. “Or at least left it outside.”

So there was no such plan.

Pity.

“Do you know if wildling skinchangers can control dragons?” He asked in false curiosity and Mallister stiffened, his face beneath his thick beard going white. “Me neither.”

He turned to stare hard at Cotter Pyke until the Ironborn bastard tore his eyes away from the maester’s tower with a scowl, scrubbing at the patchy beard on his face as he stomped away. Good thing that one was going to be far away from the creature. Who wants a dragon for a salt-wife anyhow?

For all they knew, its c*nt had teeth in it.

…damn, he should have told the men that! He could have made something up about dragons mating in flight and how else was the male going to keep it in there?

The creature didn’t understand the Common tongue and no one knew any better.

“It’ll be gone soon enough,” Desmond murmured. “But if you could leave me with extra men…”

“Done.” Mallister nodded, relieved and peeled away to begin bellowing at his own forces, preparing to retreat back to the Shadow Tower.

Desmond watched him go, bemused. Was that all it took for that miser to finally give him men without argument?

Relief the Lord Commander wasn’t being bewitched?

Brenn Flint bounded up to him with a wicked looking smile on his face and he felt a headache coming on.

Desmond sighed. “What?”

“So!” The big man clapped him about the shoulder and turned him around, bent over like a gossiping old woman. “Does this mean what we’re going to negotiate with the Iron Throne is the bride-price?”

Desmond palmed his face.

He forgot about that.

“The prince is unmarried!” The Flint said far too loudly. “That dragon blood talk might be literal!”

“Brenn.”

“Lord Commander?” Brenn leered. “Not like we can afford a royal dowry.”

“Get out of my sight before I have you thrown from the top of the Wall.”

The man rolled his eyes. “Aye, fine, you’ve all let your sense of humor freeze up here, Byam, lad, attend me!”

Left alone, he watched the bustling of activity as Castle Black slowly drained of most of the extra bodies clad in black. His feet took him back to his own quarters. Digging out the bottle of sour Dornish red hadn’t been a conscious decision, filling a second mug of wine was.

He needed to go back to sleep.

He wasn’t going to get any more sleep because he already got the blood pumping and that was just how his body worked so he might as well not bother trying.

He stashed the near empty bottle and wandered back outside. He looked up at the sky still ablaze with the starfall.

A good sign or an ominous omen?

He had never put much stock in Northern legends before arriving at the Wall, and most he still dismissed.

The Nightfort was still a creepy, decrepit castle with or without the tales of the Rat Cook serving prince-and-bacon pies, or the old Andal king’s curse. The one of the Night’s King who had taken an Other bride was an old wives tale like the rest, and the Others had never been able to turn into dragons in the stories, but...

His hands shook.

It had tensed almost imperceptibly as they passed beneath the wall. He only noticed, because it had been his horse it had been riding. He had been close and he had been watching. It was not a reaction to the enclosed space of the tunnel of ice, only the crossing of the threshold.

He didn’t know what it meant, if anything, but it left him uneasy.

A beast was one thing.

One he knew had the intelligence to match a man was another.

There was a magical ice dragon at the Wall.

He sighed.

f*cking stupid.

Chapter 2: The Eyrie

Chapter Text

The Eyrie

Elbert Arryn dreamed of flying.

It wasn’t a rare occurrence. The first time he’d seen a man executed by the Moon Door as a boy, he had night terrors of coming across that Weirwood door in a darkened High Hall. The pale white wood with the crescent moon carved into it would loom large over him. The three bronze bars that should be holding it closed missing. He would be unable to halt his approach and the door would slam open. The howling winds would sweep in and drag him out, sending him tumbling out into the sky where screeching falcons and demanding ravens flew.

The Eyrie was no place for anyone afraid of heights, having been built on the shoulder of the Giant’s Lance mountain peak. So Elbert had taken the time to bodily fling himself against the Moon Door and its bronze bars, solely to satisfy himself that it wouldn’t open without cause. He went to bed with a sore shoulder for that entire moon.

A Lord Arryn afraid of his own future seat wasn’t proper either.

f*ck proper, then.

The sheer cliffs surrounding the small, but grand keep and the tall towers wouldn’t be nearly so bad if he could just sprout wings whenever he wanted and fly to safety. If he were to be completely honest, it wasn’t the thought of being high up in the air that got him. The view was amazing, after all. It wasn’t even the thought of falling, really.

It was the godsdamned sudden stop.

There was no need for the way up the mountain to be so narrow and steep, you couldn’t ride a horse up but had to use a bloody mule, who makes people climb up handholds in rock to get to your keep and the wind was murder -

The bird in his dreams called out in shrill, trilling chirps that echoed across the mountains. It was almost, but not quite that of an eagle. It was bolder and deeper, as if coming from a much larger bird.

Just don’t drop me, he thought, inexplicably fond of the animal for all that it had taken to visiting his sleep for the past three days.

It trilled in response and there was a snap of flapping wings.

The sky above them was a soft red glow. He could not see the sun, moon or stars but below the Vale of Arryn stretched out as they soared above the clouds. The Mountains of the Moon were stately, inhospitable snow capped peaks crowding in around the long narrow Vale of Arryn. The valley was mostly brown and gray with patches of white snow. He was too high up to see the small lakes and streams clearly, but further out were the shadow of the Fingers and the cold coast of the Narrow Sea that lay between them and Braavos.

Elbert turned his head and the bird responded to his half-formed thought. They turned away from the Fingers, back towards the Eyrie. The white stone of the seven slim towers fairly gleamed. The waters of Alyssa’s Tears spilled endlessly over the nearby cliff, the vapor and mist of the waterfall forming the very same rainbow that inspired Roland Arryn to build his new seat there, in the light of the Seven.

Well.

What really inspired him was the grandeur of the Lannisters’ Casterly Rock and the Hightower of Hightower. He competed, and in Elbert’s opinion still lost, but it made for a nice story.

His bird called and the falcons surrounding the white keep scattered as they approached, but a black bird, a large raven or a crow, flew directly into his face.

Elbert cried out, raising his hands as the half-burned animal shrieked. It batted his head with its wings and scratched his forearms with its talons as it tried to peck at his forehead. There was the sensation of powerful muscles between his legs as if he were astride a horse, brown and white plumage out the corner of his eye, the glint of golden talons.

His bird screeched, a harsh, angry sound and it chased the foul creature away.

I am yours, he thought with relief as he lowered his hands. Never fear.

There was an answering chirp.

He should be afraid of it, he knew.

The same dream three nights in a row was some kind of sign. Or perhaps he should wait until he made it to seven nights in a row to take it as a sign from the Seven-Who-Are-One. He couldn’t imagine what dreaming of flying through the clouds as if he were the First Men legends of the Winged Knight or the Griffin King coming again would have to do with the Seven?

He had never been one to concern himself overmuch with the details. Perhaps he would ask the local septon or the maester, perhaps he would not.

I will not let any drive you away from me, Elbert thought. His bird called out happily and they soared together.

Elbert Arryn dreamed of flying.

All too soon, he woke up.

The low ceiling of the Gates of the Moon with the wooden rafters and pale gray stone greeted his eyes.

At least he had that still.

The first of his uncle’s wards, Robert Baratheon, heir to Storm’s End had yet to wake from the winter chill that was burning him up from the inside out.

The second, Eddard Stark of Winterfell, had woken up blind.

Elbert rose from his bed, tossing aside the heavy furs. The wind was not as loud as it was in the Eyrie, but they still howled furiously, wailing outside the walls of the stout keep. He splashed his face with the cold water left in the bowl for him.

“This nonsense better do away with itself before I inherit,” he murmured softly to no one. “Gods know I’ll have enough on my plate.” The blond haired green eyed reflection with the Arryn nose and dark blonde stubble on his chin had a wretched, miserable smile as water dripped down his face. “Get your head out of the clouds, man.”

But falcons were made to fly.

“You have a duty,” Elbert whispered. He splashed his face again and squeezed his eyes shut in a hard blink. “You cannot waste away dreaming of what could never be.”

He washed his hands and got dressed. He caught himself casting a longing look back at his bed and bolted out the door like a demon from the Seven Hells was after him.

“Shi - “ Elbert spun to avoid trampling a maidservant carrying a food tray past his door. “Quick on your feet,” he said admiring the way she caught herself against the wall so she didn’t drop her burden. She was a pretty enough girl, buxom with dark red hair. He remembered seeing her around a few times. “For my uncle?”

“Yes - “ She started, but he’d already snatched a small loaf of bread and some hard cheese off the tray. “Milord.”

He grinned at the poorly hidden irritation in her voice. “Then you’ll tell him I’ve already broken my fast, would you?”

The maid smiled back tightly. “I’ll be sure to tell Lord Arryn where half his meal went, yes.”

Oh, he liked this one.

“Careful,” Elbert warned lightly as he turned to leave, waving his cheese at her. “Keep that up and I might just want to keep you, you know?”

She curtsied low enough to hide her expression then and said nothing at all. Insolent, but that was all well and good. He certainly didn’t mind having to work for it.

Her name, next time.

The halls of the Gates of the Moon were short, but wide, fitting the stout gatehouse castle with its deep moat that guarded the way to the seat of House Arryn. The entire keep was made out of the pale gray stone mined from the Mountains of the Moon and it had the luxury of a few narrow windows, currently covered over with oiled leather flaps to keep the wind out. The soft red glow creeping around the edges along with the cold wisps of a breeze almost tricked him into thinking it was later than it was.

The bleeding red star still burned in the sky. It had been a moon since the Stars Fell.

They have all adjusted in their own way.

The inner ward of the castle was just beyond the Great Hall, down the stairs through the pillared gallery. Winter was still going strong, covering the roughly triangular shape in the white of snow instead of green grass or beige sand. Elbert’s breath steamed in the cold air as he strode towards the now familiar sight of a wooly headed Northerner out and about with just an undershirt and breeches on.

“Uncle Jon’s still trying to figure out what to tell your father, Ned.” Elbert deliberately dragged his feet as he rounded the boy to announce his position. “He is not getting much further than ‘Rickard, your son is now blind. My apologies.’”

Jon Arryn had been unamused, but Elbert had laughed himself sick.

If he didn’t laugh, he’d cry

Eddard Stark snorted softly. “Make sure he does not forget the ‘cannot freeze’ part,” the young wolf said solemnly. The boy’s iced over gray eyes looked up at him as he wiggled his bare toes into the snow. “That might be important.”

Elbert raised both eyebrows. “You mean, you didn’t come like that?”

Ned sighed the way he always did for him and Robert and Elbert smothered his smile until he remembered it wouldn’t be seen.

That was almost enough to kill the grin by itself, but not quite.

“Starks have ice in their veins,” he offered lightly. “Isn’t that what they say?”

“Aye,” Ned said gently as the wind howled around them. “I am from the North, my lord.”

“A moon ago, you knew better than to brave the winter in nothing but your underclothes,” Elbert drawled. “And you were from the North then too.”

“You won’t catch me like this in a Northern winter, Lord Elbert.” Ned had a tiny smile on his face. “This is just summer snows.”

“I see, so I was just imagining you bundled up with the rest of us.”

“Just so.”

The boy was looking in his direction, but as always now, it overestimated his height and was just to the left over his shoulder. Ned looked…

Small.

He was a decade younger than himself, a boy of two and ten but he looked some years younger still. He would likely never match his older brother Brandon in height, but he had the same dark hair and long Stark face. Northmen were usually pale and Ned was no different, but since his eyes iced over, the boy could put a hand on the Weirwood Throne and they’d lose sight of where the white wood ended and he began.

He’d almost gotten used to those iced eyes of his. He’d seen blind men before. The Ninepenny Wars had not been so long ago. Men blinded in battle that had the eye scooped out of the socket, the eye turned white from the scarring left behind from infections or abscess, or with the eye lazy and crooked with wide pupils from bad blows to the head. It was unlike the illness of the eyes that came upon men when they got old with the cloudy, white patches, but iced.

The same thin ice that crept along the shores of slow moving streams and deep lakes covered the gray of his eyes, as if it could melt as tears, but never did. At times, there would be beads of blood at the corners and he’d know Ned had been rubbing them again.

They stung him sometimes and nothing the maester made helped.

“...no one is helping guide you out here, is there?” He watched Ned’s thin shoulders hunch and his small smile dropped. “I’ve been having dreams!” Elbert blurted out, stricken. “The same one - for the third night now, so if you - what I mean is, I do not believe you cursed. Or we are both cursed.”

So you can talk to me , he meant.

His uncle was his father, in deed even if not in name after his own father Ronnel Arryn died of a bad belly the same year of his birth. It was such that he never wondered about him beyond some curiosity and it was the same way that after Robert and Eddard arrived, he had never needed to wonder further about baby siblings.

They were gloriously unrepentant burs-in-his-saddle half the time, but he’d die for them.

“You do not believe the Seven can return my sight, my lord?” Ned asked. He sounded like it was a simple question, but his shoulders remained tense.

“What I think,” Elbert began slowly. “Is that the Seven have better things to do than to torment a child over his faith.” He frowned and then grunted, “That was ill done of Septon Doller. If they needed to take your sight to get your attention, they weren’t deserving of it in the first place.”

Ned shrugged a shoulder. “He learned I lost the use of my eyes, not my fists.”

Elbert sighed.

He should say something to that, but Ned had already taken his punishment without complaint and it was not like the boy could avoid the sept harder, so he let it be.

Robert was is the very definition of boisterous, but Eddard was trouble in his own quiet way.

“I dream of flying,” Elbert admitted as he looked to the sky where the bleeding star hung, forever falling.

It should have fallen by now. He’d heard his Lord Uncle question the maester thoroughly on the topic. It should have passed.

The word ‘unnatural’ was on many lips.

“There should be a weirwood here,” Ned said seriously and Elbert looked back at him to see him staring at the patch of fine dirt and snow he always seemed to find himself in front of these days.

Can the blind stare?

Elbert accepted the subject change. “Ground is too rocky, it could never support one.” He placed a careful hand on Ned’s shoulder. “...here? Not the Eyrie?”

It was the same answer there, but he’d never heard Ned express real interest in having one after he first arrived some five years ago.

“Here,” Ned said firmly. His head moved as if he was going to look back at him, but thought better of it. His shoulders stiffened further. “...that is what the wolf says.”

What the wolf says.

Elbert felt a chill creep up his spine and an itch tickle the back of his head as if he had suddenly become aware of someone’s gaze. He looked around, but there was no one else in the inner ward for it was early and all would be heading to the Great Hall to break their fast and to stay out of the cold.

“I assume the wolf is why you’ve been able to come down from the Falcon Tower without breaking your neck.”

Elbert didn’t question whether the wolf existed, even if Ned was the only one able to see it.

Lying was not something the young Stark enjoyed doing. He would, Elbert had no doubt about that, but it would not be for a trivial matter or the usual childhood foolishness. Eddard would say bold as brass to your face that he and Robert snuck some strongwine last night or that he struck the septon for being a c*nt that day, take his lumps stoically and move on.

Robert would puff up like an angry cat on the defense before the words even came out of his mouth if he was telling the truth, but thought he wouldn’t be believed. Ned wore his heart on his sleeve.

You just had to actually think to look for it among the snow.

Under his hand, he felt Ned relax. “Aye.”

“The bird I dream of is a bloody big animal,” Elbert offered. “Brown and white feathers, golden talons and we fly all across the Vale.”

“Like the Winged Knight,” Ned said and Elbert squeezed his shoulder lightly.

“I believe it to be an eagle of some kind, perhaps a very large sea eagle. Big enough to carry a man on its back.”

He never saw the Vale from the sky and maps were expensive to make and had only the important details, but somehow Elbert knew that if he took to the sky right now, awake, he would see the same view as his dreams.

Ned moved his hand, reaching out to trail his fingers through the air. “It’s as big as your horse.”

Elbert paused.

“The wolf?”

His horse was a destrier stallion bred for battle. It was almost taller than he was.

“The dire wolf.” Ned said. “Like my house sigil.”

Elbert made a noise in his throat. “I count myself fortunate that they are extinct then.”

Ned looked towards him and there was his small smile again. “No, they aren’t. They just aren’t seen south of the Wall. Much.”

Ah.

So Elbert was never going north of the Neck.

“Wipe that grin off your face!” Elbert demanded and Ned obediently did so, but the cheeky sh*t still looked amused so he cuffed him gently. “Come, let us get some food in your belly. I can hear it.”

The Great Hall of the Gates of the Moon was of a far different look than the High Hall of the Eyrie, being both far wider than it was narrow and holding four hearths that were kept burning day and night. In the coldest years, lords and smallfolk would sleep on the benches and the fires used for slow roasts and stews rather than to make everyone wait for food to be brought in from the kitchens. It was a practical room for a practical keep. The High Hall in comparison seemed made for ceremonies and dances with its blue-veined white marble walls, silk carpet and fluted pillars. The luxury evident in the glass of the narrow arched windows.

In truth, the seat of House Arryn was the smallest of the great castles for lack of room on the mountain peak. Perhaps old king Roland Arryn could have commissioned a bridge over Alyssa’s Tears as he heard of Volantis built up on both sides of the Rhoyne River, but then there was the issue of stability.

He won’t say he had night terrors of the Giant’s Lance peak crumbling away beneath the keep, but he had a few concerns.

And the Eyrie was unlivable for years on end during winter anyway!

If he surprised Jon’s bones by keeping his household at the Gates and letting the Weirwood Throne collect dust up there, the old man simply hadn’t been paying his heir any attention.

Elbert accosted one of the staff for a wooden bowl of preserved fruits and nuts, a thin slice of buttered bread and balanced a mug of weak beer as he made his way back to the high table. Jon’s seat was empty, but he already knew his uncle had broken his fast in his rooms. He took his own seat to the right of it, nodding at several of the lords already sitting such as his kinsman Rendan Belmore, the current Steward of the keep and Vardis Egen, a knight of the household guard.

“Here we are.” Then they began the dance that after a moon had begun to feel routine. He placed the mug by Ned’s left hand with a loud clunking sound so the boy knew where it was, picking out a good mix of fruit and nuts before seeking out Ned's cold fingers to place the food in his palm, repeating after every mouthful as Ned blankly stared ahead over the hall, seeing nothing.

The mood was as subdued as it had been since the Stars Fell. Robert was still abed and Maester Colemon was optimistic about his chances. Even if it had been a moon with no improvement, he had yet to worsen and die like the others.

“I’ve heard the news that Lord Estermont is to visit his nephew,” Elbert said, if nothing else than to distract himself from the suspicious stares from the lower table.

They were all familiar enough with the effects of having stayed too long in the cold. The loss of sensation and then the return of it with a bloody vengeance, like the air itself was burning your fingers and ears. The shivers. The stuff nose and sneezing. Even in spring, the harsh winds coming down from the mountains could turn a man’s lips blue. The Eyrie was second only to the North in bearing the brunt of winter.

Ned had since stopped showing any signs of warmth. A living corpse. The only hint of red on his cold skin came from the fire at his back that played strangely across his iced over eyes.

Elbert saw why the septon had reacted as he did, calling the boy cursed. He just didn’t much care. Eddard was Eddard. Second son of the Lord Paramount of the North, Rickard Stark, ward of his own Lord Uncle and a good lad.

He refused to entertain the odds of the boy being hung as a witch if he had been any lower in station.

“The babe pulled through, Renly I believe his name was,” Elbert mused.

“That is good,” Ned said softly.

Lord Baratheon was said to be glued to the king’s side with hints of some malady in King’s Landing without detail, so he couldn’t travel to see Robert, his heir. Gods, he hoped they weren’t about to see the return of the Great Spring Sickness. Brynden Rivers had burned the capital’s dead with wildfire, because normal fire wouldn’t have done the job fast enough.

“Baratheons are made sturdy. Robert will wake, I assure you.”

Ned turned his head. “Wake different?”

Like me , Elbert heard in the silence.

“Mayhaps,” he shrugged with a nonchalance he did not feel. Ned did not burn with fever. He froze over. Elbert had gotten through the night the Stars Fell seemingly unaffected, but with increasingly insistent dreams.

He didn’t know what it all meant.

“If you wished to return home…” Elbert found himself offering. The North was a wild, strange land with its own legends and tales that might help, but Ned shook his head.

“Not until spring comes, my lord,” Ned said softly.

Elbert hummed. “The Citadel believes it will come early. Barely two years of winter this time.”

“Yes,” Ned intoned and looked to his right at an empty space. Elbert swallowed hard.

The wolf.

“It will.”

And what a spring it will be! The sigil of Eddard Stark’s house cackled with the genderless voice of someone old, even older than Old Nan, with dust and bones in its throat. Enjoy it to the fullest, pup, before its end.

Winter is coming, Ned thought his house words and he felt Elbert press some food, dried berries by the feel, into his hand.

The Grand Hall was a shifting, shapeless mass of shadows and light and moving images flowing past him like a rushing river. It was as if every person he saw was a Faceless Man assassin, ever changing their faces, surfacing and drowning out of sight with the passage of time. The history of the Gates of the Moon was a long one and he was not yet skilled enough to separate the strands from each other.

He saw it all at once. It was confusing at best, but it was better than nothing.

It was better than nothing.

Since the wolf came to him, Ned dreamed while awake with his eyes wide open.

Winter has always been coming, the wolf chuffed as it towered over him as a steady presence with eyes of gold. It responded to his thoughts as if they were words spoken out loud. Its coat was a dark gray mingled with bronze and emerald strands, bronze fangs and bronze claws offset by the fluffiest tail Ned had ever seen or felt. It is ever consuming and ever consumed, a circle with no end nor beginning. What is one grasping mouth to the ceaseless hunger it feeds?

Ned thought about the cold winters his father spoke of. He chewed his berries and knew that even now the people of the North were cinching their belts and rationing to hold out for as long as they could through the snowstorms. There was no way of knowing when winter would end, but Winterfell had never needed a white raven from the Citadel to announce the season’s arrival.

Everyone in the North knew Winter had Come when the white winds blew.

His father said it roared like a wild beast from the far North. You could see it coming, a solid wall of white like a mountain avalanche of snow rushing in, swallowing trees and roads and keeps whole. If any were caught in the wilds unaware…

A lone wolf dies, but the pack survives, Ned thought.

For a moment, a group of men arguing fiercely became clear in front of them. They wore iron armor and furs and one had a silver circlet on his head, but before he could catch any more details, they melted back into the shifting waters of history.

The direwolf let its tongue hang out of its mouth in a dog-like grin and its golden eyes were crinkled in mirth. And who is your pack, I wonder?

My family. Wild and brave Brandon, the firstborn and heir to the North. Adventurous and loud Lyanna who had been begging father for riding lessons when he left to foster in the Vale. Little Benjen, barely more than a babe toddling after his siblings.

And Father, tall and strong, a true lord.

For a moment, he thought he saw Rickard Stark on one knee with his head bowed and hand outstretched on the trunk of a white tree. His eyes stung.

The wolf laughed at him. Ah, mortal minds, capable of so much and so little at once.

It stood and padded closer, passing completely through the shadow of a shadow that passed for the table before him.

This boy, the wolf spoke, breathing over Elbert Arryn’s brilliant plumage. Ned saw when the heir of Arryn’s dreams started, because he was able to see him at all.

It wasn’t an eagle. It looked mostly like an eagle, but there was no eagle Ned knew of that had the body and back legs of a lion.

Andal, you would call him, yes?

Ned would. Elbert kept the Seven and was descended of Artys Arryn, the Falcon knight and Andal warlord that had defeated King Robar Royce of Runestone.

Wrong! The wolf snapped its jaws at him and Ned jumped.

“Ned?” Elbert asked. Concern was clear in his voice. Ned looked towards the strange bird and then at the wolf, warily.

“I believe I was just told that you are a First Man, my lord.”

The bird that was Elbert tilted its head questioningly.

“Well, my mother was a Belmore,” the man said and Ned loved him for simply accepting his words. “You remember them from your studies, I hope?"

"Six silver bells in three, two, one formation on a purple field," Ned recited.

"Their seat?"

"Strongsong."

"Words?"

He hesitated, mind blank.

"'The Bells Toll Loud’," Elbert said warmly. "It was taken from the Battle of the Seven Stars when they were defeated alongside the Royce king against the Falcon Knight. They claim they announced the arrival of the Andal armies with bronze gongs, the mountain valley making the sound echo.”

Ned felt very foolish.

Names are words and words are wind. What use is fickle faith? Forgotten traditions? The wolf replied as it prowled behind Ned’s back. Only blood matters.

Torrhen Stark met Aegon the Conqueror with his brother, Brandon Snow at his side. The South hid their bastards away as unworthy to be in the presence of kings. But Brandon was there, because trueborn or not, he was a Stark.

Good, the wolf growled softly.

“What brought that on?” Elbert asked.

“We are talking of wolf packs,” Ned offered. Elbert grabbed his hand from where it had drifted on the table, turned it palm up and placed a small handful of nuts within. “And I have been reminded that I have much to learn still.”

“In your studies? Or…is it…teaching you.” He sounded like he didn’t know what to make of the latter option.

“Both,” Ned answered honestly, sipping at his beer.

Elbert is pack. Ned had no trouble accepting this. Durran Godsgrief was a legendary First Man king. House Durrandon became Baratheon during Aegon’s Conquest when Orys Baratheon married the last daughter of the house, Argella. Robert is pack.

Your pack is the living and your enemy is death, the direwolf intoned with a voice that creaked like rusted hinges and cracked like tree bark. Your ancestors did naught but sever the tips off seeking fingers and built great works in the desperate hope of stemming the insurmountable weight of the ever-approaching tide.

For the first time in a moon, Ned felt cold. You are talking about the Wall.

The Wall, the wolf sneered. Ned had never heard Brandon the Builder’s greatest accomplishment spoken of with such disgust. Mortal cowardice made manifest. For all that death nips at your heels, you are so quick, so eager to turn a blind eye to the truth of your history.

The North Remembers, Ned thought.

Oh, child, the wolf crooned softly. We watched you forget.

“Lord Elbert?” Ned spoke up, voice shaking. The young knight cursed under his breath as he clutched at Ned’s cold hand and Ned did not blame him. “I think the wolf is an old god.”

The old gods did not have names.

For names are words and words are wind.

“Of course it is,” Elbert replied tiredly. “That’s why it wants a Weirwood.”

Is it? Ned asked in thought. To see through?

Even as he thought the question, it did not seem right. For it saw him, yet there was no Weirwood around. He felt Elbert drape an arm about his shoulders, pulling him into the taller man’s side.

The tree has long since ceased bleeding, the wolf answered bluntly. Do not mistake that for death.

The Moon Door is made of Weirwood, Ned remembered. The Weirwood Throne of the Arryn kings. A corner of his waking dream spun into the High Hall of the Eyrie from on top of the dais, looking down to the carved wooden doors, then it melted away.

You are the most peculiar greenseer we have ever seen. The direwolf sounded almost disturbed and confused . The golden eyed stare was a heavy weight as Ned sharply turned his head towards it, astonished.

Greenseers were legends.

They are servants. The wolf said dismissively. You will be made great or we will discard you and find another.

Ned stiffened, but he met its stare. He refused to balk at the old god's cold words. He was a Stark. His way was the Old Way and it was bleak and brutal. In the North, when winters ran long, the whitebeards would leave their families to ‘go hunting’ so they would have one less mouth to feed. He will not be a millstone around anyone’s neck.

Eddard Stark would be great, or he will die trying.

His vision twisted again. A desperate, sad family with a red star or sun sigil pierced by a golden arrow or spear was combing a deep and wide river for the daughter it took and would not give back. They could not see into the water, but for that singular moment, Ned could.

She was not drowning.

The wolf chuffed and its tail thumped the stone. Then a pact we must forge between us, by bronze and stone, sea and sky.

Ice and fire, Ned completed the phrase.

All is not lost if that yet remains, the wolf yipped, pleased as fleeting images of past and present spun around them both. The silver brought destruction and salvation both. It sniffed contemptuously as it circled on the stone floor of the Great Hall and lay down. We shall not thank it.

The silver?

It is truth and lies in the same being. Past and future inhabit the same space, the same word, the same thought, the wolf explained. Unraveling the symphony into a song of its own making until all doors are open and shut, the observers and the observed one and the same.

I don’t understand, Ned pleaded helplessly, but the wolf closed its eyes.

You will.

“Ned?”

“I am well, Lord Elbert,” he replied softly.

Since the wolf, Eddard Stark dreamed while awake.

Robert Baratheon dreamed of the storm.

If you wanted to be poetic.

If you asked him, he was dreaming of his many times great grandmother who happened to be a f*cking c*nt.

“What was that, boy?”

“f*ck you!”

Robert sputtered as a wave of sea water crashed over him and his small boat. He lunged for the other side, throwing his weight against it to keep it from rolling over and spilling him into the turbulent dark sea. Lightning lit up the iron bellied clouds boiling furiously above him constantly, followed by claps of thunder. Every time the lightning flashed, he was able to see to the far horizon where the silhouettes of mythical giant sea dragons reared up from the water, chased by the thick, grasping tendrils of what could only be a legendary kraken.

He heaved as the boat steadied, sailing over the swell of a large wave. The shadow of some large creature passing underneath and a small wave splashed over the side to slap his face.

“I am saving your life!”

“No, you’re not!” Robert screamed back into the storm. He shoved his coal black hair out of his eyes, lamenting putting off trimming it until it was too late. He flung out a hand at the endless, troubled ocean and cloud covered sky. “I’m going to die out here!”

“Do you want to?”

“No!”

“Then don’t!” The wind howled back.

Robert rode through another tall wave that broke and crashed over him, forcing him to bail water out by his cupped hands as he coughed out sea water.

“Why me!” He called out.

“Too young! Too rigid! Too old and set in his ways!” The wild laughter of the wind gleefully echoed through the clouds as Robert hung on to his boat for dear life through the waves. He had to beg the crazy bint for it. He’d be dead already if he had to swim. “Am I to let the flame have you?”

As if summoned by her words, a great gout of fire seared across the sky. It split the clouds in twain and the sky beyond it, flipped upside down as if Robert was peering into a mirror was a twisted boneyard of fire.

It was an image straight out of the Seven Hells.

Live volcanoes spewed glowing rock, ash and smoke down at him, molten rivers crisscrossed over blackened, barren land as great ribs and fingers and teeth of bone reached for him and Robert shrunk back from it with a squawk of fear.

The clouds swiftly returned to their place.

“You are mine,” the wind growled as thunder. “My daughter’s last disappointment!”

“And you wonder why she ran off to Durran Godsgrief!? ” Robert’s smart mouth blurted out and the wind snarled. There was a snap! And the ropes holding the pitiful sail of his small boat steady waved free. “f*ck!”

He lunged for the nearest rope before the sail itself flew away, hissing as the wet fiber rubbed his palms raw.

“The storm is approaching, blood of my blood!”

Stomach sinking, Robert looked up and saw the small prow of his pathetic boat was headed right for a dark curtain of rain, the clouds almost black and hanging low as arcs of lightning swept down into the water as great waves the size of castles rose up. He swore as he wrapped the rope around his forearm and clung to the thin mast.

“Sail through it!”

“You cannot be serious!”

The wind laughed.

“You broke my f*cking sail!” Robert raged as his boat sailed over a wave and was briefly airborne. When it plunged back down into the sea, water splashed up on either side. “I’ll die!”

“Yours is the fury,” the wind mocked him, cruel. “Withstand and you will be acknowledged as my son, my legacy.”

“I don’t want to be your f*cking son!” Robert bellowed. He had parents! A kind mother! A proud father! By the gods, he had two brothers now! He had Jon and Elbert and Ned! “I want to go home!”

“What does the wind or sea care for your wants?” Was the sneering reply. “Live or die, your choice.”

“That’s no choice!” Robert choked out, gripping the wood until his knuckles turned white. He was drenched to the bone, freezing and feverish at the same time as the storm closed in. The waves were huge, two, three men high and vicious.

He was - he was tired.

It felt like he’d been at sea for years. Every inch of him trembled with exhaustion, fear, desperation and rage keeping him awake. If he fell asleep, would he wake for true? Or would it be his end?

This - this had to be the last of it.

It had to be.

The wind spoke again, for the last time before he passed completely into the howling. It sounded almost gentle, soft enough to nearly drown in the clashing of the rain and waves. It sounded as tired as he and a small - tiny, really almost non-existent frisson of pity worked its way into his heart.

“Life or death is the only choice that matters,” his grandmother murmured.

Robert wisely didn’t reply.

He just held on tight through the storm.

Chapter 3: The Wall II

Chapter Text

Arthur Dayne took the large wooden bucket of snow from the apothecary owner’s comely daughter and thanked her with a confident, appreciative charming smile -

Wait, sh*t, f*ck no -

He dropped the smile quickly, but it was too late. The girl had already dropped into an atrocious half-curtsy, face flushing with a mumbled, “Yer grace” before she turned and escaped with a hopeful bounce to her step. His fellow Kingsguard Oswell Whent sidestepped to let her pass through the tunnel with a polite nod of his head to her and mockingly raised eyebrows to him.

“I do not want to hear it,” Arthur hissed, reluctantly stepping back from the door so Oswell could enter the room.

“Are you giving the good people of Mole’s Town false impressions of our prince?” As usual, Oswell ignored him with a mean smirk, kicking the door behind them closed with a snow covered armored boot. “As a tall, silver haired - “

“Ashen.”

“Purple eyed, lusty - “

Arthur rolled his eyes skyward and headed deeper into the warren-like structure.

“Dornishman!” Oswell called out behind him.

The structure of Mole’s Town fascinated Arthur. It reminded him of Planky Town by Sunspear, in the strange way that only seeing a complete and exact opposite of the familiar did. The trading town was built of barges and poleboats and merchant ships lashed together with hempen ropes, planks of wood were used instead of streets and the entire structure floated upon the mouth of the Greenblood river where it spilled into the Narrow Sea.

Mole’s Town was largely built underground. The dark, warm tunnels between cellars and vaults served as the streets lit with moss and bark lamps smoldering behind treated wooden cups, turned upside down and slitted to let the light and smoke out. Smaller tunnels had been dug up to the surface at regular intervals to draw the smoke out. The ceilings were low and every inch supported by wooden rafters and pillars with a persistent damp, earthy smell but it protected the smallfolk well from the cold.

This far up North, they’ve been told that there were days a man could spit and it would freeze before hitting the ground. Arthur believed every word of it.

“If you would kindly cease breaking smallfolk hearts in the prince’s name - “

“I smiled!” Arthur snapped defensively as he reached the main common room of the ‘tavern,’ a round den that branched into shallow tunnels to the ‘rooms.’ “I am allowed to smile.”

“Not like that you aren’t,” Oswell snorted.

“There is nothing amiss with the way I smile,” Arthur insisted, just to be stubborn.

It had been two years since the tournament in Lannisport for Prince Viserys and he still forgot about the white cloak. It wasn’t his fault. Rhaegar did his best to ensure little changed from the days when he was just the prince’s companion.

“I have a charming smile. Rhaegar has a charming smile.” Oswell raised skeptical eyebrows. “He can smile.” Arthur set the bucket of snow onto the tavern table with a loud thud and brightly asked, “Can’t you, my prince?”

Rhaegar Targaryen glared at the small lit candlestick on the table before him like it had raised its banners in rebellion.

Oswell raised his eyebrows even higher.

Oh, so that’s how it is. Arthur scooped a handful of snow out of the bucket and dumped it down the back of the prince’s coarse shirt.

The reaction was immediate.

Rhaegar yelped like a kicked pup, hands flying to his back as he jumped out of his seat away from Arthur like he was dodging an assassin’s blade, tripped on his travel bag - “ WAGHGH! ” And both Kingsguard silently watched as the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms flailed in a drunken pirouette trying to regain his lost balance, hit another stool, and fell ass first into the lit hearth with a puff of sparks and ash.

Arthur giggled.

Oswell looked at him. “How have you not been executed yet?”

“I almost had it!” Rhaegar roared as he leapt to his feet and angrily brushed the remaining hot coals off of him.

“Had what?” Oswell asked.

“No, you did not,” Arthur said and Rhaegar harrumphed, glaring past him with offense written in every line of his body.

Wordlessly, Arthur retrieved another handful of snow and dropped it on top of the prince’s ash covered silver-gilt head. It melted instantly with the hiss of steam, small streams of water drying even as they ran down his face so only a few drops even reached his chin leaving gray trails. Arthur silently repeated the process and raised expectant eyebrows when Rhaegar finally dragged his dark purple eyes to his own violet.

Rhaegar slumped.

“No,” the prince admitted miserably. “I did not. You?”

Arthur grimaced.

“Are you two ever going to tell me what the seven hells you’re up to?” Oswell spoke up grumpily. “Are we Red priests now, staring at flames?”

As the only one actually dressed like a Kingsguard, the youngest Whent crossing his arms with a scowl on his face and dark eyes narrowed was a proud figure in his all white armor made of enameled scales, silver fastenings and white cloak. The bat helm was a little silly looking, but Arthur could forgive Oswell for his lack of taste.

He was a Riverlander, after all.

Arthur glanced at Rhaegar, a silent question in his eyes. Oswell had joined them at the king’s command right before they left Dragonstone. If Arthur felt like being charitable, he would say the second Kingsguard was an assurance for the king that his son and heir would be safe and not that Oswell Whent was a spy in white armor.

Arthur rarely felt like being charitable to the king.

Rhaegar pinched out the candle on the table with a despondent sigh. “If Father’s new Master of Whispers has not found out and reported already…”

Oswell’s eyes became slits as he dropped his arms to his sides, in easy reach of the sword belted at his hip and shifting his weight in preparation for an attack.

“It is not what you are thinking,” Arthur said, deliberately remaining still. “It is about the esoteric, not the political.” It was indirectly political, but then everything involving the prince was.

Oswell slowly relaxed as his gaze traveled from Arthur to Rhaegar and then to the candle still letting out a tiny wisp of smoke. “Does it have… anything to do with why the prince spontaneously bursts into flame?”

“Yes,” Arthur and Rhaegar said.

“Unrelated to this… dragon we are searching this town for?” Oswell said like he believed not a single word of it.

Arthur Dayne of a year past would have agreed with the sentiment. Dragons were long gone. The Arthur Dayne of now was ready to believe almost anything.

“Entirely unrelated,” Rhaegar said firmly as his collar started smoldering.

“Completely,” Arthur agreed, motioning towards his own neck and the prince looked down.

Oswell narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

Rhaegar shoved his head into the bucket of snow.

“I am attempting to help him control it,” Arthur finally threw his fellow Kingsguard a bone.

“You?” Oswell snorted.

Me.

Arthur stretched out his hands and it was the work of a moment to recall the exact weight and feel of Dawn’s hilt in his hands. The way light played off the milky white blade forged from the heart of a fallen star and the simple steel detailing of its crossguard, the black leather of its hilt and the star of its pommel. He had stared at her in its scabbard for numerous nights as a boy. He had dreamed of wielding her. He had trained with her for years since earning his spurs. Killed with her. Sweat and bled with her. Until he no longer even noticed the way she balanced, how long the blade, how heavy the metal. He will die with her and he will never again use another weapon. He knew this blade by heart and his heart twinged.

The ancestral greatsword of house Dayne simply appeared in the palm of Arthur Dayne’s hands.

Whent’s eyes near fell right out of his skull.

“How?” The knight’s voice was strangled. Arthur felt mildly offended and he was not certain if all the offense was his own.

The dragonlord is on fire and no one bats an eye, but gods forbid the Dayne has a magic sword.

Dawn had been with his family before the Valyrian Freehold even rose in the first place!

“I haven’t the faintest,” Arthur said blandly.

Arthur Dayne had given Dawn’s awakening after what everyone was calling the night the Stars Fell not a second thought. Of course she would. Why would it be any other way? After ten thousand years, the miracle that had first seen the star delivered to the Torrentine kings of house Dayne had come again.

Like calls to like.

Then five days later, a raven arrived from Maester Aemon Targaryen at the Wall about a dragon , Rhaegar nearly burned down Dragonstone in his sleep, two Kingsguard, a prince and a lordly heir could swear they saw a sea dragon surfacing on the horizon and Arthur was forced to concede that there might be something else to it.

It did not matter what it was.

He was the Sword of the Morning. Dawn belonged to him and he to her.

The sword purred as a gentle, rumbling sensation in his chest.

“Dawn is also why I can no longer wear my armor,” Arthur announced.

Ser Oswell Whent, the Bat of Harrenhall seemed as though he would rather walk off a short pier and drown than to ask, “What does the sword have to do with you not wearing armor?”

“She is a very prideful lady.” Arthur then frowned. “You were there for that argument.”

Oswell’s eyes bulged incredulously.

“ I was - you cannot mean -“ Whent struggled with the words. “There was no argument,” he said slowly, as if talking to a dim witted child. “You stared at the sword, yelled and then said it bit you.”

And it had f*cking hurt.

Arthur had tried to convince the blade that armor was important. Dawn was of the (biting) opinion that the Sword of the Morning was a f*cking craven who needed to stop his whinging and start not getting struck.

The mail shirt and gambeson he was wearing under the unfortunate black surcoat decorated with the Targaryen red three headed dragon was a compromise.

“I was communing with the blade.”

“You were just staring at it - “

“What did you think I was doing?” Arthur had to know. “Some odd Dornish custom?”

“I thought you were trying to avoid being seasick!”

Rhaegar straightened his back, taking the bucket with him. With a loud hissing noise the rest of the cold water was dumped all over himself and the cheap black clothing they had bought from Eastwatch-by-the Sea so the prince wouldn’t have to leave the boat looking like a drowned rat.

Or buck naked.

By the time Arthur and Dawn had their spat and he realized that wearing his customary Kingsguard armor into battle was just going to get him, and by extension Rhaegar, killed they were already a sennight out from Dragonstone on open water. Deprived of his customary armor, Arthur had suddenly gained a mighty need for regular clothing so he wouldn’t freeze to death in the North and the heir to Driftmark, Monford Velaryon had gained an almost violent preference for Rhaegar to wear as few dry clothes as possible.

So that his ship wouldn’t catch fire and they all drown.

Arthur Dayne liked living.

Luckily for the Kingsguard, so did Rhaegar.

At any other time, Arthur would have said that forcing the prince of the realm to sleep in a puddle of seawater on the top deck was undignified and likely some form of treason.

However, Rhaegar was still setting his sheets on fire like a boy wetting the bed.

It had been just hours and his clothes were already burned through with several holes making him look more beggar than black brother. Arthur was almost getting used to being called ‘Your Grace’ over the prince in his borrowed clothes. Said prince sighed in relief as he steamed, standing there for a few moments more with the bucket over his head.

“Any other questions?” Arthur confidently swung the too-light Dawn over his shoulder…

…and it sheared right through the ceiling rafters like a hot knife through butter, showering both him and Rhaegar in wood chips and dust. The greatsword’s amusem*nt pulsed in his chest as Rhaegar peeled the bucket off and patted out the fires that ignited on him. Arthur knew exactly how long the blade was, thank you.

That did not mean he remembered how low the rafters were.

Oswell Whent palmed his face.

“Madness,” he mumbled, despairing. “Utter. Madness.”

“That may be so,” Rhaegar said with a clipped tone. Since the Defiance of Duskendale, the word ‘madness’ has taken on a new meaning for the prince. “But it cannot be denied. Swim with the tide or drown in it.”

Arthur nodded appreciatively. “Well said.”

Oswell’s face twisted, but he said nothing.

“Now, did you have any news, ser?” Rhaegar asked as he checked his shirt for any missed embers.

“Mere rumors.” Oswell snorted as he dragged his hand over his round face. “The dragon is white, it's silver, it glows, it’s transparent, it's living, it's carved from ice…” He waved a hand as if swatting away a buzzing fly. “If it were not for the fact that most believe the beast exists I would have thought us chasing tales.”

“Odd,” Rhaegar said slowly, frowning. “The Lord Commander gave the impression that it visited Mole’s Town regularly.”

“For what?” Oswell asked. “Kill livestock that hasn’t already been slaughtered for winter? Which is none. Terrorize the clearly unafraid smallfolk? Burn down - “

“It is an ice dragon,” Arthur said.

“Oh shove off with that.” Oswell rolled his eyes. “There’s a flying beast to be sure, but I would bet ten gold dragons on it being some thought gone large white bird of the North.”

“Maester Aemon believes it a dragon and he is of my blood, my house,” Rhaegar spoke firmly. “We have had correspondence before this discussing our history. If he says it is a dragon, then it is a dragon.”

“The Watch did strike me as perhaps too circ*mspect regarding its whereabouts,” Arthur noted grimly. And he much misliked the grin he had seen on the First Ranger Brenn Flint’s face. “If the beast has recovered enough to fly, yet is unchained, why does it remain?”

“You think it bonded?” Rhaegar’s eyebrows rose. “To whom?”

“It is obvious enough that the brothel here is frequented by black brothers.” Arthur didn’t even have to guess from the conspicuously empty tavern they were occupying either and its surely very, very busy tavern keeper. He knew men and he had eyes. “Just as there are dragonseeds on Dragonstone, Targaryen blood has made its way to the Wall.”

Rhaegar started. “Uncle Aemon would never - “

“The Great Bastard of Aegon the Unworthy, Bryden Rivers,” Oswell said flatly. “He was sent to the Wall for kinslaying and breaking guest right, what is oathbreaking and desertion to that?”

“And any other house that has received marriages. The current Lord Commander is of a house that has received a Martell daughter after the unification,” Arthur recalled and Rhaegar’s expression darkened.

“I see.” The prince’s voice was as iron. “I believe I am owed more thorough answers from Desmond Qorgyle. If it is duplicity, the Watch may resist.”

“My place is at your side, my prince,” Arthur said. He had seen the quality of their fighters and their arms. It made no difference if Arthur had to raise Dawn against one man, or hundreds in nothing but a mail shirt. It was not arrogance.

“As is mine,” Oswell Whent said sharply.

“Then we go now,” Rhaegar ordered.

For the Sword of the Morning, one man or hundreds would make no difference.

Unfortunately, a dragon was no man.

A prince and two Kingsguard came across a dancing woman on the way to the Wall.

Arthur was aware that sounded like the beginning to some bawdy jape and the way Rhaegar near twisted his head off taking a second look as his horse rode past did nothing to help. Arthur was also a hypocrite, as he had done the exact same thing.

Mostly in surprise.

His younger sister Ashara was nearing six and ten and was already being hailed as one of the greatest beauties of the realm. It was a title Arthur felt was wholly deserved and here, at the ass end of the world at the Wall was a competing smallfolk woman in rough clothes doing who knows what in the snow. Arthur had blinked once to be certain he was not seeing things, then she was falling behind them and he was not about to stare after a woman like some green boy whose balls just dropped.

He thought that was the end of it, until Rhaegar slowed his borrowed mount to a brisk canter, then a trot and then a complete stop in the middle of the narrow beaten path through the piles of snow that on occasion nearly surpassed his height on a horse.

“My prince?” Arthur stopped beside his horse beside him.

The prince’s face was set in an expression of grim realization as he wrestled with his restless horse. “Her hair was silver.”

“What - “ Arthur stopped.

The blood of Old Valyria was infamous for their silver-gold locks. Some, like Jaehaerys the Conciliator, had hair mostly of gold shot through with silver. Rhaegar himself took after his mother Rhaella in being silver-gilt with his much younger brother Viserys being more of an even mix like his father.It could be a coincidence. There were many across the Narrow Sea with the look and Eastwatch-by-the-sea traded with Braavos. His arrogant cousin Gerold Dayne had hair of silver with a dragon streak of black in the center and Arthur’s own ashen blond could be mistaken in the right light.

The dragon made coincidences unlikely.

Dragonseed .

Rhaegar slid off his horse and the animal steadied once his heat was no longer upon it. “We are not too far from the Wall and the snow is deep. They will not wander far,” the prince murmured. “If we are mistaken, we can be on our way. If the dragon is at her command…”

Being thrown off their horses was the least of their worries.

Oswell’s face was twisted up like a man struggling on the privy, but he got off his horse as well.

Their grim procession had a minor setback when Rhaegar caught fire again and had to throw himself into a snowbank to save his breeches, but they returned to the peculiarity soon enough.

And she was a peculiarity.

Oswell was draped in furs over his armor and Arthur was no different. The winter winds this far north were cutting. He had to check once or twice since undocking at the Wall that the cold sting he felt wasn’t an actual bleeding wound on his face. He did not want to imagine what the North felt like if Rhaegar hadn’t been radiating heat like a blacksmith’s forge.

The dragonseed woman did not seem to be properly appreciating the truth that it was f*cking cold.

She was also, as he noticed before, dancing.

With carefully performed twirls and everything.

“The woman’s mad,” Oswell muttered.

His prince stepped forward. “I am Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and I would speak with you, good woman.”

The response was a raised hand in the clear ‘hold’ gesture as she turned, looking down and clearly focused on the placement of her feet and Oswell bristled.

“And disrespectful - Arthur!” Oswell bumped into the outstretched arm stopping the Kingsguard from taking the matter in hand.

“Dawn is scared,” Arthur murmured, eyes narrowed.

“...your sword.”

The Kingsroad from the Wall straight through the heart of the North was covered in snow save for the narrow beaten path two horses wide. There was nothing else around them for miles and yet Arthur’s chest was tight with a borrowed tension, as if an ambush lied in wait beneath the snow.

“Yes, my sword,” Arthur said sharply. “Be on your guard.”

Dawn was terrified.

“That is a full step inner placement, not a half step,” Rhaegar tried again and the woman paused, having clearly heard him.

She reversed her movements and then ran through the steps, clearly applying the prince’s correction. Arthur realized he knew the dance from court, as strange as it was watching it performed without a partner, but she held her arms up as if there was one. She ran through the same sequence thrice more with unsettling precision before moving on. Rhaegar called out two more corrections, seemingly happy to play along.

Arthur stood at his side with his heart in his throat, not understanding as a rope in his chest wound tighter and tighter.

The dance completed, the woman’s arms dropped and she turned to face them. Up close, the woman certainly looked the part of a dragonlord, reminding him greatly of Rhaella Targaryen when he had first come to court over ten years ago. A striking, ageless beautiful figure that could get away with wearing a flour bag and still look a queen and she almost actually was in a flour bag with a coarse loose brown shirt, men’s trousers and boots. The only luxury was the fur of a white fox about her collar and shirt seam where it closed in the front.

Her deep, dark eyes of blue or purple reminded Arthur of Rhaella Targaryen currently.

Sad.

Arthur will only admit under duress that he had been anticipating the dragon to then come swooping down from the clouds on the attack and that was the reason he jumped near clean out of his boots when she simply said,

“Thank you, your grace.”

Arthur saw the questioning, amused look Rhaegar directed at him and he was determined to ignore it.

“You are very welcome,” the prince replied politely. Rhaegar put on a charming smile - see, Oswell! The Bat rolled his eyes upwards. “May I have your name?”

“You may,” she said with a nod. Oswell bristled again at the slight imperious tone in her throaty voice. Arthur might have as well, if the woman’s mere existence wasn’t still scaring Dawn half to death. “I am Terendelev.”

What kind of name is that?

Rhaegar leaned forward, lighting up the same way he always did around a new book or scroll. “As in Xorandelev or Teretharon of Valyria?”

A Valyrian one. That explains it.

“Your kinsman on the Wall made the same connection,” she replied with an admittedly fetching smile revealing straight white teeth. That was when Arthur realized the complete lack of the Northern burr. She had a highborn Crownlands accent. “It is my name and I know no other.”

“You were named after dragons, ” Rhaegar mused and Arthur almost groaned. If Rhaegar was letting his curiosity override his sense, then he was at least a little smitten already and it always happened at the worst f*cking times.

The prince’s words were followed by Terendelev’s charming light laugh.

“Of course I was.” Her eyes danced with mirth. “For I am one.”

“No - I meant, the - dragons that breathe fire - of the Freehold…” Rhaegar stumbled through, flustered and Arthur felt no pity. The only Dayne he knew that went around calling themselves a star was his idiot cousin. Why various noble houses of the realm put on airs like they really were lions, birds or dragons in human form was beyond him.

“Not members of my house…acknowledged or… otherwise - “

“Elegantly done,” Arthur muttered under his breath and Rhaegar glared at him.

Terendelev nodded in return. “I am aware, yet I am still a dragon.”

All three of them blinked in unison.

“I beg your pardon?” Rhaegar blurted out.

She tilted her head to the side in an oddly avian gesture. “I am a dragon.”

The words did not make any more sense the second time.

“Rrrrraagh! Why are we entertaining this nonsense!?” Oswell was just about vibrating out of his armor as he stomped forward, hand on the hilt of his sword and for a moment, the look in the woman’s eyes seemed as though she was ready to eat him. “My prince! This is clearly just a madwoman - “

It happened so quickly.

Her eyes lit up with a silver glow as she threw her head back and then Arthur was blinded by a radiant flash. A shockwave of rushing wind and cold blew him clear off his feet as if he’d been kicked by a mule. It felt like he had been when he finally landed in deep snow, wheezing and had to scramble to his feet, calling for Dawn out of its scabbard and then freezing as the shadow fell over them.

The dragon was before them.

The image burned itself into Arthur’s mind. It was silver and gleaming, horned head and broad wings reaching for the cloudless blue sky, the bleeding star high above them, as tall as the Palestone Sword tower of Starfall. There was a moment of quiet nothing, still, and then the upper body fell back to the earth with a weight he could feel rumble through the ground beneath his feet and thud in his chest and ears. Its breathing sounded like the great gusts of giant bellows with a bird-like clicking as its head twisted sinuously on the serpentine neck so it could lean closer, so that the molten silver reptile eye was directly facing them. Arthur could see the reflections of himself half-standing with Dawn in one hand, Rhaegar on all fours staring and sprawled out on his ass Oswell in the dark pupil.

“I AM -“ was a booming sound from the beast’s mouth to Arthur’s pure shock. There was a grinding sound like ice floes crashing into each other. The beast’s shoulders were hitching and he realized with horror that it was laughing. “ - A MAD DRAGON.”

Vapor glittering with ice shards puffed out of nostrils bigger than his head.

“My apologies, your grace,” Arthur’s mouth said reflexively. “Forgive us, your grace.”

f*ck, sh*t, damn it to the Seven Hells -

There was another painful clashing rumble of icy laughter. There were flashes of teeth the length of longswords in its mouth. Arthur grimly raised Dawn, preparing himself to buy the prince time to flee when the dragon’s head retreated.

“APOLOGY… “ Arthur’s heart stopped. The beast seemed to grin. “ACCEPTED.”

It raised its mighty wings and Arthur was knocked over once more by the powerful gust of wind it generated as it launched itself into the air. He hastened to stand, but there was no need for his sword, for it was retreating towards the Wall. The weak sun flashed off its scales bright enough to hurt. He lowered Dawn and he was not certain if the relief making his hands tremble was from him, or her.

“My prince, are you well?” There was no response and Arthur sharply turned, stricken. “Rhaegar?”

His friend was staring after the creature, even as it disappeared over the ice edge of Brandon the Builder’s great accomplishment. He did not move, still as a statue.

“She was a dragon,” Rhaegar breathed. His dark purple eyes shone with absolute wonder. And a lot of other emotions that Arthur was not prepared to think about right now. If the hopelessly giddy smile the prince had on meant what Arthur thought it meant, the realm was very fortunate that Jon Connington could not, in fact, turn into a dragon for his ‘silver prince.’

Arthur thought about pointing out they had almost just died, but knew it wouldn’t change anything.

You could not have told me we were talking to a dragon?

Dawn felt indignant.

She was right.

Arthur still did not believe that had just happened. It felt like he had just woken from a dream.

“...are we going after it?”

Rhaegar startled as if stung. “Yes!”

Arthur nodded. “A moment then, my prince,” he said as Rhaegar got to his feet, looking ready to sprout wings himself. “Ser Whent still needs to recover as I believe he just pissed himself.”

“I - f*ck you, I - I did not - “

“You also owe us both ten gold dragons.”

Desmond Qorgyle looked much like Arthur remembered, but older, thinner, harder. Grey was streaking back from his temples among his dark hair and there were shadows under his dark eyes. The black was present, but the red of his house was completely missing. The only thing left he could see was the man still wore a blackened steel scorpion pendant. He idly wondered if the man remembered the boy Arthur had been back, or if the only person standing in his solar before him with the prince was the Sword of the Morning.

After a long moment, Lord Commander Qorgyle lowered the parchment in his hands. “And the Iron Throne is willing to honor this?”

“Dragonstone is,” Rhaegar replied evenly. “And I am its lord.”

Arthur curled his toes and relaxed them as he stood silently behind the prince’s right shoulder. The admission that Rhaegar was purposefully omitting his father from the deal tasted stale, but Arthur was convinced of its necessity. The Night’s Watch was neutral, to be sure.

Arthur was also certain it would be prudent not to test that neutrality.

“Why?” Qorgyle asked with calm, calculating eyes. “I assume it has proven unable to be claimed and ridden - “ Arthur snorted. “As the old Targaryen mounts,” Qorglye finished dryly with resigned amusem*nt. “Boy, I have heard every ribald jest and jape in history about riding dragons by now and so has it.”

That sounded ominous. “And the Wall still stands?”

“You know, I tried to have it poisoned?” The man admitted, bold as brass. “It marched in here with the cup and just stared at me, slowly pouring it out on my floor until I nearly pissed myself. Then it laughed.” The Lord Commander’s look was one of long suffering. “It has a cruel sense of humor.”

Yes, it does.

“And don’t get me started on the whor*s - “

The what now?

“Be that as it may,” Rhaegar interrupted stiffly with reddened ears. “The knowledge of her existence and general location alone is worth the price and I am willing to pay it.”

Arthur had argued against it as soon as the belated attack of nerves had passed. Rhaegar seemed to believe that it would be some slight on his honor not to pay the Watch the full price, even as Arthur argued there was no guarantee he would succeed in earning the beast’s loyalty at all now and the prince would be far better served putting the wealth of his seat towards more certain ventures. His kinsman Maester Aemon could keep him informed and make overtures on his behalf. He could not afford to empty his pockets like this, not now when he had barely just begun to prepare for his father’s removal from the throne.

His words fell on deaf ears.

Rhaegar had left Dragonstone with two Kingsguard and a young heir’s ship. No other guards, staff or even more ships to ward against the pirates known to prowl the Narrow Seas for goods or slaves. Winter storms on the sea were known to be harsh and frequent. He seemed convinced that they would arrive at the Wall before the bleeding star finally fell from the sky and that it would be the start of…

Something.

They had arrived after being at sea for a moon, safely, as he foretold, and it was clear that there was a change in the world. The dragon had been found. It still left Arthur uneasy.

Qorgyle gazed at the prince for a moment more and then shrugged. “It is your coin to part with.” He rolled the parchment up detailing the permission for release of funds and placed it aside. “It intends to travel into the far North soon,” he said. “Don’t say a f*cking word to my First Ranger and it likes reading. Now get out before you set my drapes on fire.”

Rhaegar inclined his head politely in contrast to the rude dismissal.

Oswell relaxed from his guard position by the door and fell into step at the prince’s other side as they traveled down the floors of the Lord Commander’s Tower. As far as Arthur could tell, it was much like the White Sword Tower of the Kingsguard. The top two floors were reserved for the Lord Commander of the order, but the rest of the tower served as living spaces for other members including a common room and undercroft.

Rhaegar waved down a black brother. “Would you be able to direct me to the library, ser?”

The thin boy bobbed his head rapidly, the way Arthur had known some lizards in Dorne to do. His eyes swung between the two of them in confusion until Arthur discretely jabbed his thumb at Rhaegar. “Yesser, yer Grace. In th’ tunnels.”

Rhaegar was an avid reader, but Arthur knew the last thing on his mind were some dusty scrolls.

Oswell made a face as they descended into the undercellars of the tower. “Is everything under ground?”

“You like snow?” Their guide said bluntly.

“How deep does it get?” Rhaegar asked in polite interest.

“Eight - ten men high.”

Forty f*cking feet! ?

All three of them blanched.

“We are not staying,” Oswell pleaded.

Rhaegar grimaced and Arthur knew the answer.

If the dragon went beyond the Wall, the prince was going after it.

Which meant Arthur was going after it.

Dawn felt…apprehensive about the notion, but her reasons escaped him. Arthur would not liken the mind that brushed his own, or the heart that beat in tandem to belong to a child. The blade had senses and sensations of her own. He had felt her curiosity about the North, so very different from the open sea or the dark, hard beauty of the volcanic island of Dragonstone.

Ignorant, yes, but not innocent.

The great sword of house Dayne had ten thousand years of history. He could feel it as a deep still pool of water. The depth of his understanding was tapping the surface and watching the ripples spread.

Few locations or artifacts could match Dawn’s history.

The Wall came close.

Arthur pursed his lips thoughtfully. The dragon scared her, that was plain to see. The dragon came from the far North and it intended to go back. Dawn did not want to follow it. What was up there?

And you called me craven.

Instead of indignation, Dawn’s response to the tease was a pulse of dark amusem*nt. Arthur was not sure if there was a worse reply he could have gotten.

“Here’un.” The young black brother gestured towards thick, heavy looking vault doors that were cracked open. “Library.”

“Thank you, ser.” Rhaegar’s eyes flashed to him and Arthur fished out a silver stag from the prince’s coin purse for the boy, who flushed in gratitude.

“Thank youser, grace.” The boy bowed and rushed off, clutching his stag to his chest.

Arthur watched despondently as Rhaegar hesitated, took a step forward, then fell back, puffed out his chest, deflated, ran a hand through his hair, put out some embers on his elbow and then frowned down at the rest of his tattered clothes as if just realizing what he was wearing.

“...it’s a library?” Oswell spoke up, watching their prince with blatant confusion. “My prince, we can fetch and read the requested material for you…?”

“It might not even be in there, your grace,” Arthur hoped.

“It?” Oswell asked. The older knight’s head swiveled between Arthur’s grimace and Rhaegar’s embarrassed glower. Then his round face went blank and Arthur knew he had finally caught on.

“No.”

He sounded horrified.

“Have a care not to command me, ser,” Rhaegar said in that clipped tone and Oswell winced.

“My prince, I simply fear you are getting ahead of yourself,” his fellow Kingsguard tried. “What do we really know about the creature? You cannot mean to present it to court like a lady - “

“Why not?” Rhaegar interrupted.

Arthur would say ‘dragon’ but that was precisely the problem.

“She sounds as one. Looks as one.” And how. Arthur still thought it was a bad idea, but he was also not blind. “She is - “ Rhaegar huffed in confused amusem*nt. “Plainly making the effort to learn courtly dances.”

I haven’t the faintest about that one either.

Oswell Whent’s mouth worked for a moment. It was clear the Riverlander had never anticipated having to actually argue with his prince against courting an animal. Jest’s on him, Valyrians simply did not think like normal people.

“It is a convincing guise, your grace,” Oswell croaked in a strangled voice. “However, children do not hatch from eggs.”

Rhaegar’s mouth opened and then he closed it, pausing. A thoughtful frown overtook his face, furrowing his brow deeply.

“You are correct, ser.” He spoke after some deep thought. “If she is not capable of bearing me children, then the point is moot.”

Arthur felt an overwhelming flood of relief that lasted just as long as it took for the prince to nod to himself with a renewed sense of determination.

“I will ask.”

Then Rhaegar turned on his heel and strode towards the vault doors leading into the library.

Arthur stood there. He slowly slid his gaze to the left to look at Oswell. Whent’s mud-brown eyes moved right to meet his in a silent moment of mutually bewildered, did he just - ?

Damn, sh*t, f*ck no -

“Prince Rhaegar, wait!”

Chapter 4: The Wall III

Chapter Text

The dungeon-like library sparks an ember ofwantfor her own collection, hoarded away in similar rooms. It even smells similar. If she wanted a book published by the industry that had sprung up around the ‘printing press,’ then she could visit a library. Her books were old. Misshapen leather, poor glue, the pungent smell of tannic acid, ink, mold, parchment…She looks at the old, broken and occasionally crumbling books and scrolls of Castle Black stuffed from floor to ceiling into every rack and shelf, and at times, barrels and sees the had been instead. Maps of every kingdom and country on the continent of Avistan. Treatises, almanacs and encyclopedias from every scholar she knew of. Scrolls and wands of magic she had no intention of ever using - I am the magic -but they had been comforting to own, all the same.

She prefers not to think of the utterly -infuriating-predicament that was adragonthat ispoorand she likes to think of her missing armory evenless.

It is her banners that she misses the most.

Colorful, proud heraldry on breastplates, shields, tabards and surcoats and tall banners still on their poles had been the pride and joy of her collection -and it is all gone.

She knows Lord Commander Desmond Qorgyle believes she is staying at the Wall to make him squirm.

That is not the reason -that is a bonus.

The truth of the matter is that the Wall isperfect-lair lair lair lair!Spoiled for choice of a half dozen abandoned keeps under the purview of an order that kills oathbreakers with a mission statement she approves of?

Where it is coldyear round?

What more could a Silver dragon ask for?

She had settled on the Nightfort after two weeks of deliberation for the low hum of ambient magic. It kept the snow off her head, the wind off her scales, gave her hands and magic tasks to do fixing it up -and gave insight as to my enemies.

The only way it could be better was if the Night’s Watch had a sigil.

The disappointment had stung. It still does. Theirs was a noble cause with a noble oath. To be given nothing in return but black clothes and disregard isgallingand it just made the longing for her banners even worse.

She is embarrassingly stilltempted to fly to every keep in the Seven Kingdoms to demand tribute -on the Watch’s behalf.

Mostly on the Watch's behalf.

A chest of silver moons or stags and a shield or cloth emblazoned with their house sigil - as proof of receipt!Any overpayment of coin will be donated to the Watch and there will be an excess. She has muchto say about the alterations this planet had put her body through -murdering drakes is now a mission of mercy, putting them out of their four limbedmisery-but she can admit she is more physically intimidating. She will not miss any of their other coins or colored jewels. Their ‘gold dragons’ are charmingly named, but silver shines.

Of course, she asked several black brothers if such a price could becomfortablyafforded first. She was assured that it was. From their expressions, she believes it was well known that upsetting a dragon tended to be veryuncomfortable.

As it should be.

It is a combination of caution and intelligent pragmatism that makes the Lord Commander inadvertently kind. She acknowledges the debt. The Watch has received the benefit of spontaneously healed injuries, repaired clothes, additional food, snow removal -I am not an ungrateful guest.

She is aware the red cloth embroidered with the three black scorpions of house Qorgyle was only given to stop her from raiding the Seven Kingdoms.

It changes nothing.

Itwould be nice to just fly and receive her due, but she holds herself in check. There can be no excess of caution. At times, it is difficult to tell where her own draconic instincts end -and the corruption begins.

She steps lightly through the shelves and barrels of parchment. There is a candle burning in the metal handheld flat sconce, burning with a low light on the long table instead of the brazier. Her nose crinkles at the pungent scent of smoke.

Maester Aemon Targaryen has his nose in a book.

It is a familiar sight -has it only been a month?She knows he has searched high and low for any and every scrap of information on Old Valyria in Castle Black’s library. For information on her.He will not find any and it is none of her concern what conclusion he will draw from that. Not that she is unsympatheticto his need for information.

It is simply -what in Father’s scaly buttocks do I tell him?

This was a new world that had yet to map out itsownplanet, let alone find any others. Explaining the various planes of existence and their inhabitants is also a daunting task. There is a reason why Apsu forbid the spreading of that knowledge on other worlds he oversaw. It is a situation she knows requires a great amount of tact, sensitivity and patience.

She spent the last century of her life fighting demons andavoiding paranoid Mendevian inquisitors such as Prelate Hulrun.

She is out of practice.

“Your opinion, maester,” Terendelev calls out as she steps closer, remembering at the last second the need to actuallyannounce her arrival. She is not large and scaly at the moment. “If you would.”

Aemon startles and looks up. His aged face creases into a broad smile and her sharp eyes detect the wet sheen of stubborn tears welling up in his purple eyes.

“Please,” the old man says with a quiet hope. “Will you not come into the light?”

Her heart aches. As it always does when forcibly reminded of the mortal frailty of the lesser races. He has cataracts - he cannot see me clearly.The void in her chest where Iomedae’s light once dwelled throbs.

She steps forward. On a whim, she twirls and her dress flares out with the motion. Aemon chuckles, smiling so widely his eyes are almost crinkled shut. The customary curtsy of this land was just different enough in just thewrongway to grate her scales -this is not respect, this is subservience.She pulls it off -naturallypleased that her efforts in practicing this shape seem to finally be coming to an end.

Aemon reaches with both hands as she rises from the deep courtly curtsey. Hands still capable of bending castle forged steel gently take them.

“You grew your hair long,” he whispers. She has. The once shoulder length strands of spun silver cascade down to the small of her shape’s back. It is expected of women here and she has no preference. Her current guise is intended for the comfort of others. “Your grace.” Aemon squeezes her hands with all the strength his frail form could muster. “You are avision.”

Terendelev smiles.“Always.”

It is not arrogance. It is barely evenpride. A simple statement of truth.

Silver dragons were made to be glorious.

“You have a talent,” the former prince says quietly, greedily devouring the details of her gown to refresh his memory. “That you could makethiswith nothing more than my - myinanerambling…it is remarkable.”

“It wasnot inane,” she chides him firmly. Reverence she will accept, but not if it is tainted with the belittling of others.“I learned much and had the aid of your well worn and welllovedmemories.”

Aemon sniffles very quietly. He hesitates, but she allows him to touch her. His fingertips brush her loose sleeves as if he is afraid they- she- will disappear.

“This is silk,” he says in muted surprise. “However did you get the material?”

“I created it.”

With avexingamount of trial and error.

She personally does not care for clothes. Shevery muchcares about having to relearn her instinctive polymorphing capability because her body was changed. The magic she uses to light the softly glowing orb that dances around them before Aemon’s awed eyes is not the same effect that created her clothing, but it gets the point across.

The gown she wears is a recreation of his mother, Dyanna Dayne’s spring dress.

From his memories, she is able to recognize that it is a blend of fashion from the Crownlands and Dorne, of the Dornish layered fabric overlapping to give the appearance that she is wrapped in large ribbon, but with conservative adjustments such as the high collar. The slashes in the hem and her loose sleeves are made false with linen showing through, alternating between the lilac shade attributed to house Dayne and black to go with the vivid crimson of the dress and house Targaryen. The ribbons forming the gather in the back were- complicatedbut she is pleased with it and thesilver.

“I forgot she wore those chains,” Aemon whispers sadly. He brushes the silver and ruby set ouches shaped like stars keeping the sleeve slashes from gaping and the one closing her high collar, at the side of her neck where fine silver chains fell from it, looping under and around her left arm.

“No, Aemon,” Terendelev says very gently and raises his hands so that he looks up into her eyes. “You rememberedeverything.”

His breath hitches.

She does not need to extend her magic into the recesses of his mind to see when he realizes that she was capable of that very skill. The apple of Aemon’s throat bobs when he swallows. The familiar mix of disbelief, confusion and awe swirl in his partially cloudy eyes before he lowers them.

“Thank you,” he says in a voice filled with tears. The silver chains make musical clinking sounds as he runs them through his fingers.“Thank you.”He says again. “This…is a priceless gift, your grace.”

She does not understand why she keeps being addressed as such -surely my name is not too difficult- but she accepts it. To gaze upon her is always a gift, but she does not mind the extra effort. Her reply is honest.

“It is one I am glad to give.”

“And it is afarewell.”

She inclines her head in agreement. “It is your custom to give a gift of appreciation to your host before departure.”

“The Lord Commander is your host,” he says quietly.

“I am not unaware who truly extended the offer of protection to me. Nor am I unaware of thereasons.”

Aemon’s face falls. She studies his resigned, miserable expression as the man curls into himself and pulls on her gentle grip. She lets go. Freed, his thin, wrinkled hands flutter about his black robes and the chain he earned from the Citadel with an anxiousness- that betrays guilt.Eventually they turn to the small stack of books on the table. He straightens them and checks over the few scrolls and organizes letters. Amusem*nt bubbles in the back of her throat as the tension in his shoulders ratchets higher and higher under her quiet gaze. Halaseliax had used silence against herfrequentlyas a wyrmling and now she lets this one linger.

The lesser races are ever as children -from beginning to end.

Worrying over the utterlyinconsequential.

“Getonwith it!” Aemon spits in a harsh whisper, almost physically crumbling in his seat. “What’s done is done. I will not apologize.”

“I would think less of you if you did,” Terendelev says simply. “I am not angry.”

The maester stills and then lets loose a heavy sigh. He risks glancing up at her, searching her expression. She allows her lips to quirk upwards.

“No,” he murmurs. He passes a trembling hand over his face as the letter he held fell from numb fingers back onto the table. “I imagine your anger would be difficult to mistake?”

“You would becorrect.”She says dryly. “If you ever managed to truly offend me, Maester Aemon, rest assured that you willceaseto do so post haste.”

It is not a threat.

“Can you blame me?” He asks quietly, fiddling with his chain. “For fearing that I had overreached, for daring to move you as a cyvasse piece on the board without your knowledge or consent?”

“You sent aletterto a family member,”she says with a laugh in her voice. She can barely comprehend the source of his concern. Has the regality of her bearing convinced him that she must be overly sensitive, petty and fragile?

The sudden surge of want/possessiveness shoots through her like a strong Dwarven ale. For Halaselix and his understanding. Elethiel and Braganon, the angels that had fought at her side proudly and kept her humble. For her age-mate Iomedae, the goddess who shared the same doubts and fears and treated her as an equal.

For the crusaders who learned to look at her and see ‘comrade in arms.’

And then she remembers the ambush that killed most of that latter group.

Rageflares in her chest -I failed thembut she swallows it down. She claims the rickety looking stool at his table andwillsthe folds of her dress to settle as she wants.

“Aemon, look at me.”

He does so. The way his face has sagged with age makes his eyes seem large and sad in his face.

She tilts her head towards him silently and a lock of her long silver hair escapes the pressure of the silver circlet on her head to fall forward. She raises an expectant silver eyebrow, letting an exasperated half-smile cross her lips.

Aemon sighs. “Dragon?”

“If I do not wish to be moved, I will not be.” She tilts her head away and looks at him out of the corner of her eye. “If I need something, I will take it. If I witness an injustice, I will stop it. If I am threatened,I will remove the threat.”

Terendelev is a simple creature at heart, as all dragons are.

She spent an entire day beyond the Wall doing absolutelynothingelse than attempting to get her new wing-arms to cooperate enough to let herwriteagain.

She failed.

On an entirely unrelated note, the trees of the Haunted Forest closest to the Wall have been smashed into toothpicks and then encased in a solid block of ice.

There is no suspect.

“Petty princes,” she says slowly. “And petty kings do not concern me.”And they never will.“They are men. They command only men and wield only steel.”

She picks up the candlestick from the table and lets the ice creep in. The next soft exhale is a cloud of vapor, glittering with ice shards as Aemon holds his breath. The candle she puts back down before them both is frozen over, steaming in the damp air of Castle Black’s wormways.

Even the small fire glows orange on the wick, still, completely trapped in ice.

She strove to avoid being too overtlyotherfor the men of the Watch. Magic is unknowable and feared, so she is subtle. Women are desired, so she lets them. She served in an army. She has heard worse -from Braganon, mostly.

Dragons,they understand.

She lowers her voice into a gentler tone. “I trust I do not need to explain further?”

“No, your grace,” is the overwhelmed response.

Aemon leans against the table like his chair can no longer be trusted to hold his weight, staring wide eyed at the frosted candlelight and she is briefly distracted by the sound of talking men entering her hearing range on the stairs. He has struggled, she knows. He took it upon himself to welcome her and teach her and found that she both exceeded and failed his every expectation. The man has decided on beast, on woman, on weapon, on witch, on fear, on disbelief, onhope-on dragon -and she watches him settle on another category for her, for the last time.

Ongod.

Arguing the point would backfire.

It is the absolute truth that all Silvers receive the divine spark of duty while still in the egg. The progenitor of her race is the same as it is for all Metallic dragons, the dragon god, Apsu. They are all his children. Sheknowsthis -I have heard Him call me Daughterand Silvers are favored especially.

“I - I must ask that you do all you can to avoid a ‘field of ice’ if any take up arms against you, however,” Aemon says with strength in his voice. “Most are just smallfolk levies, pressed into service.”

It is clear he expects his request for mercy to be a bold one. It is not.

Not for the reasons he believes.

A Silver of honor would warn them, hold the line and destroy invading armies until their morale broke and their leaders were discouraged -what is going on out there?

She does not trustherappetite for carnage would run out whentheirsdid.

Not anymore.

“Hm. Reference to the ‘Field of Fire’ by Aegon the Conqueror and the extinction of house Gardener?” Terendelev recalls. Aemon raises his thin eyebrows and she raises hers. Teaching herself to read is not difficult.

And if the king proves to bethatdisagreeable to her presence, she will simply bypass his armies to kill him- and shame the color of my scales.

“War is coming,” Aemon says, exhausted. “My nephew, Rhaegar is my last hope for - “

“I will ask,” she hears.

“Prince Rhaegar, wait!”

The vault doors to the library swing open with the irritating high pitched whisper of bronze hinges she thinks she can hear from amileaway. The small adventuring party she met earlier almost literally tumble in. The tattered prince that shares Aemon’s sulfuric scent layered with ash and the acidic tinge of magic she did not recognize. The staggering knight to the right that wore the impractical looking white armor of the Kingsguard- adventurers -and the one with the white sword and wide panicked eyes that positivelystunkof the arcane. She had been reluctantly impressed that he actually drew a sword on her.

It would have been ineffective, but the point remains.

At the sight of the tattered prince, she notices Aemon light up in her peripheral vision with joy and pride. She feels a pang of longing, but all who would have looked at her like that would have learned - I died.

“Uncle.” The prince smiles quickly.

“Nephew,” Aemon welcomes.

“Your grace.” The prince addresses her next and his smile falls into a grim mien. “If I may ask a rather vital question?”

She nods, curious. “You may.”

“Are you capable of having children?”

Aemon’s smile freezes. The two Kingsguard gostilllike aurochs that had just seen her shadow fall upon them, hoping she would choose another target.

Terendelev blinksslowly.

She squashes the instinctive flash of concern -do I not smell fertile?Her eyes slide off the prince to the left and the arcane mage with the white sword has the sense to blanch under her stare, staggering a few steps backwards. “If you are asking because you want an egg,” she says very evenly. “The answer isno.”

She is nine hundred and seventy three years old.

Not asingledecade has gone by where a questionthatstupid was not thewizard’s fault.

She returns her eyes to Aemon’s nephew as Aemon himself groans, covering his face with both hands in despair. “Inform yourfriendthat I amnotgiving awayanyscales, that he may not haveanyof my blood and that I willnotconsent toanyexperimentation.”

“Understood!” White Sword squeaks out.

The prince coughs. “I…was referring to the ability to bear a man’s heirs.Mine, to be clear.”

“I - what?"Her mind blanks.

It takes an entire fifteen seconds for her to actually process what the man is asking her.

Rhaegar Targaryen waits patiently.

“Please, your grace,” Aemon raises his head to beg as she finishes processing.

She is just beginning to realize - Tiamat vl’stixki, I was just propositioned? By a human?Something hysterical bubbles in her throat, tinged with disbelief, surprise and sheer panic.

“He is notmad,”the maester cries. “He’s just afool!”

“I am not!” was his prince’s immediate response.

“Yes, you are!”The son of King Maekar I roared back, saying the words Arthur Dayne, Kingsguard could not say but the very ones Arthur Dayne of Starfallvery much wanted to.It was what he hated most about the Kingsguard:

Having to stay silent while Rhaegar was being stupid.

As his oldest friend, Arthur could get away with butting heads with the prince every now and again in private, but that was notnearlyoften enough.

“You need to buildalliances-” The maester gasped. “What has gotteninto you?”

“Nothing!” Rhaegar’s back stiffened, defensive. “What good are a house’s promises and swords against adragon?”

Said dragon was sitting there watching them silently with gemstone eyes. The dress it wore felt like a mockery as herecognizedthe star pattern of the silver ouches from his sister’s jewelry and he knew that shade of purple. He can see the Dornish influence in the clever cut of the fabric just like he saw the silver circlet. Smallfolk to queen. Itwasa mockery. Arthur’s gut churned. Had their meeting out in the snow been planned? Bait to set the trap and lead Rhaegar to his doom or was it merely taking advantage? If the guise had been true, Arthur would have simply wished Rhaegar’s courtship well and said they made a handsome pair, a Silver King and Queen to be the envy and awe of all.

Dawn had a frightened stranglehold on hisspineas the shadow of the great beast’s horned head loomed over them from behind its false visage. Blackened horns lined the ridges of its eyes and flaring fins of its face. The molten silver eyes burned into him as it bared its teeth in the grotesque grin of murderous teeth mirrored by a woman’s faint, distracted smile.

“Everything!”Maester Aemon spit. “Do you believe the Faith to be socomplacent- the lords who haveneverunderstood our customs to besatisfiedwith you taking the throne like this? You would force her to be kingmaker against theentire realm!”

Arthur saw the truth in the old man’s eyes. He was not concerned for Rhaegar, but for therealm.

“It wasdragonsthat made the Faith bend, uncle,” Rhaegar argued and Arthur almost winced. It was the tyrant Maegor that made the Faith bend with dragons. Jaehaerys I hadnegotiated.“The very reason - “

“The very reason behind Summerhall,” the maester dared to interrupt the prince and his prince’s head rocked back with the blow. Rhaegar had been born during that tragedy. Arthur visited the ruins with him every year.

“Egg believed dragons would solve his every problem,” Aemon lamented. “It would haveforcedthe issue. The wounds would fester, not heal. I hadhopedyou saw the need to build strong foundations for your reign, for your son’s reign, not totear it down.”

Arthur risked acknowledging the dragon was in the room. The shadow of the truth had faded as if it had never been and theamusem*nton its face made his blood run cold.

“Our house wasbuilton those foundations, uncle!” Arthur recognized Rhaegar’s frustration for all that he tried not to show it in his voice. “We have ruled forcenturiesbecause of dragons.”

“If you truly believe yourself able tokeepher,” Aemon Targaryen said in a dangerous, low voice. “You are not the man I thought you were.”

His prince paused. Arthur had a bad feeling when Rhaegar then nodded agreeably. ‘Agreeable’ for Rhaegar often meant the concession of ‘If I am not allowed to drown myself, how about hanging?’

“Very well, if being king is the obstacle, then I will abdicate.”

Arthur closed his eyes wearily as Oswell squawked.

“Viserys is healthy,” Rhaegar reasoned aloud. “I could be his regent - “

Maester Aemon threw a book at the prince.

Dawn cut it in half.

Arthur cringed as sheared sheaves of parchment flopped pathetically in the air before falling to the ground, the book in tatters. Books wereexpensive.He could have hit it with theflatof the blade, at least?

Dawn.

She was unapologetic.

“Why?”The black brother moaned. “Why are you so set on this?”

Rhaegar had a grave look. “Youknowwhy. Thesong - “

That was when his prince abruptly burst into flames.

“What in the seven hells!?”

Arthur wasvaguelyaware of Maester Aemon falling back into his seat, pale with shock at the sight of the prince turning into a bonfire. Oswell was spewing a unending stream of curses as he attempted to smother the prince with his white cloak, Rhaegar waschokingas if the fire was burning his lungs and Arthur himself kicked away a nearby barrel full of scrolls, acutely aware that they were in anunderground vaultfull of veryflammablematerials and ifanythingcaught ablaze before he threw Rhaegar out the room they wereallgoing todie.

The cold was sudden.

Arthur felt as if he had just broken through the ice of a frozen lake, the involuntary gasp at the deep chill and to his terror, he saw ice frost over his hands on Rhaegar’s shoulders. He wrenched them away, the ice shattered and drifts of steam wafted off where flames had once burned. His prince fell to his knees, heaving great breaths.

The dragon spoke.

“I believe I have heard…” Its voice turned. No longer human, but the cracking, grinding and rumbling of ice.“Enough.”

It rose from its seat and Arthur forced himself to step forward in front of his prince.

“Your grace,” Maester Aemon ventured quietly, but fell silent when it turned its head towards him. It stepped forward, but before he could meet it with Dawn, Rhaegar’s hand snapped out for him tohold.

f*ck, sh*t, damn it - !

Oswell was almost vibrating out of his armor again. Arthur was similarly on edge when it gazed down at Rhaegar with a blank expression.

“You will tell me why you asked,” it said simply. “And do not lie. I willknow.”

Rhaegar had barely opened his mouth when its expression shifted to a shockedhorror.

“I see,” it said tightly, leaving them all stunned as no one had said a word. Arthur glanced at the maester behind it at the table and the man looked grim. “You are veryfortunate,Rhaegar Targaryen.” To Arthur’s ears, it sounded like it meant he was anythingbut.“When I return from the far North, I will make you king.”

“What?”Oswell blurted out, hand flying to the hilt of his blade.

The dragon’s eyes never wavered from the ashamed prince. “What is the maximum punishment for stealing,ser?”

Arthur’s stomachsankwhen Oswell Whent staggered back. It sank further when the knight sputtered weakly in protest, “...hecouldhave been an assassin.”

The dragon smiled coldly. “And I suppose it is appropriate that assassins and traitorsburn.”

Arthur's mind emptied in shock.

It was Dawn whoraged.

"Your father burned another!?"Arthur snarled as he turned on Rhaegar, who didn’t meet his eyes, staring down and away at the floor as if he was going away inside and leaving nothing but a patheticshrugfor hisKingsguard. “You didn’ttell me!”

Dawn.

He had served loyally! He had served proudly! He had been at Rhaegar’s side through thick and thin, he had thought that afteryearsof companionship he would be trusted with thetruth of it!

Dawn.

The black leather hilt shuddered in his hands.

I know.

Arthur’s smoldering anger abruptly became his own. Before he was driven to commit an act they wouldbothregret.

“He is the king,” Oswell offered up and his words were brittle and thin. He looked a man doomed. “The Kingsguard swear anoath.”

The beast raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “You swear an oath as knights, ser. If the Kingsguard are honorbound to act dishonorably, then the king is better served by common brigands.”

“We are honorbound asknightsto obey ourliege lord,”Oswell rejoined, stronger in voice.

“And an honorable lord would not be such a burden and betrayal to obey,” it said simply and Arthur felt as if he had been kicked in the gut. “All Kingsguard are knights. Itshouldbe apparent that knights will be expected toact as suchin the face of injustice.”

It was House Martell’s duty to deal justice to the lords sworn to them. For another lord to do so would be to not only infringe on the authority of Sunspear, but to rob the offending lord of his own rights to be judged by his superior and only his superior. That was how the laws of the Seven Kingdoms were written and had been forthousandsof years. The thought that any and every knight, whether he be a lord’s son or a bastard would beexpectedto bring his own sworn lord to justice if there was cause made Arthur feel dizzy, as if he were a leaf tossed about in the wind.

“That is…not how it is,” Arthur managed to say.

He wished it was.

“A pity.” The creature laughed lightly without mirth. “And so you find yourselves with an unworthy on the throne and are honorbound to keep him there.”

“He’s theking.”Whent repeated, straining the entire history of the Seven Kingdoms, their honor, the consequences that would follow, the shame and anger of their families, their name being cursed throughout history such as the Kingmaker Criston Cole and the traitor Gyles Greycloak all through that one word.

Aerys II is theking.

“And the knights of this land must be poor ones, indeed,” it said in a gentle tone but with pitiless cold eyes. “If even the best have theluxuryof blind obedience.”

It stepped towards them. Arthur and Dawn tensed, ready to act, and remained tense still as it walked past them.

“Maester Aemon.”

The old man startled. “Your grace?”

The beast paused at the doors, glancing back over its shoulder and the waterfall of silver that was its hair. Its fair face was set in the mimicry of a solemn expression, but it could not or would not hide the malevolent, predatory gleam in its deep purple eyes.

“Thank you.”

The man bowed his near bald head. “...It was anhonor, your grace.”

Its lips turned up slightly.“I know.”

The prince had been greatly subdued since the encounter in the library, wandering listlessly through the wormways of Castle Black, asking idle questions of any black brother that seemed amenable to answering until dinner was called. The food was bland, but nutritious and Rhaegar ate little.

The dragon made its nest in the Nightfort, an old broken castle with a cursed history.

Fitting.

It was not Arthur’s place to demand what the creature hadsomehowgleaned from his mind and if there were any lingering effects. It was not his place to reprimand the prince for keeping the newsthat his father burned a manfrom him, no matter how much he recognized the prince’s melancholy that had once seemed to arise from nothing on Dragonstone after taking his letters.

It was not his place - it wasnot his place!

It was not his place to question how Rhaegar intended to use the beast to take the throne, only to guard him. And if the king demanded it, that would not even be his place either, but Arthur had already made his choice.

Was there a difference in the honor of a man who held one oath, but discarded the rest and a man who broke them all?

He cursed the direction his thoughts were leading.

A high lord judged for his actions by his lessers?Those who did not have the full measure of things or the breadth of loyalty? A first son barred from his birthright for no other reason beyond his character? Who would follow him? His younger brother? A nephew? A distant cousin? And who would decide such?

The dragon was a beast that did not understand how society functioned and was unlikely to recognize orcareabout the chaos that would follow such edicts.

Arthur was ashamed to realize he did not think it entirelywrong.

…theluxuryof blind obedience.

“I will ask a question of you.” Arthur cornered Rhaegar in their rooms in the King’s Tower at Castle Black. He had left Dawn on his bed, for although the delay in calling it to his hands if needed was dangerous, he was unlikely to need it and it was far more dangerous for the prince for him to hold it right now.

“You will tell me the answer and you will tell it to metrue.”

“SerDayne,” Oswell said sharply and Arthur sneered at the emphasis on his knightly address. “This is ourprince.You overstep yourself - “

“He has the right to it, ser,” Rhaegar mumbled, looking at them with lowered, sad eyes.

Arthur would have asked the prince’s reasons for keeping the new depths the king had reached to himself, but Dawn had brought up another concern he would never have considered even with all the pieces in front of him.

“Was I encouraged to join the Kingsguard for your interest in a bleeding star andDawn.”

Oswell’s eyes widened.

Rhaegar said nothing and that was answer enough.

“Well then,” Arthur said thickly. “I suppose I should be grateful you did not demand it from me.”

Rhaegar’s head shot up, his eyes wide. “I wouldnever!”The prince breathed, horrified. “Dawn is the sword of house Dayne. The thought never crossed my mind!”

Arthur believed him.

That just meant he was no longer surewhathis friend was capable of.

“Nevertheless, that was ill done of you,ser.”Arthur saw Oswell’s eyes narrow at the lack of a royal address and found that he did not much care. “Whent, tell me you did not spin a pretty tale about keeping an eye on the prince to get you away from King's Landing after a man was burned to death,ser.”

Ser Oswell Whent flushed and averted his eyes.

Arthur turned back to Rhaegar. “You found your star elsewhere, but a Kingsguard servesfor life.”

Arthur Dayne had sworn his oath, believing that he would rise alongside one of the greatest kings on the Iron Throne. If the beast kept its word, Rhaegar would ascend for certain.

It wasArthur’scirc*mstances that had changed.

“What else can Ido?”Rhaegar asked miserably.

Arthur looked at the prince in his new borrowed clothes of the Night’s Watch yet to be burned through. His shoulders slumped and eyes lowered. He was reminded that of all his sworn brothers, Arthur spent the least amount of time in the capital byfar,accompanying Rhaegar on trips to Summerhall, to Dragonstone, to Flea Bottom, to about the Crownlands. In the two years since the tournament in Lannisport, he could count on one hand how many times he had been scheduled to guard the king, for lack of being anywhere near the man.

Rhaegar had done his best to ensure that little changed from the days when he was simply the prince’s companion.

Protecting me from his own mistake.Or perhaps he truly believed that he could keep shielding Arthur indefinitely, or had planned to remove his father from the throne years before he told Arthur of such, assuring himself that Arthur’s oath could handle the strain of only a few years.

He did not know.

“Am I your brother?” Arthur asked simply.

“Now and always,” Rhaegar replied, tears in his eyes.

“Then grant me leave toactlike it.”

“Done,” the prince said immediately.

Arthur did not wait to give him a chance to actually think the request through.

“Ow!”

He ignored Oswell’s scandalized gasp as he slapped his princehardupside hisfool head.

“I willthrashyou in the yard withDawnif youeverpull that sh*t on me again,see if I don’t,do youunderstand me?”

Rhaegar nodded very quickly, looking at Arthur like he had just hung the moon in the sky instead of having threatened him.

“Good.” Arthur breathed out his nose like a bull, setting aside his lingering anger. The commons of the King’s Tower was large enough. He was going to make Rhaegar drill on his forms until hebegged for mercy.“The dragon.” He despaired at how the prince perked up. “Youdorealize your ‘courtship’ offer wasrejected?”

For however much ‘can you have my children’ is an offer for courtship.

He hadn’t thefaintestwhy it seemed to blamehimfor that question, he hadn’t even done anything! And instead of taking the hint, Rhaegar decided to clarify that he was actuallydeterminedto be an idiot.

His little brother was an odd sort of fool.

“Worse!” Rhaegar said with a besotted smile, strangely cheerful. “It was ignoredcompletely!”

Arthur Dayne was perfectly contentnot knowingif the dragon would squeeze out eggs or babes.

“It will be helping you succeed your fatheranyway.”

Oswell grumbled. Earlier today, the Riverlander would have pulled a sword on them at the very hint of treason. It said much of how badly the burning had affected him that he did not do so now.

“I am aware.”

Arthur studied Rhaegar’s guileless expression and bright eyes suspiciously.

Whent let out a resigned sigh. “...you still want to take theterrifying dragontowife.”

“Gods, yes!”

Chapter 5: The Far North

Chapter Text

In some ways, the dragon hadn’t changed the Watch at all.

The same black clothes and armour. The same cold and ice. The same faces in the barracks with him in the same colour. The same isolation on the Wall. The same duties. The same oaths.

In some ways, it was almost dizzying how much the Watch had changed since the dragon arrived.

The black brother leaned over the side of the Wall and picked a good open spot in the courtyard of the Nightfort.

What had once been an overgrown, broken abandoned fort like the dozen other keeps and forts along the base of the Wall had seen some change. The wild overgrowth had been trimmed, with the trees removed from the old stables in a lumber pile by the rotten gate and the old yards cut back to groves instead of small forests. It would never be pristine, with old tree roots growing up through the gravel and stone and the gnarled weirwood in the kitchen was still there, but it was a purposeful look. Most of the larger buildings had been repaired over the past moon with the great hall gaining three walls, a new roof and a giant door, the library rebuilt and new construction plain to see on the broken towers.

And it was no longer abandoned.

In the cleared courtyard, a silver dragon was proving herself a late riser. From up high on the Wall as he was, the great beast looked like a king had just up and lost his entire treasury of silver coins, leaving them laying a big heap. The overcast sky kept the dragon from being blinding, but the weak light glittered on the silver scales all the same.

Behold, the new terror of the far North.

Curled up like a cat before a lit hearth with her head tucked under a wing.

He put two fingers into his mouth and blew.

Down below, the dragon stirred. The piercing whistle should have faded to nothing for a man’s ears and a man wouldn’t be able to see his wave from the bottom of the Wall either, but the dragon had wolf ears and hawk eyes. Once the horned head rose, he backed up a few steps.

The old winch and pulley lift of the Nightfort had long fallen apart from a lack of maintenance since the Watch abandoned it over a century ago. The frozen steps were much the same, so iced over from the winter they resembled jagged bumps in the Wall more than anything else. There was only one way to get down.

Very fast.

He gripped his lyre in both hands and took a running leap off the top of the Wall.

The wind screamed past as he fell. The cold snuck in through every slightest give in his clothes as his stomach joined his heart in his chest as the ice of the Wall blurred past. The crumbling walls and broken towers of the Nightfort grew bigger as the rush forced tears into his eyes. He kept falling faster and faster and just when he could see the dragon’s toothy grin as it watched him plummet and started to panic - !

White feathers puffed around him. Instead of splattering all over the broken stone, he floated gently like a leaf in a breeze to land on his feet.

“You are a f*cking c*nt,” Mance Rayder declared loudly.

The dragon laughed.

Grumbling, he straightened his clothes and walked into the great beast’s shadow. The kitchens of the Nightfort had been completely repaired, he saw. The bell tower’s bell lay at the foot of its tower with its bronze coating polished to gleaming, ready to be put back into place. The dungeon had been scavenged for stone and metal as the dragon had seemingly found rebuilding the bath and brewhouses of greater import. The rebuilt great hall was large enough to be a keep in its own right with an opening unrestrained by doors wide enough for a dragon to crawl through. There were statues standing guard before it, made out of snow, wood and ice.

They each had a plaque of ice, carved with their name and that of their house. They were made with the exacting precision of a master at the art, each link in chainmail, every scale of scale armour, every rivet in plate was all there. There were winged helmets and decorative pauldrons and even the cloaks were frozen mid flutter from an unfelt breeze. Each face was carved as if at any moment, they could brush off the snow and head to battle. It could even be seen that one was a woman, as fierce and unyielding as the rest. Of all the icy knights in their snowy armour with heroic determination staring an unseen evil in the face, there was a palpable difference in the statue of one of the winged ‘angels.’

Braganon had a grin full of trouble and a gaze searching for an unseen companion instead. Less commemorative, more intimate.

He had never been heartless enough to ask.

“Almost done, aren’t you?” He inspected the abandoned forge and pointed towards the dilapidated rookery. “Might be better to tear that down too. Not like you got a maester.”

The dragon’s silver eyes swept the fort as it hissed, a long, eerie sound Mance had come to recognize as her counterpart to thoughtful humming.

“You may have a keep, but you ain’t a lord.”

The dragon huffed.

“I don’t make the rules.” He waved a hand towards the South. “Ask the bloody Citadel. Only lords get maesters.”

The dragon’s eyes narrowed.

Mance palmed his face. “Why do you even want one? All you could need one for is sending letters and I thought you hated ravens.”

“I DO HATE THEM,” the beast snarled. A puff of vapour glittering with ice shards leaked through teeth as long and sharp as swords. “RATS ON WINGS WITH A DEATH WISH.”

A single missing silver coin from her small stash by an opportunistic bird and now any and every stray raven was killed on sight. He wasn’t fond of them much himself, not after a moon full of bad dreams.

“WHY ARE YOU HERE?”

“What?” Mance asked innocently. “I’m not allowed to visit now?” The dragon tilted her head towards him silently and he shrugged, a tad uncomfortable under the molten silver gaze. “Sky’s still overcast. I figured you’d let the storm blow over before going on your expedition and wanted to ask if you wouldn’t mind company.”

Iron bellied clouds were gathered in a thick layer high above them and the air was thick with moisture. Maybe southerners would be unable to tell, but the cold had a certain vicious bite to it that told the tale. There was a warmer wind that blew in from the sea to the east, and sometimes the snow it brought with it was half ice water that fell thick and fast.

“I’m a ranger,” Mance offered. “I know the terrain and could help you avoid the wildling tribes out there.”

“OR NOT AVOID THEM,” the dragon remarked shrewdly, because a head that large had to have a big mind too.

“The Weeper? He makes sport of killing rangers with that scythe of his and the so-called Lord o’ Bones, his tribe is cruel and brutal. You don’t owe us nothing.” Whatever debt existed between the Night’s Watch and the dragon had been settled the first sennight. “But if what you’re looking for is anywhere close? I wouldn’t mind you not avoiding them vigorously.”

“I HAVE YET TO DECIDE WHAT I AM TO DO WITH THE WILDLINGS,” the great beast admitted with a displeased rumble that Mance could feel shaking his bones. “TOO MANY ODDITIES IN YOUR HISTORY, YOUR OATHS, THE WALL...”

“There’s something…” He lowered his voice, feeling unsettled and silly at the same time. “Something is calling me out there,” Mance admitted. “I feel like I have to go into the far North, but I don’t know where or why.”

It was the beating of drums and marching feet in his very soul. The chordant cries of battle, the heady iron taste of blood, the crash of thunder and above it all, the triumphant horn.

The sky had burned with falling stars. Greedy, desperate ravens with three eyes haunted his dreams and in his waking hours, Mance Rayder heard music.

The common castle-forged steel of arms and armour had dull, clunking and quiet notes, but there was an audible difference between freshly forged works and those that had seen battle. The hesitant, tentative melody. The smokey grey rippled Valyrian steel of old Wynton Stout’s trinket and Maester Aemon’s chain snarled their bloody hymn. The pretty white blade of the prince’s sworn sword had chimed gold in his ears.

“You know Qorgyle’s too cautious a man to give me men for a fool’s errand,” he argued. “If I go alone without permission, I’ll be beheaded as a deserter.”

That would not be the case if he went with the dragon.

The food on the Wall wasn’t the same. Even if it was the normal fare of mash and bread, there was more of it. The mash was far less watered down and sometimes replaced with boiled small white grains spruced up with herbs, chunks of bacon or fresh roasted venison. The bread was thick and moist instead of stale, dry and thin. They had full roasts of boars that had been dropped from a great height and frozen all the way through before cooking, leaving the meat surprisingly tender. Before the prince arrived, they had once been served fatty steaks of leviathan because the dragon had gotten restless?

Flew out to sea for a fight or some such and she only wanted the tail of her conquest to gnaw on, like a dog with a bone.

Almost a year into winter and the snow should have piled high enough to bury a man standing straight, but it hadn’t. Their stores of firewood and coal mysteriously replenished without comment. The few blacksmiths the Watch had found themselves with dangerously idle hands when one day all their allotted repair work on arms and armour had been completed without them, only for the dragon to put them to work on commissions for the Nightfort. He supposed he could not blame the surge of attendance to the septs on the dragon directly , but they were treated no differently no matter their fear. Torn cloaks mended, swords sharpened, even the septs themselves tidied up. They had all whispered quietly in bewilderment.

Was the Watch being f*cking pampered by a dragon?

One, and only one, black brother got it into his head that the great beast could be used to break his oath. They all knew he had been planning something. To fly down south and get a pardon from the king, mayhaps. They kept their heads down, watched their commanders and held their breath.

The dragon killed him herself.

The great beast respectfully delivered his body to the Lord Commander. The man had asked why. The creature had looked confused at the question.

‘Why would I dishonour your order?’

It went far beyond simple indulgence. The dragon believed in the Night’s Watch. That it was an honourable calling. That it was a noble sacrifice.

That they were worth their weight in silver.

And to Mance Rayder, that had been the biggest change of them all.

The great beast lowered her head to study him, putting her molten silver eye close enough for him to see that she had a second iris and pupil within the first, the same way she had a second eyelid. The second eye rotated and spun and narrowed and he felt as if the beast could see right through him.

“AND HOW WERE YOU PLANNING ON KEEPING A PACE WITH ME?”

Mance grinned.

The dragon’s eye narrowed to a slit.

“Glad you asked!”

“NO.”

He waggled a finger at her. “If you would just let me - “

“NO.”

Mance cut his losses.

“Is walking beside us mere mortals beyond your grace?” He jested dryly and yelped when he suddenly had an irate dragon in his face.

“DO I SEEM AS IF I CAN WALK LONG DISTANCES IN THIS FORM?”

He took a few steps back and looked over the creature with its long back legs and wing-arms near flat against the ground, sloping back and bunched muscle groupings giving it the appearance of all one hundred feet permanently hunching forward. Now that he thought about it, the only time she actually looked comfortable was asleep.

“Not at all.”

“I DID NOT THINK SO."

“Be a wolf,” he suggested. One with silver fur, a black nose and blue eyes. He knew she could do it. “They have those four legs you love so much.”

The dragon blew out a breath hard enough to send him staggering back and then in a radiant flash of light, the woman stood in its place. She was dressed as a black brother if he wore white instead, with a ringmail coat of shining steel under the white surcoat, a plain hunting dagger on her belt. The only change was her white hooded cloak that she drew up over her silver hair.

Mance made a sound in his throat.

“Would it kill you to look hideous for once in your damn life?”

The dragon gave him an unimpressed look. “Why do I tolerate your cheek?”

“You’re an honourable sort,” he replied with the same flat tone. “And have a great deal of compassion for dim-witted fools.”

She barked her harsh laugh. “That I do!”

He was just about convinced that was the only reason the Wall was still standing.

The new septon had yet to convince himself that he hadn’t drunk so much wine as to see dragons, the Lord Commander tried to have her poisoned, so did Commander Mallister and three quarters of the f*cking Watch were mighty curious how true her female form was and just as indelicate in their japes. At least his brothers had their oaths forbidding women turning them half-mad as an excuse. He had been curious too. For about a day. He had been there the first night she arrived, after all. Had the privilege of seeing her before she discovered the concept of ‘clothing.’

Then he saw the beast idly snap up two of their old horses in her maw with one bite and he could swear his balls fled all the way back up into his gut.

“Permission to accompany you on your ranging, ser Nightfort commander?”

Her eyes rolled skywards, but the corner of her lips pulled up as well. “Granted.”

Then she turned on her heel, flashing the foreign heraldry on her cloak and headed right for the rebuilt gate through the Wall.

“Wait, now?”

“Indeed.”

He scrambled to match her stride, feeling out of sorts. “I just have my lyre?” It was hung on its thick rope tight against his back, as usual. “What about my tent? Supplies? A sword?”

“I am capable of feeding you,” she replied evenly, as if he were a whinging pet animal. “Shelter will be provided and as for your weapons…” The dragon tilted her head in that odd way of hers, as if she were a sea eagle tracking him through its peripheral vision. “I will be with you. Are they necessary?”

Guess not.

“If I die, I will say I told you so.”

“If you die, I will find a way to bring you back.” As she stopped before the Nightfort’s gate, the dragon did not so much smile, as bare teeth. “If I cannot, I will avenge you. You are mine. My guide. And I do not like it when death touches what belongs to me.”

That was terrifying.

Oddly comforting.

But mostly terrifying.

“Well, then,” Mance breathed.

Satisfied that she had addressed his concerns, the beast stalked to the gate and knelt. With the screech and grind of wood and metal, she lifted the several hundred pound gate and held it comfortably over her head. He hesitated for only a moment before passing under it into the dungeon darkness of the tunnel through the Wall. The gate was lowered with the same ease as before and in the dark, her eyes held a faint silver glow like that of a cat.

“Guide, you say?” Mance prodded as they began their trek through the cold, dark tunnel. The Wall above their heads groaned very quietly, the sound almost faded beneath his own footsteps and the clink of his blackened mail.

“Drinxkikaarin,” she replied in a rasp, bordering a growl. The dragon moved like a shadowcat, graceful, but silent even in chain as if her feet never actually touched the ground. “That is our word for it, but there are many of yours that fit.”

“Such as?”

Lights flared to life, three orbs of red, yellow and white danced about their heads. The light splashed off the ice of the tunnel, blending until it almost looked like they walked beneath a rainbow.

“Guide. Servant,” was the calm response. “Shield-brother. Advisor. Tool. Trusted. Mine.”

Mance swallowed thickly.

“This distresses you,” the beast murmured with a small frown, because of course her wolf ears heard.

“I am...not certain,” Mance said honestly. “Being a man you trust...that’s rather heavy , isn’t it?” He said. “You could kill us all and ain’t nothing anyone could do about it. Not even if Stark rallied the entire North.”

“I have no reason to.”

That wasn’t a denial.

“What’d I do to deserve it?” He asked next, because that was what bothered him more. “Is it because you’re lost?” The statues had told him the dragon had left something, somewhere, someones behind, for all that she didn’t seem to wallow in melancholy. “And all I know is the Wall? Am I trusted because I have little reason to betray you?”

“Nothing so complex.”

Her dark blue eyes lazily roamed the tunnel instead of looking at him and he was oddly flattered. He had already figured out from their wide set eyes that dragons had large blind spots directly in front of them and were sensitive to movement. It was an instinct to turn to see whatever had caught their attention, always on the hunt for prey.

She was ignoring his presence in her peripheral vision.

“What am I?”

“Dragon?”

“Yessss,” she hissed, low and long, finally glancing towards him. “And you seem to be the only person who understands what that means.” He raised his eyebrows questioningly. There was a story there. He could actually smell it. “I am not your long lost glory,” she sighed. “You trust that I mean you no harm. I am not a threat to your faith - “

“Wasn’t that strong anyway.” He waved off.

“I am not a god - “

“Arguable.”

“Mance.”

“I’m not tellin’ you…” He held up his hands in surrender. “I’m just tellin’ you.”

“And gods forbid youwant me for a wife - “

“f*ck no!” Mance gasped and made a hand sign to ward off evil. “Do I look f*cking mad?”

Amusem*nt and no small amount of relief lit in the great beast’s eyes.

“Should I be offended?” She asked dryly. “Are you saying you are not fond of me in the slightest?”

“Where did you get the notion that you don’t scare the piss out of me?” Mance wondered aloud.

“The lack of piss!” The dragon said with some vicious glee. “You struck me within two days of my arrival.”

“You threw me off the Wall!”

“You lived, as promised!”

He was not going to dignify that with a response. “Who’s the f*cking madman?”

“Guess.”

He had a half dozen names of brothers who would probably not mind taking the dragon for a tumble in her female form if they thought they could get away with it. Wedding her was a different story. It took him a bit, but he got there.

“Well,” Mance grunted. “I’ll be sure to give the southern prince pointers on how smacking your woman around is part and parcel of dragon wooing.”

The beast snorted.

It had already begun to snow when they emerged on the far side of the Wall. Mance tugged down his black woolen cap and fluffed up his furs to combat the bitter wind picking up the pace. The sky was nothing but dark grey and the snow fell in clumps, blown a bit sideways. He could only see a bit in front of him, before the snow turned everything into shadows and silhouettes that made it hard to tell when the snow on the ground ended and the snow in the air began.

“f*ck,” he muttered, but he raised a hand and pointed deeper into the shadow of the Haunted Forest, to the northwest. “What’s got its hooks in me is that way.”

The dragon’s eyes narrowed as her gaze swept the tree line. “How far?”

“Can’t tell,” he mumbled, squinting as the wind blew snow into his face. “I know you can navigate through snow storms just fine.” He adjusted the strap of his lyre and hugged himself stubbornly. “I won’t whinge about it, but I will be miserable.”

In response, the dragon raised her hand towards the sky.

Mance choked on a yell, stumbling backwards as silver light burst from the dragon, streaking up to the clouds as a brilliant pillar. Veins glowing every colour of the rainbow scrawled across the clouds, twisting upon themselves to form braided, curling, looping, circling patterns in the sky above them, stretching out as far as the Wall was tall in all directions. The air itself came alive with the feel of lightning giving him gooseflesh as the drumbeats of his soul pulsed in his gut and in his temples. A nauseating fluttering sensation was in his chest as he stared up in awe at the largest working of sorcery known to man since the raising of the Wall itself.

He almost didn’t notice when the wind calmed.

He did notice when the snow ceased and the dark clouds behind the shining patterns thinned. When the dragon dropped her hand and the light faded, the sky was as blue as a robin’s egg. The dark clouds of the sea born snow storm had been pushed far off, banished from the great beast’s consideration.

“You - “ Mance waved at the sky, for the first time in his life, left speechless. “What?”

That damnable amusem*nt flared within eyes still bright from a fading silver glow. “I can navigate through snow storms rather easily. I prefer not to.”

That didn’t answer a single godsdamned thing!

“No,” Mance said. He jabbed a finger at the dragon. “You do not get to keep pulling miracles out of your arsehole and make like nothing changes - !”

The dragon laughed.

“Nothing has changed!” The beast spoke with her savage delight evident in her smile, curved like an axe blade. She turned away and began walking towards the small copse of broken and iced over trees beyond the Wall. “I am, as always, a dragon.”

“Explain it to me in small words,” Mance said as he waded through the snow after her. “You changed the weather. How - “ He licked his dry lips. “How long will it last?”

“As long as necessary.”

“f*ck,” he muttered, eyeing the dark clouds far off in the distance and knew every man on the damn Wall and half the far North had seen that show of light. “What’s the difference between your ‘dragon’ and your ‘god?’”

“I cannot hear prayers,” was the flat response.

Oh, was that it?

“But you can see into a man’s mind.”

“Not prayers. ”

Mance nodded agreeably as they entered the shadow of the Haunted Forest and the snow burdened trees.

“But have you tried?”

“Mance.”

The heart tree stares back at her with a sneering face.

It looks as all Weirwood trees do, with blood red five pointed leaves, a wide trunk with smooth bone white bark. The tree is bent forwards, having grown next to an old oak and having run out of space. It only contributes to the feeling of menace in its carved expression as it looms over her, red sap leaking from the narrowed eye sockets as if it wept blood. It is only when she puts in the effort to truly see the tree for what it is that the truth unfolds.

The trees are constructs.

Just as the Weirwood tree growing twisted in the kitchens of her Nightfort, these were also created, altered life with a basic intelligence, a network of scrying mirrors, repositories of knowledge, crude - phylacteries, but now beyond the Wall she can feel the thousand and one eyes observing her silently from every white tree in the grove. She waits, but they seem content to stare.

Terendelev is not.

"They say a man cannot lie before a heart tree,” Mance Rayder murmurs at her side, staring up at the sneering face. “For the old gods know when a man lies.”

“Is anything said about offering blood?” She unsheathes her dagger and draws the blade across the flesh of her hand. It parts easily, for the skin of this shape she wears is not the toughened hide of her silver scales.

Mance shrugs. The movement does not capture her attention, like the fluttering of black wings as a crow flees. That is reserved for enemies and prey. Allies are neither.

“Old tales, mostly. Offering the blood of a man’s enemies to the Weirwood trees, or the hanging of entrails on the branches on Skago - “ He jumps when he turns to her and she knows it to be from the burning blue colour of her eyes. “What are you doing?”

“Discovering if I had needed only to burn the one tree,” she says as she reaches out with her bleeding hand. Her lips pull back from her teeth as the hate and rage bubbles up, scorching her throat as she meets the sneering gaze in the bark.“Or if I need to burn them all.”

She reaches with her bloody palm to press it against the pale tree. Her blood sinks into the white wood.

The wood reaches back.

It is not the grasping, greedy fingers tearing and biting that greets her this time. It is an abyss.

She falls.

It is by instinct alone that she spreads her great wings and flies.

She looks up and there is a sky, but it is a bloody red colour from horizon to horizon rather than the bright blue she had left - this is a vision.

Intriguing. There is no sign of the white haired man ensnared in white tree roots with the red eye. She knows not where to look. Instead, there is a ring formed out of radiant patterns, shining and golden as it spins in the place of the sun. A loud sound echoes out, like a hammer striking an anvil and the ring cracks. Sections within the lines turn an ominous black, as if in warning. Another strike of the hammer, and the cracks spread. The third strike is a gong.

The ring shatters.

Shards and fragments fall from the sky as a shower of falling stars, leaving burning trails behind them. The land they fall upon is familiar - Westeros. The general outline she recognizes from the old maps at Castle Black, except the southernmost region is connected fully to the eastern continent by a land bridge where the region of the Stepstones should have been.

Her wings beat and the wind from them breaks the land apart into islands.

A black bird, half-burned with terrible scarring screeches. A vast expanse of sky before it and the daft animal flies directly into her eye.

Her roar of pain echoes. She snaps her jaws and it narrowly avoids her teeth with a drunken swoop.

‘You have gone too far back!’ It cries.

A terrible cacophony rises up from the eastern continent where one of the great shards had fallen. She sees through the carved faces of the trees and witnesses the darkness pour out. The empty speaks to her in a cajoling tone with words she almost understands. She turns to look and the bird attempts to blind her again. She snaps, sees its red eye and recognizes it to be the same as the one that had attempted to chain her when she arrived.

You!

The rage rises. The bird turns with a squawk and flees north.

She follows.

The land beneath her wings blurs together, changing through shifting seasons, storms, disasters and the wild land is tamed by shadows that cut down trees and hew stones to build. The ground between the blades of grass is white with littered bones, blood feeds the roots of bone trees and still they fly. For her size, she is not slow, but always the raven - crow stays one step ahead. Every missed swipe of her claws, every time her jaws close on air makes her blood boil.

‘Control yourself, creature!’

Die!

The Wall rises, singing its bold chant, We are the shields that guard the realms of men!

She stops before it with an aching remembrance and the crow alights on the ice.

‘We must speak,’ it says. ‘And you must leave before you are seen. This place is not for you.’

There is a cave, its third eye shows her. A cleft in a wooded hillside between two Weirwood trees and the passage is long and dark.

You bid me to come to you, slaver, in the midst of your allies in your seat of power beneath the earth?

The bird’s beak clacks. ‘We do what we must.’

Her grin is bloody.

I accept your invitation.

‘Then wake up!’

She does with a choking gasp.

“Whoa now!”

Rough hands grab her around the shoulders - my wings are gone and pull her upright. Her blood burns and she wrenches away from the hands - ally, discard when no longer of use. It is only when her sore eyes fall upon the sneering tree does she realise that she had fallen in a faint amidst the Weirwood’s gnarled roots. With a soft snarl, she yanks her legs free from the thin pale tendrils that had snaked around her ankles - I am no one’s slave.

“Light, warmth - “ She stops the aria for a healing spell for her cut hand when there is no response. She spits a hissing curse instead. She does not understand why her grasp on channeling positive energy is so inconsistent - why am I always denied!

“You going to tell me what happened?” Mance Rayder’s concerned brown eyes follow as she stands.

She owes him nothing, certainly not an explanation - but I am not so petty. “I have discovered that I do not need to burn every Weirwood I find.” But oh, she wants to. “I simply have to murder a certain someone instead.”

The black brother casts a dubious eye towards the pale tree.

There is not even a single drop of her blood left on the white bark and a muscle in her jaw jumps. A hiss of smoke leaks from her lips, but she turns away. The trees are not going anywhere - I have an invitation.

And she has no intention of being fashionably late.

“Stay here,” she orders. “This should not take long - “

“Hold a moment.” Mance grabs her arm and Terendelev goes still with the effort it takes to convince herself not to tear it clean off - ally, must remember. “Are you well? You seem…”

“Agitated?” She hisses. “Furious?”

“Tense,” he offers weakly.

She burns.

“You fainted. The tree moved,” Mance whispers tightly, but he lets his hand fall away. “And you come up spitting fire. What happened?”

She is silent for too long contemplating her response. She sees it in the way Mance shifts in his crouch to even his balance, ready to spring to his full height and the halted gesture, his hand drifting towards the memory of a sword at his hip that is not there. She is pleased at the show of proper respect - there is a flicker of unease - I have not given him a reason to fear me yet.

“Know you of the mind that lives in these trees?” She asks idly.

“The mind - “ Mance blinks and glances towards the Weirwood grove around them with their five fingered crimson leaves.

“That sees through them?” She reframes the question and the black brother’s face blanks.

“You mean the old gods?”

So it was to be deicide.

“One of them did me a grave injustice,” she says slowly and everything in her simmers. “He saw a dragon and believed I could be made to obey.” The commands the roots had tried to burrow into her soul when she first arrived in this land are easily recalled. Serve. Save. Sacrifice. Slave. Her smile is a cold thing. “He believed falsely.” She starts walking, eager to leave the grove and head deeper into the wood with the general direction of the cave at the forefront of her mind. “It falls to me to relieve him of his burden.”

Of existence.

She hears Mance’s hesitant footsteps crunch through the snow behind her - I said stay here!

“We will be moving faster than you are accustomed,” she says instead. Being disobeyed is vexing, but she truly does not care beyond that. Allies can be left to sink or swim on their own merits.

“Wha - “

“To be as swift as an arrow, the acceleration of the mind and agility of form…”

Make haste.

She runs on the wind.

The crow lamented his folly.

He had been too hasty. In the surprise, confusion and even pain - too much, too much! He had overreached and had been overly sure of the power of his blood, the blood of dragonlords. In his scrambling, he had forgotten the one unvarnished truth that his would-be-is-not grand niece would have put into words: Zaldrīzes buzdari iksos daor.

A dragon is not a slave.

The crow’s jaw creaked and shuddered. It took a moment for him to remember how the tongue was supposed to move in a human mouth. At one time, he had been Brynden, a Targaryen bastard of a king and Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. Commanded to take the black for doing what had been necessary.

He had not been Brynden in a long time.

“Boy,” he whispered to his student. “Can you see her?”

“Yes.” The Stark spoke as a breeze. He was little more than a shade, the leaf upon the river that spread ripples with its light touch. The impression of the youth curled his fingers deeper into the thick coat of the golden eyed direwolf at his side. “She’s bright.”

The dragon was blinding.

The crow was on unsteady ground. Nothing was as it should be. The pieces on the cyvasse board had not just been moved, the table itself had been flipped.

Gods were rising.

All he could see was strange and frightening.

It was the dragon prince and not a princess that did not burn and what use would he have for blue winter roses with his eyes set on shining silver scales? There was no winter chill that could overcome the new heat of Rhaelle Baratheon’s blood who would live beyond her time. Aerys Targaryen’s ambition to see a Valyrian bride for his son and heir had been waylaid by the flame that had burned the blue from Steffon Baratheon’s eyes and the black from his hair. He could see no orphans of the Greenblood for they were orphans no longer. Elia Martell could not drown. Ironborn gathered on their ships. Some few walked into the sea. They returned. The dwarf remained a clever child and that saved his life, for his older sister was a thief that spoke to a golden haired ghost. It was the lord’s bastard that could coax seeds to sprout in the Reach, not the lord’s heir.

Instead of his second youngest son, it was Eddard Stark himself that was the strongest greenseer seen in centuries, wedded to the trees as firmly as the crow was.Their roots did not bind the boy, for he did not need them. Not root, dream, blood or Weirwood seed to awaken his talents. An impossibility made manifest, a Child of the Forest in the skin of a child of man.

A singer whose blood alone sang the right note.

A second son of House Stark, the crow thought with faint amusem*nt. The Has-Been-Never-Will repeats. The youngest had bonded with a pup from the kennels, half wild. The daughter stubborn and dreamed of wielding swords like a man and brushed minds with her steed. The eldest was unremarkable.

“Tell me - “ The crow coughed. His faint breaths rattled in his chest. He had never felt the heat of the dragon’s flames, but he had been burned all the same.

The hunger in them had travelled the roots to seek him out.

“Tell me when the dragon arrives.” His head lolled from the effort, cradled against his throne of Weirwood roots. The cavern was filled with the bone white roots, a cage of pale wood and dark soil. Out the corner of his remaining crimson eye, he saw the direwolf’s lip curled in a canine snarl of one flashing bronze fang. “Please,” the crow added with unease and the wolf subsided. “Please.”

“I will,” the boy who was-is-never promised.

The crow drifted back into the roots.

He needed to see.

He did not know how much time had passed when the boy guided him back to his body, for time had a different meaning to the trees. For men, it was a rushing river and they could not swim against the current. For the Weirwood, now was then and it was after. The tree laid the roots and formed the seed. The seed became a tree whose roots intertwined with the roots of before to become now and formed the seed…

When a greenseer saw through the trees, they could witness everything they saw. Separating the strands, the roots, took practice and concentration and it was best to avoid spying on beings who even a thousand years past or a thousand hence, could look back.

Hide! The direwolf snarled at the boy in a voice of babbling brooks and great trees laboriously bending before a storm.

Ned Stark pressed against the wall and the dragon stepped through the cavern opening.

The form she wore was irrelevant. It was her presence.

Beheld with his own eye, the crow knew how his nephew Aemon Targaryen felt before the dragon. A majesty all the more precious for its long absence. The heat of the fire under the skin radiated outwards as a smokeless flame. The scales were as silver as Sunfyre’s was gold and he was embittered all the more at what Hightower had squandered grasping for the Iron Throne in the Dance. Little Aemon had dreamed of dragons. The crow knew the wonder would have never left him. Not even the cold of the Wall could have taken it away.

That one night alone when the stars fell, would have kept his nephew warm for the rest of his days.

The dragon’s slitted and silver eyes fell upon him. They were filled with a proud cruelty and the crow lamented his folly once more.

“None lying in wait?” The dragon asked as she lazily crossed the bridge over the abyss that separated him from the rest of the underground network of passages and caves. “No tricks?”

The crow’s mouth worked. “Do you not wish to know?”

It was barely a whisper, but the dragon heard.

“Know what?”

“Why you are in this land.”

A dark fury crossed the dragon’s face, but it stood still. It was not a question of control, for she was an intelligent being and was always in control herself. It was the self that was in question. Altruism and avarice. Compassion and disregard. Rage and peace. Love and hatred. Truth and lie bound together.

But the dragon was always proud and always had a predator’s cruelty no matter what side of it was true and what was false.

“Speak quickly.”

“Will you sit?” The crow asked in turn.

She eyed the nest of gnarled roots and stone that made up the ground before him. The crow waited. The direwolf huffed and stepped forward. The crow does not understand what had changed, but the dragon’s eyes snapped to the wolf with a hungry intensity as if just now able to see it.

You must learn to bend that stiff neck of yours, beast.

The dragon raised silver eyebrows and trailed her gaze slowly from the wolf’s ears to its feet before looking back up with an unkind smile. “Hypocrite.”

The wolf chuffed. A beast can do as it likes, but we were promised a prince.

The dragon’s expression curdled with bewilderment. “Promised?”

“Born amidst salt and smoke, beneath a bleeding star herald of their coming,” the crow stated. “It is an old prophecy, of a ‘prince’ to banish the coming darkness and bring the dawn of a new age of glory.”

There was a shift in the dragon’s face in the midst of the crow’s second sentence and the wolf barked.

You know whom we speak of, do you not?

“Perhaps,” the dragon allowed. “A god I knew of was said to bring an age of glory and banish darkness. However, the prophecy was broken over a hundred years ago.”

We were promised! The wolf snapped.

“The dead are not much for keeping promises.” The dragon lowered its voice dangerously. “And do not presume you can extort me in exchange.”

Arrogant child! The wolf bit at the air once more. The exchange was already made, or do you believe your Father is ignorant of your whereabouts? The dragon reeled back as if struck. You think the dead cannot pay debts? Do not be so naive. You died, the wolf sneered. We yet live to be owed.

The dragon lunged.

The crow could only watch, unable to move his decrepit body from the roots as she snatched up the wolf by its throat with one hand.

“If you continue to carry on as you are, you will not live for much longer,” the dragon said softly and amusem*nt curled in the corner of the crow’s mouth. It was what the brother he hated would have done.

Dragons of either stripe, beast or man, had their similarities.

The direwolf laughed in its grip, paws flailing. Yes! Keep that hatred of yours, that rage, but aim it at the ends approaching. The wolf bared its gleaming bronze teeth in a too wide grin, golden eyes glowing. The rot comes.

The dragon’s eyes widened.

The bleed comes. The flame comes. The void comes. Winter comes.

“And death with it,” the crow finished.

“Your prince was a god,” the dragon snarls. “Your bargain with my Father was a poor one.”

Our bargain seems very well struck. It was clear the wolf was pleased, despite the threat of choking. Gold is a pretty and useless metal, it spat and the crow was disquieted in his lack of understanding. What need did any here have for gold? Far too soft for our needs. Bronze is outmatched by man’s steel. Copper and Brass are decorative, useful tools when we need champions. But Silver… Those golden eyes gleamed. Silver without impurities is brittle, it breaks.

“You have erred.” The dragon of silver scales whispered and the hand about the wolf’s throat began to squeeze. “Impure silver rusts.”

A sacrifice we expected to make. The wolf began to wheeze and the crow watched. Dra - gons are… magic, sor - cery made ma -nifest. It was suffocating. The wolf still grinned. A -nd sor…cery is a …swo -rd …with - out… a… hilt.

The dragon’s hand spasmed closed.

The direwolf slipped free in a gust of wind, swirling with five fingered bloody leaves.

“Your place is not in the North,” the crow said. The dragon’s shoulders shuddered. “Not yet. The Seven Kingdoms must stand united against what is to come. Take the blade. Keep it or give it to the prince, I care not.”

The dragon turned to face him and the crow was pleased to see that it was calm.

“There is a dragon egg at Summerhall. You will be able to find it. That you must give to the prince.” Here, the crow frowned. The Has-Been-Never-Will was beyond his reach, but not all of it must be abandoned as lost. If it could repeat once, it could do so again. “Guide the boy to wed north, to the daughter of Stark. Be his leal ally.”

“Must I?” The dragon asked softly.

“A dragon is not a slave,” the crow admitted. “Duty is a choice. Life or death is a choice.”

The dragon approached his throne of Weirwood roots.

She is contemplative and saddened, the fury bled dry as she reaches out and gently cupped the crow’s gaunt, thin face. She brushed back the long, brittle white hair and looked into his eye. The crow looked back silently. There is a Weirwood root growing into his empty eye socket, but the other is the same crimson eye of his Before. The crow cannot see what colour eyes belong to the form she took. He saw only the dragon’s eyes of molten silver.

Time did not have the same meaning to trees as it did for man. The crow is ageless, but Brynden Rivers was tired.

“We do what we must,” the crow said.

The dragon leaned in and gently laid a kiss on his dry skin.

The crow knew fear.

Into the roots, into the trees he flew and was met with the bronze teeth and fangs of a direwolf blocking the path.

A False Prince glutted on the blood of war was your plan? To wear our Starks as animal skin? We could not speak and we could not act, Bloodraven, the voice of the old gods snarl and he gaped. That did not mean we could not listen and we could not see.

‘No. You cannot! We have a pact!’

We keep our word. Be great or we will discard you and find another. We have found another.

He did what was asked of him! He was doing his duty! He had been trying to save them all!

‘I did what I must!’

“I know,” the dragon replied to the crown of his head.

Then she breathed.

The cold and ice had come for him early. He could only watch as the dragon pulled back her fist.

“So do I.”

Young Ned Stark wakes from his sleep crying softly for a lost teacher as the howling winds that have battered the Gates of the Moon abruptly cease. In the sudden silence, young Robert Baratheon falls out of his sickbed, screaming.

From the cold grey sky of the Vale of Arryn, blue lightning strikes.

Thunder rolls.

Chapter 6: The Far North II

Chapter Text

“Are you…” Mance Rayder begins incredulously and she tenses.“Brooding?”

“I amnot.”

The fire in her blood flares at the defensive note shehearsin her voice. Her first instinct is toburnthe cause, but she has more control than that. Nothing but smoke escapes her lips. She looks at Mance sharply and his flinch of - be still, be silent-of prey under the eye of a predator is pleasing, but the way he shrugs it off and boldly meets her eyes amuses her enough to bank the heat. She does not want him to be right, so she pushes the simmeringpanicand the curiouslove-hatewelling in her chest down.

It should be a simple decision. She will sacrifice herself for no one.

Not again.

But ifFatherwas truly the one that wished her to save -enough, stop thinking about it!

“Weareheading in the correct direction?” She asks idly. She does not need to look to navigate the thick forest beyond the Wall. The horns of her natural form would sense farther, but the wind running through the remaining leaves tells her guise enough. She raises a hand and the thick tree branch creakingly bends. As soon as she is clear of it, she lets go.

Mance swears loudly as he ducks under it.

She smiles at the dark look he gives her. The black brother certainly had spirit -I wonder what it would take to break him?Her amusem*nt is reason enough to tolerate the search for the tug on his strange magic. She has always found arcane bonds intriguing. One formed without the mage’s consent or effort wasnewand -seeing how far this bond could be twisted should be fun.

She rolls that thought over in her mind. She had been unaware that such a thing interests her, but itdoes.

“You’recertain?”He presses as he trudges through the snow, breathing heavily, wincing and gingerly creeping around the roots and trunks of trees. He wipes at his sluggishly bleeding nose and she considers that his blown pupils likely means a concussion.

“I have been forbidden from brooding by royal decree,” she drawls acidly and of all things,thatis what gets the black brother to startle like a frightened rabbit. She regrets saying it. She rolls her eyes upwards. “That was not a jape.”

Unfortunately.

“You’ve beenforbidden - “She clicks her teeth at the amusem*nt thick in his voice and he wisely holds up his hands in surrender. “Guessing it wasn't the prince.”

“A queen,” she admits sourly.

And thirteen senior clerics.

Eight paladin commanders.

TheentireSilver dragon Collective of Mendev.

Ahypocriteof an inquisitor, four ignorant royal councilors sticking their large nosesinto her business, therusting cravenof a Gold Dragon she had the misfortune of calling a mentor and the aggravating Azata angel shereallyshould have letdiethat dragged said queen into it claiming he was staging an intervention.

None of them were here. She could brood if she wanted to, but then Mance would be right and shecould not have that.

Mance eyes her. “You have aqueen?”

“No,”she says sharply. She does notcarewhat the law says, Galfrey of Mendev is not her anything -especially not my head of house.Just thinking about the comedy of errors that forced a diadem on her guise’s brow grates her scales -had I gonemad?

It no longer matters.

She died.

Terendelev stops abruptly. Mance stops with her, raising his eyebrows in a silent question. She grimaces.

Shedied.

…andshe now distinctly remembers the Second Crusade amendments to Mendev’s inheritance laws regardingproof of deathandresurrections - Apsu’s shriveled balls, I’m still her legal heir!

Damn it.

Xsio.

She swallows the panic. She would have to be found first.

What a strange turn of events. Her overbearing Father might have actually done her afavor.

A demon invasion had overrun Kenabres and the Wardstone was destroyed. A Fifth Crusade would have been called against the demons of the Abyss, she is sure. They would not have the timeto search for a missing Silver dragon -corpse. Galfrey would not take to the field, her courtly lickspittles would never let her. Light forbid the fall of Kenabres goads Galfrey into actually doing the heroic thing and she gets herself painfully murdered. They might actually have to find her draconic heir then. A sneer curls Terendelev’s lip, her hatestokes with disdain. She would prefer Galfrey alive for reasons beyond standing between her and a throne, but she would easily survive the woman's loss - better yet, the demons might win and there will be no Mendevian throne to inherit at all.

“I do nothavea queen,” she insists.

“Uhhuh.”

She whirls on him, stepping right into his space to growl, “I donot - “

Mance’s wide eyes flicker down towards her mouth. Rageignites.Blood rushes in her guise’s ears as sheburnsat thedisgustingpresumption -you worm!It is the horror blooming in his own expression that saves hisworthless life. It is the turn of greedin her chest -allywant want wantthat makes her realize she is being a hypocrite. He is not presuming anything of her. He simply cannot help it. He is male and her guise is gorgeous. She is still furious, but being lusted after is no great burden, surely? She should be used to it by now.

Silvers were made to be glorious.

Of coursehe wants her -I amperfect.

“Ah,” she says, low and intent. She allows a slow, creeping smile instead of tearing out his throat. “Isawthat, Mance. Regretting anoath, are we?”

He tries to push her away and ends up doing far more to pushhimselfback. She graciously takes a single step away as she hears the bone of his arm grind -so it is broken.It increases the likelihood that he cracked those ribs instead of just bruising them. Amusem*nt bubbles in her throat at his pained grimace. Shedidwarn him about the haste.

He is fortunate he didn’t kill himself running into that tree.

“What’swrongwith you?” Mance snaps.

Her amusem*nt withers. “I beg yourpardon?”

“You heard me,”he bites out. “Since when doyouf*ckingtease?”

“Whenever I feel inclined to,” she says softly in warning -I owe no explanations.

“You never do,” Mance says strongly, so very certain. His hand warily falls to the flame pommel of the Valyrian steel blade she permitted him. Is he expecting her toattack him? She almost laughs. The sword may be a magic weapon, but he cannot truly stop her - if I want him.

She considers the thought.

He is not strong enough to resist her and isinjured -weak.Mance ishersjust as her silver coins are hers. He is not a slave -slavery is anathemabut he does not need to be one to be punished orrewarded. He finds her current guise pleasing. He fears that so she knows he will still try to fight her as much as himself. The thought amuses her -If. I want him.

She falters- do I?

The burninghatedims intofear.Risking ahalfbreed?Her stomach turns with nausea -what am I doing?

She steps further away from him, unsettled.

“You should consider it a compliment,” she says uneasily, because itis.She is superior toeverybeing he knows to exist.

“No,” Mance says slowly. His dark eyes are knowing. “I don’t think I will.”

The greed is still there. It stillburns, but it is simple want. A hunger toownthat she recognizes.She is a dragon. She always wants to own. It does not explain a sudden tolerance for debasing herself just to torment someone shealreadyhas, what would it evenaccomplish-somethingiswrong with me.

She feels unclean.

“Your choice.” She does not have it in her to feel offense at his rejection, justrelief. She hastily takes several more steps back, preparing to leave and not wanting to eventhinkabout -

“You aren’t going to tell me what’s troubling you, are you?” Mance says lazily.

The last of her patience snaps.

She pivots with a snarl. There is an almostfondflicker of exasperation when the only reason she fails to remove his head is because he had already thrown himself to the side. The gnarled pine splinters under her fist and with a resounding crash, the rest of the tree crumples to the ground.

“There is nothingtroubling me,”she hisses.

Mance grunts from the ground. He looks at her then, raises an eyebrow, tilts his head towards the fallen tree and says, “I don’t f*cking believe you.”

She despairs -he’s too similar to Braganon.

That Azata never shut up either.

“If you needed assistance with yoursuicide,”she begins mildly. “You need only ask- “

Her head snaps to the right, to where she can hear the sounds of people approaching, talking among themselves in low notes. The rustle of hide and fur, the clatter and soft clang of wood -bowsandbronze. She decides in an instant. The black brother lives. Mance is hers. She should be more careful with her things.

“ - me later.”

“What?” Mance says in alarm. “What is it?”

Victims.

She is already striding towards the noise. The corner of Terendelev’s mouth lifts as does her mood.

Wildlings are not her things. They are a threat to her things.

She hears Mance swearing under his breath as he struggles to stand.Tiamat vbrel -just the sound of his faltering footsteps following her threatens to make hervomiteven as it is somewhat comforting and unspeakablygratifying.

Shedoesown him.

It does not take long for her to pinpoint the location of the wildlings. A deaf and blindwyvernwould notice all the racket they were making.

“A f*ckin’treefell over - “

“Isaid - “There is a sharp thud of a blade hitting a tree trunk and the yowling of a very large feline as the man spits. “ - shut yer f*ckin’gob,Tormund!”

She tugs upon the air around her lightly, letting the resulting breeze filter through the branches, the needles and limp leaves, letting it brush against the trunks and rocks and roots. Her guise lacks the horns, but she is yet a dragon with a dragon’s mind. She canseewhat shehears. The wind tells her of a frozen creek and she adjusts her approach. She raises a hand and pulls at the air again, at thewaterin it and a mist descends that will soon thicken into a thick fog.

Her Nightfort is at the Wall. That means the far North no longer belongs to these savages. They aretrespassingand they will learn what becomes of those that trespass against a dragon. They will learn itwell.

Shecouldjust walk right at them, retaking her true form and flatten the entire forest in her wake.

But where was thefuninthat?

Even dragons enjoy a little challenge every once in a while.

He was f*cking lost.

Mance bit his lip as he tripped over another root in the cold, wet haze. The fog had blown in and it blew inthick.He could barely see a few feet in front of him, as bad or worse than that snowstorm would have ever been. He should have stayed where he was. He should have f*cking stayed where he was like she ordered him to instead of stumbling after the dragon. Instead ofstillstumbling after the dragon.

Who was likely f*ckingpossessed!

Or cursed or some utter magic sh*t by whatever she found in that f*cking cave - no that wasn’t right. There’d been something off about her since she woke up after offering blood to the Weirwood. Less patient, less considerate. Lesseverything.It couldn’t just be the result of her anger?

Why not, a little voice inside whispered. The one that said men south of the Wall weren’t any nobler than men north of it, they just pretended they were.

He knew good and well that many men changed when caught in a black rage. For others, it was battle lust, when the blood was up from the struggle of staying alive and making sure the other man died. That false feeling of invulnerability got to them. There was nothing false about the dragon’s power. No matter how tamed the wolf, itwillbite given reason. Had she been telling thetruth? Was he just fooling himself? Did he have theright to feelpainedat the notion that she was no different from his brothers?

She was a dragon.

She was under no obligation to be.

He leaned against a cold tree trunk. Every breath stabbed. His face throbbed. There was blood in his mouth. A tooth wiggled against his tongue when he checked. He felt dizzy and tired. He wascold.He had no supplies or a tent. The dragon had pulled a priceless Valyrian steel sword out of her f*ckingass,but he couldn’t eat steel.

He couldn’t seewherethe dragon that mended torn cloaks and healed injuries without a word had gone off to, but he had the sinking feeling he wasn’t going to find her even if he managed to catch up.

He pushed off the tree.

He made it three steps before something snatched him behind the same f*cking tree and he almost screamed.

“Shhh.” Ice slid down his spine when he registered the silver spun hair. The dragon wasn’t looking at him, though her head was tilted like a wolf that just heard prey. He pressed into the trunk when the angle of her head changed to that of a sea eagle distantly interested in him as a potential meal. “Got lost?”

He can’t f*ckingtrustthe jest in her voice.

“Fog’s hard to see through,” he gritted out through a clenched jaw. His skin crawled when she chose to look at him, because she wastoo close.She smelled like fresh blood. “And I’minjured.”

“A fair assessment.” It was more than f*ckingfair.He glared at the dragon and to his surprise, instead of trying to kill him again, she sighed. “I do not truly mean to leave you in pain. I am currently unable to even heal myself.”

She raised a hand and he saw the scabbed over cut on her palm. He also saw the caked blood on her fingers.

Some fearful part of him unclenched. “I see you’ve been occupied.”

“Wildling raiders. They finally overcame their fear of the Watch’stamed dragon.”He was reminded of his request that shenotavoid themvigorously.“There were twenty one of them.” The pull of her lips flashed teeth.“Were.”

The fog was hers, he knew then. She could banish a snow storm and direct the winds. A little mist was nothing. The great beast preferred visibility, but she did not needit. She moved like a shadowcat, completely silent even in chain armor. The blood on her hands.

And what sense of humor would a dragon have, if not one that was proud and cruel?

“Gotlost,did they?” He asked.

“Very,” the dragon replied gleefully. “One byone.” She glanced over him and he held himself still as she developed a slight pout. “Itisabout time that I end the game,” she muttered reluctantly. “You were about to walk into the remnant. I would not want anything to happen to you.”

“Aye,” Mance said with a tight smile. “You’re the only one allowed to kill me, after all.”

“Thisis why I like you,” the dragon said with a sincerity that chilled his blood. “Youunderstand.”

She pulled away and he remembered tobreathe.

It was then that he saw the corpse.

It wasn’t the first one he’d ever seen and it wouldn’t be the last. It wasn’t even the most gruesome. He’d seen the meal leftover cannibals left behind. He’s seen too many wildling spearwives that would gut a brother as soon as a man would to feel any pity.

There was still something about theprecisionof twisting a head near clean off, but leaving the spine exposed andunbrokenthrough the torn flesh that made him recoil. It was the almost artistically captured expression of blank fear on the woman’s face, propped up as she was against the rock across from him with her bow across her lap. The gutted bodies of a snow bear and wolf laid beside her as if it were only sleeping.

“Hm?” The dragon followed his gaze, unconcerned. “Consider it a placeholder until I think of something better.” He turned disbelieving eyes on her. “I am not a god,” she said calmly. “But I am well suited to putting thefear of oneinto them.”

Aye.

She was at that.

“Come,” she ordered. There were flecks of blood on her white cloak. The color matched the crimson diamonds of the heraldry embroidered on it. “We must be sure the message is delivered.”

We.

Mayhaps another man might be thrilled to have the great beast’s regard. He could name a half dozen brothers that would call him dimwitted for being fearful.

He wasn’t.

He just wasn’t f*ckingmad.

The dragon led him to a clearing in the forest, split in two by a thin frozen creek just as a bedraggled small group of wildings burst into it. Mance gaped as a f*cking shadowcat as big as a horse came into sight along a monstrously large boar covered in a bone like armor. The second snow bear ofnormalhuge size was almost a relief. Was this what awaited the Watch on Rangingsnow?

“Crow!”A brute in front snarled with wide bloodshot eyes.

“Wildling!” Mance called back cheerily. There were seven of them left. Some still had the wits to be wary. Others were turning their fear into rage. He didn’t know the dead man walking, but he recognized the gold bands about the arms of the hulking form behind him.

Who was taking very small steps backwards.

Tormund Giantsbane had the sense the old gods gave a squirrel. Who knew?

Mance shifted his weight when the leader stalked forwards. He dropped his hand to the hilt of the dragon’s sword and winced as his ribs protested.

“None will get past me,” the dragon said. It would have been reassuring, if not for the unsettling almost hopefullight that shone in her deep purple eyes.

It was a look that said she hoped theytried.

“Harald,”one of the wary ones barked sharply. He was barely a man grown with a weak chin, watery blue eyes and a blooming flowering staff in his hands. Which, what thef*ck?“Look at her eyes.”

“Woman’s got a skin around,” a spearwife spat with an ugly snarl equal to her shadowcat’s growl. “T’was your f*ckin’ whor*, weren’t it, crow? Think you’ll hunt us when I - ”

“The woman’s mine,” the alleged Harald grunted, beady eyes roving the dragon. Mance relaxed his stance.

Verydead man walking.

The monster boar snuffled by the wildling that almost looked like a boar himself, all leathers, coarse dark hair, heavy jowls and brow. The massive black cat sniffed at the air. “What yougot?” A threatening jab of a crude spear as the ugly woman spat. “Bring it out so I can tear it apart!”

The great beast smiled. “Adragon.”

Mance saw Tormund’s eyes cross and then he started shuffling back faster.

“I said bring it out!” The shadowcat yowled.“What you got?”

“You do notbelieve me?”The dragonpurred,stepping forwards. “I am feeling generous. You have to the count of five to choose which one of you will be left alive to warn your tribes. One.”

The windroared.

Mance almost fell before the gale that shook the tree tops, banishing the fog as it passed over them as if some massive flying creature had just -

“Two,” the dragon said pleasantly.

The shadowcat leapt right for them and he - he must have lost his f*cking mind because helaughedas the dragon fearlessly met it. He knew what the thud and crunch of a collapsing rib cage sounded like and was unsurprised to see the animal tossed aside with the same ease that lifted a several hundred pound gate. It landed with a gurgle, a pitiful whimper and then fell silent.

The wildlings broke.

“Ah ah ah,” the great beast tutted at their fleeing backs. “I said chooseone.”

She flashed Mance a mischievous grin and in the next moment a silver furred wolf was bounding after them as the fog closed back in. He couldswearsome of the trees weremoving,trying to block her path for all the good it did.

Which was none.

He ached. A wolf, with those four legs she liked so much, just like he had teased her. Maybe dragon hearts were just like mens, after all. Mance caught his breath, tested his ribs and began the long trudge forwards through a forest of screams.

Halaseliax taught her that eating the flesh of sentients was an abominable action. She could no longer recall the reasonwhy - it tastes a bit like pork.The logic failed her. She could kill someone by biting them in half, but could not swallow what was alreadyin her mouth? Her Red dragon, Rhastwyr had been right.

What sense didthatmake?

She certainly was not going to risk ingesting demons,nor their cultists. That had nothing to do with morality. That was just not beingstupid.Whoknowswhere they have been or what they have done to themselves? She obligingly spit out the rubbery severed trachea anyway. Human blood is a decent palette cleanser, she supposes, but she is not hungry.

The last one scrambles back, his hands out as she steps over the body.

“Hey now!” The tall wildling with a salt and pepper long beard and hair wearing gold bands on his arms draws himself up. “Back! Be off with you! You face the bane o’ Giants! The Thunderfist! The Breaker o’Ice!I am not like those others!”

She barks. Of course he is not like them -you ran further.She licks her bloody chops and he gulps.

“I warned you!Ha!”With a mighty yell, the man stomps his foot and the snow in front of him rises andsurges -

About a foot before collapsing in a sorry pile.

She stares incredulously.

“Erm.” The wilding scratches his head. “Give me - hold on a mo’, mebbe it was…” He shuffles his legs and waggles both arms.

He is distracted! She leaps.

“Ha -ah!?”

The snow beneath herrisesin a reverse avalanche.

Terendelev coughs, sputters, hacking at the punch to the stomach -I can’t breathe!She flails her paws for purchase, tumbling and rolling as she tries to ride the wave of snow carrying her up and away. Her sense of direction is shot and the snow is loud and if the wilding is smart he isrunning- enough! Burn!

A pillar of flame bolts down from the sky. For lack of a better target, she calls it down on herself.

It hurtjustas much as she thought it would.

The snow carrying her evaporates under the fire. With a yelp, she is unceremoniously dumped head first into the mud, rolling over once. She can smell her own burned fur and flesh. Shefeelsit. She seesred.Her bloodboils.She rises clumsily to her feet, swaying, hissing and snarling as she peers through the billowing cloud of steam. Some of the trees have caught fire. Her fire has burned right to the rock.

The wilding was not smart.

“For f*ck’s sake!” Thedead manbellows. “That - that’s cheatin’ is what that is.”

She does not know what she looks like when the steam thins, but the sudden pallor of his face issatisfying.She growls.

“Run.”

He does.

She bounds after him. One of them could influence wood, this one chucks balls of ice at her from over his shoulder. She only has to take one to her very sensitive snout before she realizes that she is no longerresistant to ice.

She nearly trips over her paws dodging the next ice blast -the ice spearshe remembers. She over focused on the slaver andforgotabout whoever threw the rustingice spear-she yelps as a solid chunk of snow breaks on her shoulder. Itstings.A miss gouges a sizable block the size of a man’s torso from a thick tree trunk and she amends her statement with relief.

Still resistant to ice, but no longer immune.

Her prey vaults over a broken tree. Her following bounce off the large rock is anything but dexterous. She barely manages to salvage it by launching off it with enough force to crack the stone and barks triumphantly as she does not jump so much ascrashinto the savage’s back. He drops into a roll, nearly throwing her off. Her first bite glances off the glint of ice, but she finally has thelast wilding -

Last?

Last!?

The bane of Giants screams like a little girl as her teeth snap shut in front of his face.

For a long moment, she simply stares into his panicked eyes, disoriented -I said choose…one. She will never be a liar. Her ears perk up as she listens, but all she hears is Mance’s labored breathing steadily approaching. There are no others. He is truly the last of them so she cannot even justify -why not? I saidchooseand they did not.

It would not be a lie.

She feels as if she had been dumped into an ice cold lake. The fire in her blood gutters out - thechoicewas my generosityfor she had always planned on keeping one alive to spread themessage.

She only wanted them to choose who survives.

That - she can barely comprehend howcruelthat decision was.Why did she -this is not me.

She recalls clearly that ithad been.

She scrambles back off the wildling. She ignores his stare as she shoves her muzzle into the snow, wiping the blood from her mouth. Her head raises as Mance painfully limps into sight. The black brother looks asexhaustedas she feels. She reaches for thehate,for theragebecause she is - she is socoldandtiredwithout it.

She recoils at the last second -no!

She sees him blink in surprise, eyes flickering between the wildling raider and herself. He raises his eyebrows and she gives a weak canine smile, letting her tongue loll out of her mouth as she shrugs. If the wildling chooses poorly, she will correct the oversight.

“The f*ck wasthat?” The wildling spits instead, bristling in offense that his killer changed her mind. There are times when she is absolutelybaffledhow humans survive as a species.

She works her canine jaw.

“You are free to go,”she snarls softly.

“What?”Mance and the wildling say together.

She huffs. Shame and guilt mix in her belly to make her bite out,“I saidone lives.”

She turns back to the snow and the streaks of crimson dance before her eyes. She can taste the human blood on her tongue and remembers consideringeating them.She feels sick -I never - I did not want -She wipes her mouth. And wipes and wipes andwipes and wipesbut the white snow is always turningredand she willnever get it all off -she does not realize she had begun to whimper and whine biting into the snow to rinse her teeth until a hand tugs on one of her ears.

She sniffles. She does not want to look up. She forces herself to.

“There you are,” Mance says softly, tugging gently once more. There is only relief in his eyes. He offers a corner of his black cloak. She holds still as he carefully wipes her muzzle. “You had me f*cking concernedfor a bit, woman.”

She cannot even recall the last time she slipped so badly, not since the infection had beennew - something iswrongwith me.

“I - “she croaks.“Will not be a wolf for a while.”

“Aye,” he says easily. “Dragon suits you better anyhow.”

She shudders. Shakes. Her head swings back and forth. She does not know what to say. There is no apology she can give. She cannottell himshe considered using lust to make himhurt.She wants toweep.

“I’mright here!”The wildling interrupts.

Mance groans. “Youhadto spare the wind bag,” he whispers loudly. The big man harrumphs and the black brother turns. “Tormund Tall-talker!” He says happily. “I can see you’re still here. f*ckingwhy?”

“Don’t f*ckin’ start withme,crow - “ This ‘Tormund’ wildly waves his arms. “Why am I stillalive!?”

“Why are you f*cking whinging aboutthat?Youmad?”She does not speak. She presses her nose into Mance’s cloak as he starts arguing with Tormund over her head. Mine.The thoughtsears.It is the only reason he is alive. Her regard carried over. She does not know how to feel about that.

She does not want to feel anything.

She istired.

“ - still keep Guest Right, don’t you?” Mance’s mocking voice brings her out of -did I fall asleep?

“OfcourseI do, youf*cker- hold.”

“Seems to me - “

“I said f*ckin’hold,crow!”

“Then that’s a problem solved! This here’s anhonorabledragon.” Her throat closes on a whine -no no no no.

“...that is awolf.”

Mance ignores him. “You keep your word and we’ll keep ours. I may wear the color, but I ain’t out here for the Watch or the Wall. I swear it on the old gods and the new.”

“What do you know of the gods,” Tormund scoffs, but he frowns.

“You will have nothing to fear from us,” Mance promises slyly.

Tormund bites back, “ I ain’t afeared of nothin’!”

She closes her eyes again -you were very afraid, even now you stink of itbut she does not say a word.

“Oh, so that scream came from thewolfthen,” Mance says it for her and she chuffs weakly into his side.

The big man growls, spits and then bursts into loud laughter. “Har! You got a way with words, I’ll give you that, crow!” The return to barely restrained fury is quick. “But if you think I’m anything like that craven bastard giving shelter tocrows - “

“I think you are thelonesurvivor of the Ice Dragon of the Watch. For now.”

The wildling opens his mouth and then pauses mid sneer.

“...where’d the woman go?” He says as if finally putting words to a nagging thought.

“Where’d you think?” Mance replies seriously. She pulls her muzzle free from his side just enough to meet Tormund’s widening blue - gray eyes. She knows hers is the same off shade of indigo that she prefers even as a wolf.

Tormund stares.

“f*ck.”He turns his back to them, grumbling quietly to himself. “Tormund Dragonsbane - I can be bane oftwo,wait, didn’t kill it, sh*tebuuutthat ain’tneededain’t it, Giantsbane, har!” She glances at Mance. He winks back. “A parley!” Tormund yells out, turning back around. “Or truce - whatever you kneelers call it, my terms! You gotta make it worth my while, see?”

“What do you ask for?”

“No dragons flying over Ruddy Hall, burning or icing it to the ground,” the man responds quickly. “I want protection for me and mine from that beast.”

“...your home is safe from me.”She hears the black brother let out a slight hiss, but she will not negotiate. A building cannot provoke her. She is no Red dragon, emerging from her lair only to terrorize all within her territory. She will protect the Wall, but she does not own the Night’s Watch and they have no claim on her either.

He is afraid of her. She understands. She is afraid of herself as well.

“I swear this on my Father’s name.”

Tormund squints skeptically. “And who’s your pappy?”

“Apsu,”she growls evenly, for she has no other name to give.“The Waybringer, Dragon God of All.”

“Oh.” The big man begins to look incredibly awkward. He looks at Mance for some kind of answer, but she does not see what it was. “Well. Uh, you are…welcome in my hall and all that sh*te - “ The wildling abruptly turns on his heel and starts stomping away, shouting. “The dragonis awomanand awolfthat spitsfire from the skyand god get and I am f*ckin’ mad!”

He waves a fist in the air.

“Lost my mind!”

She stares after the man in bewilderment.

Mance pulls on her ear again, a little harsher. “Pardon? Lady ‘I Can’t HearPra-yers?’”he says, voice cracking in disbelief. “Your father is agod?”

She buries her head under her paws.

Shecannot.

She trots after Tormund.

“Don’t you ignore me, woman! Yourfatheris a god.” Her ears twitch backwards, but she does not answer.“Yourfather is a god!”

She continues to ignore him until he gets the hint, resorting to irritated muttering. She can hear every word. He knows she can, but she allows him the petty barbs.

She owes him at least that much.

She passes behind a tree trunk and emerges from the other side of it on two legs. She pulls her white cloak around her defensively. Changing shape gets rid of the smell of burnt fur, but it does nothing for her cooked reddened skin. She raises a hand with her fingers curled.

“This pain,” she murmurs. “Is only temporary.”

It is a bitter relief when she reaches for positive energy and itfinally answers,healing her soreness. The bloodletting scab on the palm of her hand flakes away, for her fresh wounds completely healed with positive energy do not leave a trace. She stops walking and stares at her palm in unease.

“What?”

She lowers her hand and continues on. “Nothing.”

The wound she had pressed to the bark of the Weirwood left a scar.

Mance proves determined to spend the entire trek behind the tall, hulking wilding into the far North having a one-sided conversation with her.

“I am fairly certain that short distance prayers are still prayers.”

“Tell me what I’m praying to you for. I am prayinghard.”

“Can you even grow old?”

“You said all your magic comes from yourbirthright.That includes the weather changing sh*t, yeah?”

“Wait, how f*cking old are you anyway?”

“And then one day adragon goddecided to fly forth and shack up with a miller’s daughter and - “

“I ampureborn!”She makes the mistake of breaking her silence, horrified.

“Ah ha!” Mance declares triumphantly.

Her face heats and she walks faster -are we there yet?

“So who squeezed out your egg, a dragoness or a goddess?”

Dragon, she does not say. Mostly because she does not want to encourage him, but there is a small part of her that is reluctant to admit -I do not have a name to give for a bearer either.

Hatchlings are precious and blood ties are unimportant. They are all shining Silver. She has fostered several hatchlings herself and witnessed many orphaned eggs be presented at a Silver collective for adoption and all were accepted into proud, glorious Silver lineages.

All except for her own egg.

Vestariathix only kept her long enough to make sure she hatched without injury and could fly independently, leaving only dim memories of her breathing, ice rain scent and the denial - ‘You are not of my clutch, little one, but never doubt that the Maker of All loves you dearly.’ The great wyrm Halaseliax accepted an early mentorship of her afterwards at five years of age instead of at fifty. She grew a Silver raised by a dragon of the wrong color. Whenever she moved her lair, she sought out her Silver neighbors. Yet every gathering of Silvers included introductions and names she could not give. Her attendance was always accompanied by discrete stares.

She does not know why no one wanted her.

It was a wound her sworn-brother, Sevalros always raked when his jealousy got to him.

No one had wanted her.

It is at least several hours later before they finally reach their destination. The sun is already dipping towards the horizon to end the short winter day. The wildling is understandably surly when he demands them to stay in the small clearing and wait for his signal to approach.

“Right, right, I’ll take pity on you,” the black brother says as soon as they are left alone.

She closes her eyes wearily.

“So how big are theballson that queen of yours?” It is not virtuous of her, but it was areliefwhen he bent over in a sudden coughing fit and then spit up blood.

For a moment, both of them stare at the drops of red on the snow blankly.

“Oh,” Mance says quietly.

“Against the tree,” she orders, heart in her throat when he did not lean against the snow dusted trunk so much as pitch into it. He was hurt, she knew he was hurt -I should have healed him immediately!

“It’s in the Frostfangs,” Mance mutters.

“What?” she asks absently -broken ribs, right side.

“The sh*t that’scallingme,” he spits, twisting and she gently pushes him back against the tree with a finger.

“Pleasestop moving.” Terendelev murmurs back. Half of her attention is tracking Tormund as he moves towards his home, preparing for their deal to sour. She wants to trust, but she is aware the wildling has no reason to trusther.“When were you going to tell me that you have a puncturedlung?”

“And a f*cking fish hook in my entrails,” he snarls back with flecks of blood on his lips, but he finally settles.

She swallows the tart ‘thank you for ceasing to makeyour own injuries worse’because she does havesome notion of appropriate bedside manner. The look he gives her suggests he hears it anyway. He turns his head to glare balefully at the frosted mountains peaking through the branches. They are roughly a league and a half north and west from the landmark Mance knows as the Fist of the First Men by his reckoning. It is far enough north that the forest has begun to thin as the smaller trees and flora fail to find purchase in the increasingly frozen and rocky soil. There is a hint of salt in the air from a cold sea shore.

Salt anddeath.

It is familiar to her and it is no longer faint ambient magic. It is almost aphysicaltaste on the wind, far, far stronger than what she was capable of detecting at the Wall. What wascausingit? Will it keep getting stronger the further north she travels? Towards the Land of Always Winter?

‘Wintercomes,’wood, stone and water had told her in that cave. A shiver runs through Mance, drawing her out of her thoughts.

She breathes out and closes her eyes.

“Light, warmth,” She whispers. Her voice strengthens as she feels the positive energy swell within her. “Vitality,life.Step towardswellbeing!”

The spell flows from her fingertips as golden heat. The black brother stiffens, then sags with a relieved sigh. “So that’s what that feels like,” he coughs through deep breaths. “Godsdamn, thank you.”

She hesitates -it was my fault,but he narrows his eyes at her in warning. She lowers hers. “I accept your thanks, but I am not yet done.”

“Am I dying right this moment?”

“You have a head injury.” He raises his eyebrows and she sighs. No slurring, confusion, or convulsions and he could walk in a straight line, so. “Not right at this moment, no.”

“Then it can wait for a hot meal and a fire,” the Ranger says decisively. He leans against her for a moment after he pushes off the tree, lightheaded and nauseous, but he straightens quickly.

A sharp bird-like whistle pierced the still air.

“That’s our welcome,” Mance mutters. He glances back at the mountains, lays a hand on the flame pommel hilt of the sword on his hip and starts walking.

She follows silently.

Ruddy Hall is closer to the great tent of a Kellid barbarian chieftain than a true hall, but she will admit that it has charm. It was crude and simple, but there was a palpable sense of pride in its construction. White bear and bristly boar hides made up the walls of the tent, strung between carved and decorated wooden poles. There was a large beer keg held together with polished bronze bands perched over the entrance on mammoth tusks capped withsilver.

She approves.

It was on the top of a tall, craggy hill that abruptly ended in a rocky cliff on the east side and the west was blocked by carefully knocked down trees to form a crude barrier chokepoint. Beside her, Mance is tense with a hand on the flame pommel hilt of the sword belted at his hip. She does not know if reminding him that shewillfind a way to bring him back if he dies would be welcome after her...lapse. Instead she says nothing, but lengthens her stride to cross in front of him and play the vanguard. Once she is past the trees, the hill opens up. Dotted across the long, sprawling slope behind the great tent is a small village of tents, fire pits, animal pens and lifegoing on as it always did, one day at a time. Smoke and cooked meat, leather, sweat and a myriad of far less pleasant smells causes her nose to wrinkle. Every face she sees is hard, alternating between suspicious, angry or covetous.

Mance makes a small noise as he looks out over the small settlement. When he sees her looking at him, he flushes. “Guess even raiders have to call someplace home.”

Tormund and a tall youth that looks vaguely similar to him meet them at Ruddy Hall’s entrance with a chunk of bread and a cup of…somethingalcoholic. The boy had eyes like a bear, only white at the edges, nearly all a bloody brown color with a darker ring where the white should have started and large pupils. His shoulders were hunched and the ways his hands curl at his sides as if he had claws itches at her mind.

A shapeshifter. Or did he simply have the traits of an animal?

“Pa?” the boy asks simply.

“The guests, Toregg,” Tormund grunts.

His son nods slowly with a faint sneer that Mance returns. She tilts her head questioningly when it is her turn to come under scrutiny.

“Where’s your other skin?” Toregg asks bluntly -was it that obvious what I am?

In a swift movement. Tormund slaps his son upside the head.“Guests.”Toregg rocked with the blow silently and gave his father alook.“No lip anddon’t ask.”

The bread is broken in half and offered. It is coarse and gritty andtastes like blood.Her sip of the drink is hurried.

It’s disgusting.

“Right,” Tormund mutters. “Right!” He says louder. “Now where was I?”

“The raid,” his son prods him as they head into the great tent. Mance gives her a pained look as he follows.

“ - never even got close, I told you, didn’t I? What kind of half-wit wakes up one day with skinchanging magic and thinks they’re immortal?” The big man puttered around the low table off center of the tent before throwing himself into a large wooden chair covered in a pile of furs. “Dangerous ones, that’s what!”

Mance took a seat at the table under Tormund’s gimlet eye with a bland smile.

“And maybe if it were justmagiccrows,of course we’d gut them. They wouldn’t have stood a chance!”Tormund continues his story with obvious relish as what could only be his family of several young boys crowd in and a lean woman with a babe strapped to her chest tends the pot over the large fire pit. “But I got the darndest peculiar luck to come across the crow’s flying beast!”

The boys gasp. Tormund glares at her, disgruntled and she rolls her eyes as she sits behind Mance, leaning against his back to keep an eye on the entrance.

“Everyone’s dead,” the wildling…chieftain says. “Barely got away withmylife, I weren’t gonna try to stick my neck out for anyone else. I had to get back to you lot.”

A twinge of guilt and shame curls in her chest. Halaseliax taught her betterthan to murder retreating foes.

“If any man tells you that killing it will be simple, know him for afool.” Tormundmeets the eyes of his children evenly. “The creature is as cunning as a shadowcat, strong as a giant and fast as a wolf!”

Terendelev snorts softly. She lets her mind drift back to the cave in the hill with the tangle of bone white Weirwood roots, the direwolf with bronze claws and fangs. The slaver with one red eye.

‘The rot comes. The bleed comes. The flame comes. The void comes. Wintercomes.’

“And death with it,” she mutters. Save for the last, nothing comes to mind of what the direwolf could have been referring to. Winter in Westeros was measured in years, not months. A particularly bad one could easily be apocalyptic. Perhaps the rest were the same? Theymight just be calamitous natural disasters - would that I were so lucky.

She knows she is not. Death was on the wind here. It tainted the magic in the air here.

But it did not reach south of the Wall.

She is still resistant to ice. It is her element. If she had not forgotten about the ice spear, she would have had the foresight to wonder why it wounded her so easily, but she is always -

“Hm?” Mance shuffles a little against her back. “I have it on good authority that you’re forbidden from brooding by royal decree.”

She chokes. Why did she tell him about that? “I am not brooding.I am thinking.”

“About?” He murmurs under his breath, knowing she could hear him still.

“About…” She trails off and considers. “There was a prophecy in the land I come from,” she starts slowly as Tormund laughs loudly, boasting about having to ‘dig deep in my bag o’ tricks.’ “It is known as the Starfall Doctrine and is thousands and thousands of years old. It foretells of the god Aroden, the Last Azlanti and that he will herald an Age of Glory for mankind, forever banishing the Age of Darkness. Entire kingdoms prepared for it, calling it by different names. The coming of the First of the Last Humans, the Golden Age, the Great Promise…”

The nation of Cheliax in particular had been so very sure, restructuring their very nation to serve their coming God-King.

Mance hums. “This has something to do with you, I take it.”

‘A beast can do as it likes,’the bronze, wind andbloodhad bubbled in the cave.‘But we were promised a prince.’

The Living God Aroden retreated from mortal affairs in preparation for the prophecy, growing his power and recruiting followers. He personally drove back the avatar of the demon lord Deskari from the Material Plane of her world, Golarion a scant three centuries ago.

Everything had beenfine.

“The Starfall Doctrine was to be fulfilled roughly one hundred and seven years ago.”

“Gave it a snow bath and a mouthful o’ice,that I did!” Tormund crows heartily. “Should have seen the look on its face, near struck me dead right there! But no, it just growls, all teeth and fang likethisand says‘run.’”

“Was to be?” Mance asks with dread in his voice.

“Well, f*ck me running, says I and Ilegit, tossin’ ice o’ my shoulder, whoosh, whoosh! Duckin’ and weavin’, trying ta lose it among the trees and then itpounces!”

The children shriek.

“I could feel the wind from the snap o’ its teeth! Don’t ask me how I survived. Twenty and one raiders down tome,but I gave as good as I got, har!”

“Was to be,” Terendelev says faintly. “The appointed year came. The month. The day. Thehour.”

“Call me TormundDragonsfoe!”

“Then Arodendied.”

No one but Pharasma knows what happened and the Lady of Graves refuses to tell. The Age of Lost Omens began with years-long storms and freak climate changes, nations collapsed as their prayers went unanswered, multiple planar rifts tore open including the biggest of them all, the Worldwound from which demons of the Abyss emerged in force.

And every single prophecy from then on simplyfailedto come to pass.

Fate itself had broken.

She would be entirely unsurprised to discover that it had affected more than just her world. That it affectedthis world. For gods were not bound to the Material Plane of planets and stars. Apsu's domain often anchored to Heaven, but it never stayed long, forever wandering the Dark Tapestry of the cosmos. Desna, the Mother Moon and her court flew wherever their whimsy took them through the stars. The First World was as a tree with widespread roots leading to far off unknown lands its fey inhabitants traveled.

No, she would be foolish to assume it only affected her world.

An equilibrium was regained on Golarion, eventually, full of lost hope, violence, bitter dreams, abandoned faith and a long trail of shattered promises. Aroden’s herald, Iomedae called the Inheritor stepped into his shoes. Her goddess has shared her fears that they were far too large for her to truly fulfill. Terendelev knows her age-mate spent almost a century searching for allies, for support, for answers.

For the dead cannot pay debts.

‘Do not be so naïve.’The wolf had snarled at her in that cave.‘Youdied.’

"Then what happens now?" Mance asks.

"I do not know," she replies.

‘Father?’

The dragon prays, quailing before the unseen and unknown shape of ends to come.

‘What am I to do?’

There was a faint sensation of distant warmth, of sunlight glittering off shining mirror polished silver scales for all to see.

The corner of her mouth lifts. Dragons are simple creatures at heart. Why would their god be any different? Apsu has never cared for organized religion, for churches, for doctrine, forpontificating.

Her Father need not say anything. There was a charming idiom Maester Aemon taught her - words are wind. She already had her answer. It is the color of her scales. When darkness falls, what else is she to do, but stand against it? To be the first to rise, a beacon of hope.

No matter the titles, names or roles others wished of her, she is, above allelse, aSilver dragon.

She was made to be...

Glorious.

Chapter 7: The Far North III

Chapter Text

“Should I be worried?”

“Hm?” Tormund grunted and turned to look at his wife sitting beside him.

Frigg was a small woman and seemed to get smaller every year with her yellow hair thinning, poor eating and horrific smelling frequent sh*ts. Not that he told her that yet. He knew better than to give his woman any lip after birthing one of his children. Their boy had been born early and sickly, but he had his father’s grit and his mother’s tolerance for nonsense.

Which was none.

Woman near bit his ear off when he went to get her to wife, said he was boasting too much ‘fore he even stole her properly.

The utter cheek!

“Worried?” He picked up his mug of cold mead and murmured into the drink. She was daintily picking through the venison on the hard bread trencher, but he wasn’t fooled. “What you on about?”

“You,” Frigg muttered and jerked her chin towards the other side of the table. “You keep making eyes at the crow’s woman.”

He nearly died right then and there.

The Giantsbane, the Thunderfist, Breaker of Ice, Husband to Bears, Speaker to the Gods, Father of Hosts, Mead-king of Ruddy Hall, the Dragonsfoe!

Killed by his slip of a woman who made him choke on his mead.

He pounded on his chest with tears in his eyes, coughing and hacking loud enough that the crow looked fascinated and the dragon-woman started to look a bit worried. “Do you need assistance?”

“No!” He squeaked out a wheeze. “I’m well,” he coughed.

It seemed as though his lungs hadn’t liked the idea of her coming over here either, because he soon stopped f*cking dying. He waited until she returned to her own conversation with her man before hissing under his breath,

“I’m not making eyes.”

The gods forbid.

He rubbed his beard on his sleeve to get rid of the spittle and drink. “I’m keepin’ an eye on her so I can run if she changes her mind!”

“You invited them.” Frigg sniffed with contempt. “And cursed are those who break guests right.”

Tormund stared at her for a moment before remembering.

Oh, right.

He didn’t tell anyone the silver-gilt woman was a f*cking dragon.

He palmed his face. And if he wanted to keep the Dragonsfoe title, he couldn’t very well end the story with it suddenly getting bored and losing its appetite for human flesh, now could he? They’d call him Tormund Dragonstoy. And a crow tricking him into inviting it over for late meal instead? He’d be a laughing stock!

“Aye,” he mumbled into his hand. “Cursed be those who break guest right, but who does the cursing?”

Frigg looked at him like he started speaking in tongues.

Tormund smiled at her, but from the way his wife paled, it must not have looked well. He gestured with his eyes. “ God get.” He sucked in a deep breath. “From one of those eastern dragon gods across the sea. To be true, that ain’t no mortal woman. That's why I didn’t kill the crow.”

“Tormund,” she murmured. “Are ye mad?”

“Aye,” he said humorlessly. “And had too much to drink besides!” He saluted the dragon with his mug and then tipped his head back.

“Girl, you runnin’ away with your crow?” Frigg asked bluntly and Tormund near straight died again.

The only good thing about it was that his wife’s sense of timing nearly took out the crow too.

The crow hacked around a bite of venison, lunging for his frothy mug of weak beer under the dragon’s amused snout. “No,” it said simply. “I am merely assisting him with an errand.”

His wife spit to the side and gave her sharp smile. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

Tormund pressed his lips together, trying not to laugh at the look of utterly blank incomprehension on the dragon’s face. “No?” The crow mouthed something and it stiffened. “No!”

His woman was going to get them all killed.

Tormund tensed as it stared at them for a long moment, then it turned to the recovering crow. “Oi, she just ignoring me,” Frigg muttered unhappily and Tormund shrugged in relief. “Rude,” his wife sniffed. “God get indeed.”

“We are allies.” The dragon’s purple eyes glanced over them with a cool look. “Nothing more.”

Frigg rolled her eyes. “Oh, aye, and I’m the bloody kneeler queen, what’s it?”

Tormund scratched his bearded chin and resigned himself to backing his woman up because now he was curious, “You saying you don’t have an eye on him?”

“No,” it replied evenly. “Is that going to be a common assumption?” The dragon asked the crow.

“Eh,” the crow cringed. “Likely. Anywhere but the Wall, the Citadel and maybe a sept.”

The dragon’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why?”

“Cause they ain’t allowed to use their co*cks!” Tormund offered heartily as Frigg snickered. “Damn tragic. Take some pity on your crow!”

“Please don’t,” the crow muttered.

“Pah! Like you actually keep them oaths.”

“Some of us try to,” the crow said with a tight smile.

“And what does it get you?” Both the crow and dragon frowned, but the dragon had the more dangerous look, so he pivoted away from what usually led crows to desertion with a jape. “If a man does not use his member it grows smaller and smaller, until one day he wants to piss and cannot find it!”

“That is…not how it works,” the dragon said bemused.

“Oh and you’d know, would you?”

“I am not answering that,” it said quickly and then ignored him in favour of its crow. “The Watch, the Citadel and the Faith of the Seven demand vows of celibacy. That is… relevant?”

“He’s…half right,” the crow said far more begrudgingly than Tormund thought he deserved. That’s the thanks he gets for appealing to the creature’s better nature on his behalf?

“Half-right, my ass!” He grumbled.

“Everyone knows they are sworn and that will stymie the rumours for a time,” the crow ignored him with the same ease as the dragon.

“And if I were to find another ally who is not sworn to those institutions…?” The dragon reluctantly asked, looking like it had swallowed a ball of his ice.

“The first assumption is that you’re bedding him, yes,” the crow said bluntly. “Or that you want to. This?” He nudged her with his shoulder, bringing attention to how she was leaning on him like he was the back of a chair. “Proper noble woman wouldn’t be caught dead sitting like this with any but her husband, lest she make it difficult for her head of house to give away her hand in marriage.”

The beast went still. “No one gives away a dragon.”

“They’d see the woman first,” the crow said dryly as Tormund’s cheeks puffed. “And this is what we consider courting behaviour.”

The dragon reeled back in an all head movement, like a hound that had its muzzle slapped.

Tormund lost the battle with his laughter, slapping the table. “That’s some kneeler nonsense for you! Har! We Free Folk don’t put up with none of that, if you want ‘em,” he threw an arm around Frigg who jabbed him in the side with a bony elbow and he guffawed. “You steal ‘em!”

“Near bit his ear off, I did,” Frigg allowed, sounding satisfied.

“The honest truth that is!”

“I - I apologise,” the dragon said, flustered pink as it straightened up and moved away. “I did not mean to give you the wrong impression that I would ever ask you - “

“Of course you wouldn’t,” the crow said with an overly sweet smile. “And I wasn’t tempted for even a moment, a giant ice breathing magical flying lizard?” The dragon stopped shuffling away and shot the man a sharp look, bristling like a wet shadowcat cub. “Would be the death of me!”

“I beg your pardon?” And the way she said it was so eerily close to how she sounded before trying to murder them all that the hairs on the back of Tormund’s neck stood up, spooked.

“What?” The crow said guileless in the face of death. “You calling me wrong?”

“I am objecting to being called a giant ice breathing magical flying lizard,” the dragon gritted out through clenched teeth. Strips of wood were peeling off his table under the dragon’s fingertips.

The crow’s lips twitched. “Oh, aye? That's all?”

“And to the accusation that it would kill you,” it added a heartbeat too late. Its face twisted. “Intentionally.” He could see the realization that it should have kept its gob shut written all over its face. “I… said that wrong. I would not kill you - ” Tormund waggled his eyebrows and it scowled at him, pointing a finger in warning. “That is not what I meant - “

Frigg broke into loud laughter. “I see now, you’re a maid, ain’t it?”

The beast looked alarmed. “What - no, I - That is not at all relevant!”

The dragon hissed at the crow’s sudden coughing fit and his shaking shoulders.

“You will. Ssssay. Nothing.”

“Not intentionally!” The crow wheezed.

“But what a way to go!” Tormiund whooped, nearly busting open his gut and falling off his chair. The crow chuckled with him. The dragon buried its head in its hands and stewed in embarrassment with a high pitched whinge like a dog.

“Hold a mo’, flying lizard?” Frigg asked suddenly and Tormund’s stomach sank. “ You’re the dragon.”

“Yes,” it said stiffly, looking up and in the next moment, shining silvery scales overlaid her form like polished chainmail armour before gently fading away into light, then outlines and then hints of silver whenever the fire flickered. “I am the dragon.”

Frigg stared for a long moment. Tormund held his breath, wondering how she was going to react to the godling at their table. Apologise maybe? That’d be a sight to see.

His wife slapped him.

“Ow! By the gods - woman - !“

“When were you gonna tell me, Dragonsfoe?”

“After they left so you wouldn’t flip my damn table - stop laughing, crow, you f*ck - “

“ - repel the skulking shade of death.” The light flowing from the dragon’s fingers was near blinding and golden. It shone brightly even as it sank under the wildling woman - Mance bit the inside of his cheek and stole a glance where Tormund watched with bated breath and small children gathered around. The littlest was sucking her thumb, wide eyed with confusion and fear. She couldn’t decide who she was more afeared of, the dragon.

Or him, flinching when she caught him looking.

Mance directed his eyes forward again. The Free Folk woman let out a watery gasp as the light faded. He hadn’t realised her skin had taken on a waxy, swollen quality until it was gone, now a healthy pink with a new lustre to her hair and brightness to her eyes.

The dragon let out a satisfied hum, a puff of steam escaping from her lips. “There. How do you feel?”

“I don’t hurt,” Tormund’s wife said disbelievingly, raising her hands to her stomach and breast. “My stomach not turnin’.” She lightly touched her own face. “My mouth…even with the new sorcery, none could help me.” He was distracted from the mention of ‘new sorcery’ by her brown eyes tearing up. “It true then, you’re a god?”

The dragon’s smile faltered. She turned to him as if this was somehow his fault when she was the one pulling miracles out of her scaly arse.

Mance gave her a bright smile full of teeth in response.

She wearily closed her eyes before turning back to the woman. “If you must, you may refer to me as a godling of Apsu.” He couldn’t help throwing a fist into the air. He f*cking knew it. “I do not want devotion or payment,” the great beast continued gently. “I am the silver dragon, Terendelev. May I have your name?”

The woman stared speechless for a long moment. “Frigg of Ruddy Hall,” she murmured.

The dragon gave her a soft smile. “Well met, Frigg. Tell me, do you get your drinking water from a well, lake or river?”

The woman blinked, taken aback. “We harvest snowmelt, but…” She exchanged a look with her husband. “Carrying the babe was hard and I could barely move. We tried anything that would help, medicine herbs, more meat - “

“Clear spring water?”

“Speak plainly!” Tormund barked with a pained grimace. “You sayin’ the water was spoilt?”

The dragon inclined her head. “The water was poison.” The big man leaned forward sharply, nearly dislodging the babe from his lap. “A clear pool among rocks where nothing grows, nothing swims and where no animal dares to drink - “

“Only looks safe, aye,” Tormund growled. “We know what you speak of.”

“Tormund,” Frigg whispered. “Brache offered - “ She was cut off by his raised hand and the thundercloud of rage on his face. The silence felt heavy with a grim understanding that a murder had just been foiled.

“I cannot fix an early birth,” the dragon ventured. “But there will be poison in their blood. If you are willing, I will do what I can for the child.”

The husband and wife shared another look.

“Toregg.” The swaddled babe was passed to the bear-like boy gently by its father. “Do the honour.”

The boy approached looking beside himself with nerves and Mance understood completely.

The dragon kept her posture loose and as non-threatening as she was capable of. “Do they have a name?”

Toregg shook his head. “Not until he don’ need milk no more and can walk, so we know he’ll live. I - I call ‘im Tor. For now.”

“...I see,” the beast said quietly. She reached out and touched the sleeping babe’s forehead. “Vanquish the shadow of weakness,” she intoned. “Reject the frailties of mortality and let the light of hope burn away the creeping footholds of the grave.”

Golden light shone.

And the babe woke up disagreeing with his existence, screaming his little lungs out.

The dragon winced mightily.

His mother swooped in with a harsh, barking laugh and tears on her cheeks, “Look at my boy!” She crowed over the babe’s tantrum. “I feared you were mute! Tormund, look!”

“I’m lookin’!” The big man chortled. “I’m lookin’! Give him here!”

Mance got up from his seat, swaying a little as his head pounded and followed the dragon out the entrance of the great tent, leaving the family to their celebrations.

“Oh for - “ The dragon heard him, as always, turning swiftly. “Sit down before you pass out.”

He sat.

He looked up at the night sky far beyond the Wall. The bleeding star still hung in the sky, painting the far horizon beyond the Frostfangs crimson. White and pale blue stars twinkled on the dark tapestry of the night sky.

The constellations were the same, no matter what side of the Wall he was on.

“I was going to stretch my wings,” she informed him. “Perhaps scout the Frostfangs. I trust you will be safe staying the night here?”

“Guests' rights are sacred,” Mance said, thinking of the laughter and tears of the people of Ruddy Hall. Thinking of the smaller tents dotting the hillside people lived in. He didn’t need a little voice anymore to tell him that men in the south were no nobler than they, just pretended to be. He was thinking it straight. “You were right.”

“You are going to have to clarify what I am right about this time,” the dragon said with an amused curl to her lip.

He snorted loudly.

She let out a pleased humming hiss with a light click of her teeth. She knelt beside him, a full arms length away, now fully conscious of personal boundaries. He felt the sharp sting of regret, wishing he hadn’t thought to say anything about it. She touched his leg lightly and began to chant. The words flowed through him and over him as soft noise as he stared up at the sky. It was safer than staring at her.

The golden light shone for the fourth time that day and swept away all his aches and pains, including the sick foggy feeling in his head. He let out a relieved breath, wiggling his toes, checking the once sprained ankle and cracking his neck.

The dragon shuddered. “I do not understand how your race does that without hurting yourselves.”

“Talent,” he said dryly.

“No, the never-ending allotment of idiotic behaviour is your talent.”

Mance shrugged. “That too.”

She laughed lightly and they fell into a comfortable silence, or as comfortable as he could be sitting out in the cold, painfully aware of the dragon’s presence. He was f*cked in the head, he thought incredulously. He lost his mind. The beast nearly killed him in a fit of rage.

“Why are we here, Mance?” The dragon asked.

He blinked. “I got called out here?”

“Why are we here?” She repeated. “I could have healed you sooner. I could have hunted. I could have created a shelter if my wings were not enough. Why are we here?”

“Ah, that.” he said quietly, clenching his fists. The Valyrian steel sword was still at his hip. He wasn’t going to risk showing it off and testing their host’s restraint on his greed. Yet another thing the wild - Free Folk had in common with the south. Even on the Wall, he knew some of his brothers wouldn’t think twice about murdering him in his sleep for the blade. “You said there were oddities in my oath to the Watch and I’m thinking you were right.”

The dragon looked him over with a cool, superior gaze, knowing that wasn’t the whole truth. “You are the watcher on the walls,” but she was willing to let it go. “The fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers.”

There was a stirring in his chest. The horn that wakes the sleepers.

It still sounded in his soul, that horn.

“I can hear the Wall,” the dragon said, like that was something that just happened.

“What?” He said dumbly.

The dragon smiled a thin, mirthless smile. “The Wall screamed at me that first night I arrived. ‘We are the shields that guard the realm of men,’ is what it said, the last part of your oath. Against me. ”

He stared, speechless. “The Wall...rejected you?”

“Painfully,” the dragon murmured. “That was why I attacked it. It was unexpected and I was…lost and confused.” Her face scrunched unhappily. “But do you see? The realms of men. Our hosts are men as I am not?”

“But you can pass through it,” he blurted out, head spinning like he hadn’t been healed at all. She was right.

“So can those that raid the south.” She tilted her head in that bird-like way. “Do you think the Wall warns these people, as it does me?”

Mance thought about the laughter and the tears. “No,” he said miserably. “What does it mean for our oaths, for the Watch?”

The dragon looked away. “I met with the gods you call old in that cave,” she admitted and his breath caught. “They wanted my attention and they had it.”

He laid a hand on the flame pommel of the sword she had carried out with her and he swore his fingertips tingled. “You said one of the old gods thought you could be made - “

“To obey,” the dragon rumbled. The sound rattled his bones and he thought even the snowy ground might be shaking. She settled herself with a short breath. “They were looking for a saviour as the one they were promised was dead.”

Aroden. He remembered the dragon’s tale of a god prophesied to bring glory. He could hardly believe it. “Are you telling me the old gods spoke to you?” He asked just to be sure. “Directly?”

“They took the form of a very big wolf.” A direwolf, he knew. “I was warned that winter is coming.”

He jerked forward. The direwolf couldn’t have been a coincidence then. “Those are the house words of Stark!”

“Yes,” the dragon spoke absently. “It is, is it not?” Her brow furrowed. “I shall have to pay Winterfell a visit soon then. The air here stinks of death and ice.” A shiver went down his spine. “I would know why the Wall was built, whom it guards against and the rest…”

“The rest?”

There was more?

“...will come in time. It is my task, not yours,” was said firmly. He held up his hands in surrender. He knew better than to pry into god business.

..

On occasion, he knew better than to pry into god business.

“I believe,” the dragon said slowly in the silence that fell between them again. “That I owe you an explanation for my earlier behaviour and an apology.”

Mance looked at her in rueful surprise. “I didn’t ask for it.”

“You should not have to,” she said simply. “I was trying to ignore it, to my shame. And you let me, for which I am grateful.”

The dragon guiltily shifted her weight from one leg to the other and he could see it then, even when she looked completely human. It was too easy to see the powerful back legs she was used to, how she balanced like she had a tail and wings sprouting from the shoulder blades.

“Tomorrow, please,” she said in a small voice that made his heart ache. “I will explain on the way. You have my word.”

“Tomorrow,” he agreed. “How’d you do that, by the way?” He moved on, changing the subject before the silence got uncomfortable. “Make it seem like you flew over the trees when you were standing right there?”

She was quiet for a moment more.

“Control over the wind,” she murmured. “It has been…a very long time since I needed the mummer’s farce of the arrival of a larger dragon to protect myself. I was quite young then, but I still remember how.”

“You were a child once.” Mance laughed a little, shaking his head. “Imagine that.”

Her smile was brief. “Once. Over nine hundred years ago.”

He choked on his spit. “Nine hundred - f*cking hells - “

“My Father still calls me ‘child' if you can believe it,” she grumbled good naturedly. “On occasion, my mentor Halaseliax the Gold forgets as well.”

“Have you met him? Your father?” He asked. He was more than curious. His chest felt tight as he watched her take in the question thoughtfully.

“Twice,” she answered. “I was a barely out of my wyrmling years the first time. I remember being surprised he wanted to see me, surprised and… quite beside myself with nerves,” she admitted with a wry smile. “He played with me, knocking me over with a talon, letting me climb on him and show off how far I could fly before he had to catch me because I strained a wing…” Her gaze was distant and very sad. “Our second meeting was…odd,” she whispered. “I was there just to pass along news from the Plane of Water, but it felt like he was saying goodbye.”

He was surprised at how the tale seemed no different from that of a child raised by wetnurses or a septa meeting their lord father for the first time and he also regretted asking. He shifted position on the ground, stretching his legs as the dragon shook her head.

“Forgive me, I am in a poor mood and am trying not to brood.”

“By order of that queen of yours.”

The dragon sighed. “Are you ever going to let that be?”

“Nuh uh,” he said cheekily.

“Very well. Queen Galfrey of Mendev,” she intoned dryly and it reminded him that the dragon had a name too. “Is ever stalwart, often responsible, frequently enjoys the misfortune of others and is, on occasion, a sanctimonious arse.”

“Pffbbbt!”

The dragon sighed loudly through his chuckles. “She went through the trouble of changing the law allowing a chosen high ranking member of her council to inherit the throne after her and the blasted woman picked me.”

Mance’s laughter withered. He gaped. “You’re an heir to a throne?”

“Unfortunately.” At his incredulous look, the dragon waved a hand. “Halaseliax finds it humorous that this is the sixth time it has happened to me. I still do not understand why it does.”

“Sixth…?” He asked faintly.

“Sixth.” The dragon pinched the bridge of her nose. “I devoted much of my time and effort into learning how to navigate nobility, lordly and royal courts and the art of negotiation.”

“Because people kept throwing a throne at you?”

“To avoid having to sit in it,” the dragon replied shamelessly. “I am certain it was a ploy to quietly disinherit her cousin, Lord Arendae and boost morale, but did she have to involve me?”

“You could have said no,” Mance pointed out. “Couldn’t you?”

The dragon flushed guiltily, averting her eyes. “...I was given the major city, Kenabres, to hold in exchange…”

Mance clucked his tongue. “Greedy creature.”

“Do not think I have forgotten your many attempts to vex me earlier with asinine questions,” she replied tartly with a raised eyebrow. “Have you never been told what becomes of those that irritate a dragon?”

“I had a punctured lung, a head injury, you nearly killed me - “

“It was plain that you took no true offence to that - “

“I took plenty of offence!”

Her cheeks were still dusted with pink. Her full laugh held the rasp he knew was the lingering remnant of a dragon’s rumble. He looked at her silver spun hair, loose and long and fair features. Her aura of the unconquerable, unyielding and incorruptible, had been thoroughly destroyed by the memory of a horrified silver wolf frantically trying to clean its muzzle of blood. If she notices his eyes fall to her lips again before guiltily looking away, this time she says nothing.

He acknowledged the wistful thought.

Then he buried it underneath the oaths to the Night’s Watch that she so believed in.

“Crow.” Tormund ‘Dragonsfoe’ says stiffly with his arms crossed and the early morning sun just beginning to lighten the sky. “Terendelev.”

“Tormund.” She nods, pleased that she was not going to hear the impersonal ‘your grace’ again.

I will let him keep the title - she decides. Her sharp eyes catch the veins of winter blue running along the man’s muscles and she finally marks him as a cold water kineticist. Not a very strong one, which makes the headache he gave her all that much more impressive.

And made it that much more obvious that Lady Luck herself must have been watching out for him. They shared the element of Ice. It was the only way his elemental grip would have worked at all!

She will remember to be grateful she couldn't murder him later. Her pride still stings with the memory of her own Flame Strike to the snout.

“Wildling,” Mance replies with a raised eyebrow. Then he holds out a hand. “Mance Rayder.” Tormund’s eyebrows attempt to invade his salt-and-pepper hairline. “Don’t get me wrong, I ain’t turning my cloak,” he warns the man.

Tormund scowls. “Then what’d you want?”

“Nothing.” Mance glances at her. “But if you need help, I’ll remember today. I swear it on the old gods.”

The big man squints suspiciously, searching the black brother’s face. She is not sure if he finds what he is looking for, or if he does not, but he clasps forearms. “Tormund Dragonsfoe, Mead-king of Ruddy Hall! Don’t you forget it!”

“I’ll call you Tormund Horn-blower,” Mance smirks as they shake. “I’ll never forget the first man I’ve met that’s more than half lung. I bet the southern king knew you were fighting the dragon by the strength of your yell.”

The wildling laughs uproariously.

“Aye!” He bellows. “f*ckin’ aye! By the gods! Horn-blower sounds much better than Screams-Like-Babe and that’s the honest truth!”

They both cackle like idiots as she rolls her eyes skyward.

The stick Tormund was going to toss them as a ‘parting gift’ is exchanged for a small pack of dried meat, bread and a waterskin. That Mance had been so unsure of her to approach his enemy for shelter burns in her gut, but she does not remark on it. She does not want to. Instead she keeps her ears alert for hostility after leaving the protection of Tormund and subtly nudges Mance towards the clearing she had spotted earlier during her flight.

“Where we going?” He squints at her suspiciously once he realises.

She inclines her head as the line of trees breaks and motions for him to halt. She walks into the centre of the massive snowy ring amidst the pine trees and holds out her hands in a theatrical bow.

“Giving you your apology.”

She directs her attention inward. With a tug on her magic - on my being, her head throws back as the suffocatingly tight coils of her polymorph unravel. Silver scales erupt from her skin. She feels her skeleton reform, her wings uncurl, her horns sprout, her talons grow, her teeth sharpen all at once in that brilliant moment.

She is free!

For a moment, she claws at the sky and then her bulk comes crashing back down to the earth. She turns her great horned head, revelling in the echoes vibrating through them, painting a perfect picture of the world around her. She is far taller than the trees. The Frostfangs are in clear view. She focuses on Mance’s tiny figure and then focuses again to see the horrified look on his face.

“f*ck no!” He screams at her.

She laughs.

“THIS IS A RARE HONOUR!” She lowers her head, keenly aware of the stirrings of panic from the vague direction of Ruddy Hall in the distance. “DID YOU NOT SUGGEST THIS VERY THING YESTERDAY? UNLESS YOU WISH TO CLIMB THE MOUNTAINS YOURSELF?”

He fights with himself. She sees his face twisting up further and further until he gives in with a gusty sigh as he rights himself from where he had fallen over. He looks her over and squeezes his legs together, wincing.

“Where in the Seven Hells - “

She lowers her head further and turns away, exposing where her barbed frill fades into the nape of her neck and the bone ridges that anchor her four proud, curling horns. The last person to sit there had been bleeding to death from the demon ambush. She banishes the sour feeling in her gut. She feels the black brother hesitantly lay a hand on her scales. His weight is only distinguishable from a small bird by his endless grumbling.

“YES, YES,” she rumbles. A puff of vapour glittering with ice escapes her maw as she speaks. “HOW DARE THE DRAGON LOWER HERSELF TO BEAR THE FIRST RIDER IN OVER A HUNDRED YEARS INTO THESE SKIES.”

He shuts up.

She does not need to tell him to hold on tight, no doubt he would do so without instruction. She raises her wing-arms and calls upon the wind.

She launches into the air as Mance’s curse is lost to the wind and makes for Ruddy Hall.

The people rushing about below are like ants, crying out in fear, but her keen eyes pick out each and every one with precision until she spots the familiar golden bands.

“I WILL HONOUR THE BARGAIN, DRAGONSFOE!” She bellows with a snicker before winging away towards the mountains.

The cold wind tastes sweet and feels sweeter on her scales. If only she could fly forever. It is an idle wish, one that she has had since she first took to the skies as a wyrmling and has yet to leave her. She hopes it never does. She enjoys civilization, but in the sky is where she belongs. The land below blurs past in a procession of grim trees, frozen bodies of water, the occasional wildling and the rare buck and bear that catch her attention. The sun has not risen far enough to truly cast her shadow, but all below are aware of her presence.

As it should be.

“To the left!” Mance yells directly into the back of her head and she flinches.

“SPEAK NORMALLY,” she grumbles, horns still ringing.

She obligingly leans into the wind as they approach the shadows of the Frostfangs. It was a long mountain range, stretching all the way back to the Wall by the Shadow Tower and vanishing into the blue-gray distance. Each peak was tall enough in this inhospitable land to be permanently shrouded in snow. She prefers her Nightfort, but she still has to catch herself giving a few icy mountain ledges a considering look.

There is a hint of unease as she flies over a large swathe of trees that had been burned to the ground.

It is familiar.

“Further left,” Mance calls and she turns away.

Under the black brother’s guidance, she flies above the mountains, discovering hidden valleys, small frozen waterfalls and a curious stone archway half buried in snow. It is to one of these valleys that he calls her attention to, prompting her to turn around.

She would not call her landing on the glacier graceful, but it was functional and that was all she cared about.

She managed to stop skidding just before the ledge and long icy drop into a glacial lake. Just as she breathes a sigh of relief, Mance asks her, “What the f*ck was that?”

Functional.

She lowers her head and shakes the man off. He comes loose with a laughing yelp.

“WHERE IS IT?”

“Hold your horses,” he taunts her as he brushes the snow off him and checks that his lyre is still intact. She growls at him, but is inwardly pleased when he deliberately slows down, painstakingly chasing off every stray snowflake from his black cloak while meeting her eye.

She clicks her teeth sharply, but waits.

She watches him pace the glacier, shivering in the cold, walking back and forth with his right hand out. He comes to a stop by the ledge and then turns to her, frowning. “It’s in the water.”

She stretches her neck and peers down.

The glacier is several thousand feet high and squeezed between two mountain peaks. She can see in far more detail than he can, both in distance and in the darkness of a breaking dawn. She takes note of the deep snowbanks, scraggly weeds and the stunted, twisted trees stripped bare of leaves and bark growing sideways out of cracks and fissures in the stone of what she believes to be a narrow, snow blocked mountain pass. The glacial lake is a deep cobalt almost black colour, showing that it had depth.

Mance shudders again in her peripheral vision. Unless there is a volcano under that lake, which she doubts, he will go into shock as soon as he dives in.

“TWIST THE THREAD,” she rumbles, reaching for her magic. “REVEAL THE PATTERN.”

Her greater arcane sight layers her vision with blue.

The air is alive with cold magic. She is distracted from her task, raising her head as she stares in awe at the spider’s web of magic crisscrossing before her in thin icy strands. She turns her head as she follows them, back to the other side of the Frostfangs, into the Land of Always Winter -

She cries out.

“What?” Mance says, alarmed. “What is it?”

She had squeezed her eyes shut on instinct, the loose skin on her face and throat is puffed in threat and she knows her frill is bristling. Her throat seizes.

‘Winter is coming.’

Now, she understands.

“THERE IS A HOLE,” is all she can say. There is a hole. There is a hole.

There is a hole.

She pries her eyes open in time to see him redirect his concerned stare. She feels like a spoon had been scraped along the inside of her frontal lobe. She shivers. Her eyes do not bleed, but she cannot help thinking they should be.

“THERE IS A MAGICAL ITEM IN THE LAKE.” She forces herself to move forward as a mist cold enough to tickle her gently drifts into the valley. “WAIT HERE.”

She pitches over the edge of the glacier.

Her body has changed, but the way she slices through the air with her wings tucked behind her is so very familiar. The valley narrows as she falls. At the half-way point, she would not be able to spread her wings without scraping the edges of the valley. She reaches, and winds her magic into that suffocatingly tight spring.

There is a flash of silver light and she hits the water.

She misses the second eyelids of her natural form immediately. The water is cold. In retrospect, perhaps the dolphin was not the best choice. For her to feel the slight chill, she knows the only reason it hasn’t completely frozen over is the depth and the sprawling pattern of nature magic glowing at the bottom.

She swims down and down. Slowly, the stone structures and the branching, dimly pulsing lattice of nature magic becomes clear. It is not a spell.

It is the roots of a Weirwood tree.

She swam through icy tunnels of the jutting glacier, catching more and more glimpses of what resembled what lay at the bottom of the Arcadian Ocean, west of the continent of Avistan. The sunken ruins of a civilization.

Some of the walls at the far end of the lake were still intact, sheltered from time by the still cold water. The slow moving glacier had scoured the rest away, crushing stone and mortar into vague shapes reminiscent of what they had been. A fortress? A keep? What might have been streets are visible. A deeper smooth bored hole that might have been a well. She swims through unknown echoes and unclaimed history. The object is buried under rubble on the petrified, sodden bone white trunk of the large cut down tree and she regrets the flippers as she digs with her bottlenose.

She grasps it with her teeth and wrenches it free with all her might.

When she breaks the surface, the mist has fully covered the valley. She spits the curved object up on the shore and adjusts the twist of the coils of her magic to regain two legs. “This pain,” she huffs as she rubs at her sore face and spits out dirt. “Is only temporary.”

It is caked in mud and stone, but there is a glint of silver and dull bronze. It is thinner on one end, flaring out at the other.

“Oh,” she says, squinting at what looks very much like a warhorn. “He’s a skald.”

There is the faint clang of metal from up above. Her head snaps around. She peers through the mist easily and sees nothing but the cold, sheer cliff of the glacier.

Until Mance throws himself off it.

Her heart in her throat, she sloshes along the shore in search of firm, rocky ground, counting down in her head as she tracked his flight. If he hits the water, he will die. The impact first, and then the cold. The spot of black plummets.

If he was not on the verge of perishing, she would laugh at the shrill shriek that slowly gets louder and louder in her hearing range.

She crouches. Featherfall. Her take off shatters the ground behind her as she leaps, tackling Mance out of the air as she recasts the spell on herself. Her momentum carries and they float to the other end of the lake. She stumbles a little as he almost strangles her as she hits the shore. She assures herself that he is still alive and uninjured.

Then she laughs at him.

Mance pries his hands free from her shoulders, his teeth chattering as he snarls, “There was a f*cking Other!”

She abruptly stops laughing.

“What?” She says dumbly.

The air behind and above her whistles. She spins, throwing Mance into the scraggly weeds. She hisses as the familiar cold sting tears through her steel chainmail and cloak as if she was wearing paper.

It is a sword made completely out of pale ice.

Before her eyes, it melts into vapour. She falls into a crouch, training her sharp gaze on the glacier. A pale figure completes their swan dive into the lake with a single ripple. Her eyes dart about, taking in the narrow valley. Too narrow for her true form to be nothing but a hindrance. They have been cornered.

In spite of herself, one side of her mouth lifts.

Someone was playing it safe. If they were playing safe - then someone was afraid.

She has just finished weaving stoneskin and shield when it rises from the cold water without a sound, the surface of the lake undisturbed. She could not tell its gender, if it had one. It was tall and gaunt. Its skin was as pale as hers, but without the subtle colour of life and long snow white hair. It wore delicately crafted reflective armour that reflected the lake, the valley, the glacier, the dawn sky and herself on its surface like it was wearing a clear, still pond.

Its blue eyes burned like stars.

She smoothly rises to her full height. She knows hers is still glowing a bright azure with magic as well. “Why have you attacked me?”

It stares silently, unmoving.

Terendelev’s lips twitch down at the corners. The kernel of demonic corruption within her cost her the ability to easily detect evil around her, but she knows. Looking into its cold, fathomless gaze, she knows.

She shifts, turning to offer a smaller profile as she holds out a hand and gestures, silently chanting the aria for protection from evil. “Come then.”

It does.

It blurs forward, thrusting a hand out as if it intends to punch her, but at the last moment the blade of pale ice coalesces in its palm. Her hand snaps up to catch its wrist, yanking it forward and viciously headbutting it back. She lets go as it stumbles back silently.

“Well?” She raises an eyebrow as it stares.

It is once again a blur. She snarls in rage as she grabs its tattered cloak and yanks it back from Mance- I am your opponent! It spins into a lunge and she steps into it with her own strike, the back of her hand against the flat of the blade before slamming a fist into its gut. The armour crumples as it flies back. She glances down at her hand, sliced to the black bone.

She has stoneskin on. She just brushed the edge!

She purses her lips.

The Other stands and there is finally a reaction. Its haunting face is twisted into a snarl.

“I will take pleasure in making you serve, abomination,” its voice cracks like ice.

She tilts her head at the glacial dialect of Aquan, from the elemental plane of Water. “You will try.”

Its eyes widen.

“What do you serve?” She demands. “What is coming from the Beyond?”

Her only answer is a blade of ice.

It has learned its lesson. She is forced to duck under the two handed swing, the cold wind splitting with a howl over her head. Before she could lash out, she is forced to twist away from the harsh kick. It steps forward into the momentum and she scrambles backwards from the axe chop. She turns her face and her shield flares just enough to turn a fatal strike into a graze. The tip cuts down her cheek and nicks her collar bone.

It is adjusting the length of the blade.

“To be as swift as an arrow, the acceleration of the mind and agility of form…” She risks deflecting the ice blade off her wrist guard. Make haste. The metal screams as the wind rises to meet her.

It becomes less of a fight and more of a brawl. Everything is wisps and motion, desperate strikes on the edge of the glacial lake that circles around and around as both refuse to give ground.

The first one to make a mistake, dies.

It will not be her.

She catches the edge of its gauntlet, throwing its strike wide. Mid deflection, the armour melts away in her fingers as it rocks with movement, stabbing with a dagger of ice she throws her might behind her shielding magic to deflect the blow as she slams her foot into its knee. The limb buckles without a sound as the sword becomes a sickle, raking into her shoulder as it falls. She rolls her shoulder, purposely letting it slip deeper and trapping the blade in the bone joint. She drives her fist into its face. Its neck snaps. The head lolls, blue eyes open and staring and still alive.

She punches it again, this time in the throat and feels what passes for a trachea collapse.

Again in the chest. The ribcage crumples in silence.

It stares.

“What do you serve!?” She growls.

A whistle behind her.

She hauls her opponent around to intercept.

The ice spear goes through them both.

“No!” Mance screams.

Terendelev blinks slowly. Her head drops and she inspects the hole bored through the side of her stomach. She looks up. At the top of the glacier is another pale figure. It stands for a moment longer, then retreats out of sight.

She sighs and shoves the Other in her hands away from her. It collapses like a broken puppet on cut strings.

Mance runs up with a drawn blade, face white with fear. “Are you - “

“I will live,” she tells him tiredly as she yanks the sickle from her shoulder. Better her than him. Better her than anyone else. She raises her hand. “Pry loose the grudging grip of pain.” She takes a moment to cough blood, before continuing, stronger. “Cast off the veil of suffering flesh. Let light and life go forth in triumph to repel the skulking shade of death!”

Growing back a stomach is uncomfortable.

“At ease,” she says absently. “I have had worse.”

“That…” the black brother says tightly. “Does not reassure me. At all.”

She hums. “My city, Kenabres, shared a border with the ruin of a kingdom, not unlike sharing a border with Old Valyria and the Demon Road.”

He winces at the imagery.

Old Valyria was a smoking ruin, permanently choked with ash from the fourteen volcanoes and was rumoured to be filled with twisted monstrosities. Many entered in search of treasure, of the few that returned, they died in agony soon after, eaten alive by parasites. Maester Aemon told her of what lurked there, of twisted wyrms with the heads of men, people turned to stone and driven mad, of poisonous air and burning rain.

Sounds like home.

All it needs are the infiltrating cultists and periodic invasions of a shrieking monstrous army.

“Trust me when I say, I am used to it.”

She lost her head.

She doubts any injury will top the one that killed her once.

She limps over the Other - when did it get my leg, and gazes down at it. It stares back silently. Its blood was a pale blue with shiny milk glass bones showing through the hole in its lower torso. It is also visibly healing.

“Regeneration.” And one equal to a troll. She rolls her eyes. “Wonderful.”

“Let me,” Mance snarls as he raises the naked blade of Dark Sister and brings it down on its neck.

The Other shatters.

They both scrabble backwards.

“...is it over?” Mance asks quietly as the shards slowly begin to evaporate into mist.

“Yes,” she ventures, sweeping the valley and the glacier. “I believe it is.”

The black brother lets out a shaking breath. “...that was a f*cking Other. Two of them.”

“Yes.”

He breathes again. “f*ck.”

A prickle goes down her spine.

The cold mist is lingering. She reaches for it like she would any cloud of fog and grasps nothing at all.

“We should leave,” she says quickly. This is not the time for a solo scouting mission. She has a priority target to secure. She picks up the warhorn from the lake shore and tosses it to him. He gasps when he catches it.

“This is - “

“Leaving. Now.”

“Aye,” Mance says faintly. “Aye.”

The ice spear stands tall, splattered red with her blood. The scrap of icy cloth tied to the haft flutters in the dead air as a flag of warning.

Chapter 8: The Wall IV

Chapter Text

“I AM CURSED,” the beast rumbled. The sound vibrated his bones as Mance huddled against the bony ridges on the back of her head. He clung to one of her longer horns with both hands. He did not have it in him to admire the scenery blurring beneath him.“THE RIDER BEFORE YOU WAS ON THE EDGE OF DEATH,” it continued.“OUR SCOUTING EXPEDITION HAD BEEN AMBUSHED BY DEMONS. WE NEVER STOOD A CHANCE...”

He pressed closer, wondering if she could feel him.

“THE DEMONS UNLEASHED A MAGICAL ILLNESS. IF IT DID NOT KILL, IT DROVE THE VICTIMS INTO AN ENDLESS RAGE AND MADNESS.”

That sounded very much like the tale of the Grey Men and the curse of the Mother Rhoyne against Valyrian invaders that some said was the Greyscale disease. The more he heard of her city, the more he agreed that it was not unlike living on the borders of Old Valyria.

The tales were unsettling, but they were offar offhorrors that were cruelty and magic and not the ice and cold on his doorstep.

“And you survived,” he murmured.

“I ALMOST DID NOT. I WAS PREPARED TO DIE ON MY FEET, BUT WAS ORDERED AWAY BEFORE I COULD.” Her great wings beat.“BY THE END OF THE DAY, I WAS THE ONLY SURVIVOR. RECOVERY WAS...DIFFICULT.”

He snorted lightly, well accustomed to her talent for understatement. The only one to live after a ranging gone wrong. Aye, he could see the burden in that.

She hummed in response.“I BECAME INCREASINGLY DARK-SPIRITED, CRUEL AND MY RAGE WAS UNCONTROLLABLE. ONLY THE EXTENT OF MY INJURIES KEPT ME FROM BEING THE DANGER I TRULY WAS.”

Mance yanked his mind away from the memory of the Free Folk woman with her head twisted near clean off. “But you overcame it.”

There was a depressingly long silence.

“You overcame it,” he insisted, feeling sick to his stomach. She said ‘am cursed’ not ‘was cursed,’ he remembered. If she could have prevented that…lapse,he knew she would have.

With whatever it took.

“A PRIEST, FEARING ME, SENT OUT FOR MY MENTOR. TO SAVE OR CONDEMN ME.” The dragon let out a sigh. The sound mixed with the mighty beats of her wings and the wind whipping about his head to sound like the howling of a snowstorm at the onset of winter.“I AM FORTUNATE HALASELIAX REFUSED TO DO THE LATTER, EVEN THROUGH MY ATTEMPT TO KILL HIM FOR DARING TO BE MY JUDGE.”

“He saved you.”

“HE DID,” she confirmed with a gentler rumbling purr.“THE MALADY COULD NOT BE CURED BY HIS EFFORTS, ONLY SUPPRESSED. IF I LOSE CONTROL OF MY ANGER, I LOSE CONTROL OF MYSELF.”

The dragon was silent for a moment more.

“I BECOME AGAIN WHAT THE DEMONS HAVE MADE OF ME.”

Mance drove his elbow into the back of her head as hard as he could. “No brooding!”

The dragon hitched in the air, missing a beat of her wings. Then she chuckled, the grinding cracking of ice that was her laughter bounced him in his seat.“YOU ARE THE FIRST PERSON I HAVE MET IN ALL MY LONG YEARS WHO KNOWS THEY CANNOT HARM ME, BUT WILL STILL STRIKE ME FOR BEING A HALF-WIT.”

“Well now,” Mance said with a grin, pleased as a pig in mud at the unorthodox compliment. “Sounds to me that betheirfailing. You could use a few more slaps.”

“I WILL NOT DISAGREE.”

“You can’t,” he said. “Because I am right.” Her amused rumble shook him. “I am serious,” he said, letting his voice lower to show her his sincerity. “You warned me about your hastening magic. Came back for me. Agreed to escort me to find this horn even as you were.”

“I ATTEMPTED TO KILL YOU.”

“Many have,” he dismissed. “Dragonsfoe swung at me once on a Ranging, I recognized him. I pressed you.Unwisely.”He could admit that to himself. There was a dragon having a bit of a rage and his first instinct was to confront her over the cause? For what? Childish whinging about her chipped pedestal? If he tried that with the Lord Commander, he’d spend a day freezing his balls off in acage.

“You offered to protect me from others,” he tried. Near made him piss his breeches, but she did pull him out of the way of the raiders.

“BUT NOT FROM MYSELF.”

He struck her again. “What did I say aboutbrooding?”

“...VERY WELL,”the dragon allowed.“WHEN IT HAPPENS AGAIN - “

“If.”

“IF YOU FEEL YOURSELF IN DANGER FROM ME, THROW YOURSELF ONTO THE GROUND.”

“What?” His mouth asked.

“THROW YOURSELF ONTO THE GROUND,” she repeated. “AND STAY THERE. SPEAK ONLY WHEN SPOKEN TO.” Her wings beat loud, launching them further, faster. “I MAY THREATEN TO KILL YOU. I MAY COME CLOSE TO DOING SO. DO. NOT. MOVE.”

“Understood,” he breathed. “That won’t be anytime soon, mind you. You’re leaving soon.” He ignored the throb of pain the thought created in his chest. He would not cling. He had more pride than that, didn’t he? She did not belong to him or the Watch. She would keep the Nightfort and that would be enough. There was so much more than he knew at stake.

“Now that you’re no longerrunning awayfrom him, I’ll be sure to inform the prince to keep an eye on your mood.”

The dragon groaned aloud.

Mance cackled. “Ah ha! You were hoping I forgot about that, weren’t you!?”

The far North rushed underneath them. The distance was quickly eaten by every rise and fall of the great beast’s wings. The sun had risen enough that they cast a shadow large enough to swallow keeps whole onto the thick forest below when the Wall finally rose into view.

A shudder ran through the dragon.

In remembrance, he figured, of the last time she flew at the Wall like this. He was proven right when she abruptly turned away and circled, slowing down as they spiraled closer and closer to the ground. She landed with a ground shaking thud. Her heavy breaths were as the bellows of the forge when she lowered her head. He clambered off and lamented her heat when the wind blew through his furs.

“You are well?”

The dragon turned her head from the Wall just enough to include him in her peripheral vision.“I WILL BE.”He tucked himself back under a wing when the northern wind proved itself a right bastard, blowing in harder, colder andwet.“THE SEA NEEDS THAT STORM,” the dragon said.“IT WOULD BE BEST TO LET IT DISPENSE WITH ITS FURY SOON.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” He grumped, leaning on weakly glittering silver scales and blessed heat.

“...YOU REMEMBER HOW I SAID I COULD NOT WALK IN THIS FORM?”

Mance paused. “Ah.”

“AH.”

“You can’t just - “

“NO.”

He reluctantly peeled himself off the dragon’s side and walked a few cold feet away. In a brilliant flash of silver light, the woman stood in the dragon’s place with a raised eyebrow. “Thank you for the space,” she said dryly and he scowled at her.

“I cannot help it,” he pointed out. “It’s like I have been unable to feel anything butcoldsince…” he trailed off. His hand absently raised to the rough hide patchwork pack of dried jerky and the dirty warhorn wrapped in his black cloak.

The dragon grimaced. “...I should have paid more attention to restoration.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind,” she said quickly. “If it is not permanent, I can attempt to - “

“Get me out of the cold?” He said just as quickly as he began to walk towards the Wall and the distant dark speck of tunnel he knew led to Castle Black like he knew the back of his hand. “Wonderful idea!”

The dragon huffed, but followed him obligingly.

“How does that work, by the by?” He asked, just to pass the time and keep his lungs clear. “You blow me back when you take your true form, but need space otherwise?”

“The ‘blow back’ is my magic releasing to return me to how I truly am.” He smothered the smile when he noticed that it wasmagicthat made her talk with her hands. “When I alter my shape, I am pulling it in andyourmagic was in the way - ”

“I didn’t do nothing!”

“That is precisely the problem. You are leakingeverywhere…”

“You take that back!”

Those tall ice walls in the distance hadn’t changed, but he couldn’t help feeling like they did. From what had been an excessive wall between the North and the wildling tribes to abarrierbetween the rest of the realm and those who walked in white in the Land of Always Winter with the Free Folk trapped on the wrong side. Maybe the Wall hadn’t changed, he was just looking at it with new eyes.

He tried not to think about it.

He let her babble distract him as they returned, but soon enough all the thoughts and fears thathehad been running away from came back to him in a rush as the heavy gate through the Wall slowly clanked and ground open. ‘I am the watcher on the walls,’ he reminded himself. ‘The sword in the darkness. The horn that wakes the sleepers. The light that brings the dawn. The fire that burns against the cold.’

Well, maybe not that last one.

He shivered as the gate climbed open just enough to reveal Lord Commander Desmond Qorgyle’s unsmiling face.

“Mance.”

“Lord Commander,” Mance Rayder said evenly. “Reporting a successful Ranging into the Skirling Pass and the Frostfangs.”

“Is that so?” The man replied, deceptively mild as the gate continued to grind in its frozen metal frame. “Why don’t you tell meallabout it.”

“Gladly.”Mance smiled thinly. “We were attacked by two Others.”

The Lord Commander stared at him mutely.

Then the Dornishman’s dark eyesslowlydragged themselves to the dragon behind him.

“The first one ambushed Senior Ranger Rayder on the glacier while we were searching for a magical object,” the dragon reported calmly. He could see through her straight-backed bearing as she stepped up beside him to a glimpse of what she was before. Laden in shining armor with a silver circlet on her brow at the head of armies against demons. “It is a horn, connected to him by unknown means.”

He dug out the warhorn from his back. He’d gotten a bit of the mud and silt off, but most of it was petrified and frozen. The shape of the warhorn was plain to see, however, as were the bronze runes in the bone white horn and the bands of silver around the mouth where a large crack ran.

“He retreated to my position. I engaged the Other in close combat and…I am not a brother of the Watch,” she cut herself off with a sheepish smile. “I will leave it to him - “

“Ohno.”The Lord Commander gave the dragon a look that could curdle milk. “Youdo not get to drop this nonsense on me and thenf*ck off,understand?”

“Yes, ser.” The dragon blinked, taken aback. It was plain to see that her response had been a reflex.

Qorgyle kneaded his graying temples for a moment, then straightened. “Right. So you didn’t desert - “

“He would never!” The dragon protested and Mance swallowed hard.

Aye.

Never even…crossed his mind…!

No matter how much of a pisswater bastard Commander Denys Mallister was.

“AndI have decided against hanging you over the edge of the Wall for skipping your patrol - “

“Much appreciated,” he said flatly.

“Not the time for yourlip.”The man glared at them both. “My tower. Now.”

The man striding off towards the Lord Commander’s Keep seemed to be the signal to the rest of his brothers that Mance was not losing his head today, so they went back to their duties. Most of them. The new septon of Castle Black boldly stepped into their path, raising a small scepter of his office, topped with a crystalline seven sided star.

“Reveal yourself, demon!” He hollered.

Mance did not expect the damn thing to thenlight up.

The septon wasn’t expecting it either given the way he yelped, reeling back as he dropped it. There were a hundred stares as the scepter gently rolled across the frozen ground to the dragon’s feet. She bent to pick it up and he held his breath.

“I am not hiding what - “ The seven sided star in her fist shined bright enough tohurt.“...I mean no offense,” the beast murmured to it. “My apologies.”

The light faltered, dimming.

When the light blinked, he was sure he was not the only one in the courtyard thinking that it lookedquestioning.The dragon hummed. “Neither my Father nor I have any interest in your followers.”

When it slowly winked out, Mance remembered to breathe. The dragon passed the scepter back to Septon Cellador. The man stared with bloodshot eyes as the star lit up again weakly in his white-knuckled grasp. One of the points was chipped from the fall onto the ice revealing it for the cheap construction it was. The light sparkled in that corner.

“A good effort!” The dragon praised. “It might have caused a demon to flinch. If I may, keep practicing until you are confident in the spell Light before you try Detect Demon. Hold until it stings, then no further.”

She stepped around the very still and stupefied septon.

“Do not draw on your god too much lest you burn yourself inside out,” was the parting warning. “Now, if you will excuse me?”

Mance’s mind was blank for an embarrassingly long time as the tower of the Lord Commander grew bigger with each step he took beside her. “...you did not have to validate his faith like that?”

Her silver eyebrows rose. “You believe that was a mummer’s farce?” the beast asked stiffly. “It was nothing of the sort! What do you take me for?”

He stopped walking.

“You…did nothing.” He said helplessly. “It lit up…?”

“Someone seemed rather disgruntled,” she said reasonably, like he should have justknown. “I think it best I avoid septs in the near future.”

Maybe he should have known.

The old gods talked to her personally andface to facein a cave flanked by eye-catching Weirwood trees none of the Rangers of the Wall had ever found. He never needed help believing the gods of the Northexisted.He opened his mouth to apologize and then it washerturn to seem disgruntled when a young passing black brother reverently brushed her white cloak with his fingertips. The lad blushed a bright crimson from the tips of his ears down to his neck when they both turned to look at him, but he ran before any words could be exchanged.

They looked at each other.

“So…” Mance began, looking around and seeing a few surreptitious looks in their direction. “About poaching those followers of the Seven…”

He could not believe what was coming out of his mouth.

“Helping is notpoaching.”She let out a put upon sigh. “...remind me to stop by the barracks when we are done.”

“You heard his prayer, didn’t you?”

Her face looked as if she had just swallowed a lemon. “Ilistenedto hismindfor areason - “

“That sounds like an aye!” He said with glee.

The dragon pinched the bridge of her nose. “Lord Commander,” she said firmly. “The Others.”

“Aye, your holiness,” he said with a deep mocking bow. “After you.”

She sniffed and walked past him very quickly at almost, but not quite, an agitated quick march. “Why do I tolerate your cheek?”

“You’re an honorable sort,” he called after her. “And I know to strike you when you are being a dim-witted fool.”

The godling of Apsu almost tripped over her own two feet as she barked a loud laugh.

“...because it tried to enslave me?” The dragon looked at him like he was the one spewing nonsense from his mouth.

“The Weirwood tried to enslave you,” Desmond Qorglye said blandly, suddenly feeling a certain kind of way about all the godswoods up North. “They candothat?”

Rayder coughed. “Old Northern traditions talk about giving blood to the Weirwood, enemies mostly.” Desmond’s stomach sank as he recalled the rumors about the island of Skagos off the coast by Eastwatch-by-the-Sea.

Entrails on Weirwood tree branches.

Lovely.

“And you know about the greenseers,” the black brother continued. “Free - Wildling ones, they try to die on the roots when their time has come, slit their own throats.”

“Seersuse those trees too?” The dragon cut in. “Human ones?”

The man’s head swiveled. “Aye?”

The dragon’s face pinched.

“Out with it!” Desmond barked.

“I am…reconsideringthe wisdom of offering blood to the Weirwood while under a powerful magical spell meant to enhance one’s magical sight.” For a long moment, both of them justlooked at the dragon. Then Rayder slowly raised a fist as if threatening to strike it. The creature sighed. “I know.”

“Therewasno wisdom in that,” Desmond said tiredly, feeling every decade of his three and fifty years of age and then some. Maybe heshouldput the beast in black. Wasn’t like he had to worry about fraternizing or rapes.

It would fit right in with the rest of his idiots.

“In my defense - “

“No,”he said. “Continue the report.”

Its lips pursed. “The entity from before made itself known.” Interesting. It wasaccustomedto following orders. That just made him wonder what kind of hellish army useddragonsas soldiers. And where.“And gave me a vision leading me to a cave south west of the Antler in the middle of the forest there between the Milkwater and the coast.”

Desmond hummed. “I’ll make note of it. I take it you went there.”

“Yes.” Its gaze flickered. “I found what I believe to have been the Bloodraven.”

He couldn’t help it. He snorted and then chuckled. “You seriously cannot expect me tobelieve - “

Mance unhooked the sword he had vaguely been aware of from his belt and laid it over the parchment on his desk. He took in the polished dragon’s eye ruby embedded in the crossguard and felt his laughter dry up. He reached out with both hands and gently pulled the sword free from the dirty, cracked and tattered black leather sheath.

The dark smoky rippled metal of the priceless, incredibly rare Valyrian steel greeted him.

Only existing steel could be reforged by blacksmiths from Qohor and they kept their secrets locked up tighter than a septon’s purse. No one knew how to forge new Valyrian steel. Not since the Freehold itself fell four hundred years ago in the Doom leaving behind the Smoking Sea and horrors of Old Valyria.

He hated to admit it, but their story suddenly got a whole lot more credible.

“What did he tell you?” It took him a moment to place that the question came from himself. The voice sounded hollow.

“That winter was coming,” the dragon said.

Desmond felt detached from his body as he stared at what looked a lot like Dark Sister, one of the two ancestral swords of House Targaryen, in his hands. Mance Rayder went on an unauthorized Ranging with the dragon and came back with a blade that had been missing since Lord Commander Brynden Rivers disappeared into the far North and never came back over fifty years ago.

He tore his eyes away from the blade and looked up at Rayder’s grim mein. “Are you telling me that Lord Commander Brynden f*cking Rivers is squatting in a cave because of House Stark?”

“Well, no,” the dragon floundered. “He is no longer squatting as I killed him.”

“There were Children of the Forest,” Rayder volunteered. “One led her back to me, small and large cat eyes and dappled like a deer just like the tales say.”

“Whatisthe difference between those with green sight and those with dragon dreams?” The dragon asked. “Just that the former needs trees?”

“Hold!” He raised a hand and then put his face in that hand. “Lord Commander Brynden f*cking Riverswassquatting in a cave with f*cking Children of the Forest with his Valyrian steel sworddecadesafter he disappeared?” He asked incredulously. “And you think he might have been having dragon dreams when he vanished into the far north? Because of f*ckingmagic?”

The dragon hesitated.

“Aye,” Mance said.

Right. Fine.

The magic part he understood, if only because had had to discipline one of Aemon’s blubbering helpers who had been stealing from the maester’s supplies for his mystical concoctions. The boy had managed to argue him down from taking a hand or lashes to cleaning privys for a full moon.

Because what he made actually worked when they weren’t blowing up.

And he couldn’t forget about the visiting Bonfire Prince or the Sword of the Morning that figured out how towreathe Dawn in lightninglast night. Desmond rubbed the bridge of his nose. “And you couldn’t leave the man alive to question?”

“He deserted,” the beast said stiffly. “No matter his reasons, he told no one.”

“And what were his reasons?” He asked, morbidly curious.

The dragon sighed. “Saving the realm…?”

“From theOthers,”he said, just to be sure.

“Yes?”

“…you wouldn’t let an over a century old Targaryen sorcerer claiming to be saving the realm get away with deserting the Watcheither.”

The creature cringed when Rayder snorted. It almost made him laugh.

Almost.

“You said you were attacked by Others.” He couldn’t help saying it again. “TheOthers.”

“Aye.” Rayder said. “We made the Skirling Pass at dawn today. We found this - “ A Weirwood warhorn that looked like it had been dug out of a mud pit was placed on his desk within its black cloak bundle. “It was at the bottom of the lake at the end of the pass. It’s magic.”

It was made of Weirwood, sowhy not.

“That was when a cold mist swept in and…” Rayder paused and an equally cold feeling gathered in his stomach. “They look like the tales too,” the man said quietly. “Pale with white hair, frozen armor and weapons and blue eyes like ice.”

“With a healing capability that enabled it to survive a broken neck and punctured chest,” the dragon said tartly.

“But not a Valyrian blade to the throat,” Rayder said with a satisfied air and Desmond palmed his face again.

f*ckingOthers.

He was Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch when theOthersup and decided they were no longer satisfied just being the subject of stories to frighten children. Why wouldn’t they, he thought then.

There was a f*cking magical ice dragon at the Wall.

They were telling the truth. He could feel it in his bones.

“Tell me everything.”

The dragon’s gaze flickered again. “Then…I suppose I should tell you that the old gods spoke to mepersonallyin that cave.”

Desmond blinked slowly. “Come again.”

“Her father’s a god!” His Ranger said cheerfully. “You missed the Seven’s cheek in the courtyard right before we came here.”

“What.” He changed his mind. “No, don’t tell me, I donotwant to know.”

“Clever,” Rayder said admiringly.

He was going to ignore that, but then he thought better of it. “Just for that, you get to find Maester Aemon. If the tales are real, I first want to know what those talessay.”The man pouted as he left the Lord Commander’s Solar. “Andyou.”

The creature straightened into a stance like that of a veteran knight.

He squinted at it.

“You just told me the Others are real.”

“I did,” it said evenly with a bemused look.

“We are a thousand men on the Wall. My low numbers is why I didn’t want to fightyou,”Demond admitted.

The beast looked amused now. “I suspected such.”

“...what do you plan on doing?”

“I will be visiting Winterfell to learn more,” it said easily. “I also intend to…oversee a smooth transition of power on the Iron Throne.” He closed his eyes wearily. “I was intending to fly in, remove Aerys, then fly to Essos,” the dragon said dryly. “Then this happened and now I have a vested interest in ensuring the Seven Kingdoms does not fall into war as soon as I leave.”

“A vested interest?” He repeated.

“The Wall was not built to keep outwildlings.”

Yes. He was getting the notion that was the case. “That explains nothing aboutyourplans.”

“Does it not?” The dragon asked.

It did, he realized with a numb sensation. It f*cking did.

“You are going to help us,” he said, disbelieving. There was going to be a magical ice dragon at the Wall. “You…you’re not going to run.”

Its purple eyes flashed in irritation. “I am no craven.”

No, Desmond thought. He supposed the beast could not be called that at all.

“The Nightfort is my lair,” it continued easily, as if he had never caught a glimpse of its temper. “My absence from it will always be temporary. I intend to see the Seven Kingdoms stand together so that they do not fall alone.”

“You can’t f*ck off to Essos then,” Desmond said blandly. “Your very presence there willstarta dragon hunt with every ambitious lord, prince and king seeking to rebuild the Valyrian Freehold in their own image.”

“...that bad?” It asked in apprehension.

“Worse,” he said grimly. “The minute you show off that guise of yours, they’ll be startingwarsinstead.”

He did not have to explain why. The muscle of the beast’s jaw jumped as it ground its teeth. “I see.”

“Youdon’t,”Desmond said. “Before the Stars Fell, magic was only known to still be in Essos, when at least the blood and human sacrifices were forsorceryrather than for sport. Though that happened too. Meereen is known for it.”

Its eyes flashed again.

“A dragon can put the prince on the throne,” Desmond admitted. “A dragon being seen toabandonthe prince will cost him more than a crown. Don’t want his reign to fall apart without you?”

“...do not let itbewithout me,” the dragon finished thoughtfully. “Or take the time secure it in multipleways that do not rely on my support.”

So it wasn't an idiot all the time. “There’s my advice to you.”

Make him king and you will bestuck with the boy in front of the ambitious or greedy lords of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, including the likes of his snake of a Princess of Dorne and Tywin Lannister of the Westerlands for a long while.

Good luck.

There was a knock on his door.

“Lord Commander?” Maester Aemon’s voice called out as it opened and Rayder sauntered back in. “You called for me - oh!” The old man clung to his cane as he bowed all courtly grace despite the chain on his neck and black robes. “Your grace, you have returned.”

“I have,” the beast said with that gentle smile that didn’t fool anybody.

Desmondwellremembered Raynard Flowers’ decapitated body laid at his feet and his head wrapped separately in his black cloak. That night’s sleep had not come easily to him with the maester’s admission to the nature of the deserter’s death.

‘See how the meat of the neck is shredded? The dragon did not need a blade, just her strength.’

“The dragon found Dark Sister,” Desmond said bluntly and watched Aemon’s purple eyes go wide in disbelief.

“I - I beg your…” The dragon and Mance Rayder stepped further apart, giving the man as clear a view as he could get to the items on his desk. “Your…I…” The old man stared unblinking. Those Valyrian eyes traveled the flame pommel, the slim cracked black leather and twisting rusted steel grip and the wavy tarnished bronze cross guard embedded with a round dragon’s eye ruby. “I…where?”

“From your uncle. Who had still been alive. Apparently.” Desmond gave the dragon an unimpressed look and it smiled back, unrepentant. “Dead now though.”

That was the least f*ckiest piece of sh*t in this whole nonsense.

“I want to call them both mad.”

“This is Dark Sister,” the maester said quietly. “For true.”

He wanted to call them both mad, but the smoky dark rippled steel blade on his desk made the words lodge themselves at the back of his tongue.

They were telling the truth.

He breathed in deep. “Take a seat, man. You will need it.”

“There is more?” The old man said in dark humor as he ambled closer. The dragon pulled a chair for him in a mimicry of gallantry. The Targaryen thanked it as he sat. He placed his cane between his knobbly knees and placed both hands upon it like a king sitting on a throne. “I am ready.”

Desmond smiled mirthlessly. “What do you know of the Others?”

Aemon blinked.

Mance Rayder started talking.

Lord Commander Desmond Qorgyle could have lived without knowing exactly what up north had wounded the dragon. He had seen the beast in all its glory. A hundred feet long with thick silver scales as hard as steel and knew it was still capable of incredible feats of strength in its guise. An Other had nearly taken an eye the first time, taking its stomach the second. He could have lived without hearing how it had toregenerate its insides -

He was not ready. None of them were.

“I could crown her my Queen of Love and Beauty if I win the joust?”

“No,” Arthur said tightly, barely resistingDawn’surge to slap his prince upside his hard head. Again. “If you found a girl you wanted to court at a tourney, that is the lastthing you should do.”

“...would it not make it plain that I was sincere in my affections?” Rhaegar honestly sounded bewildered. “If I was wed, I could explain the situation with my wife.”

“Yourwife is not the girl’sfather.”Arthur kept himself from snarling. “There are more concerned parties than you, your wife and the mistress.” He held up a hand when Rhaegar looked as if he would protest. “That should beobvious!Seven Hells, Rhaegar, what if the girl had already accepted a suit from another lord? Or her father in negotiations for her hand - “

“Look to the bright side, Dayne,” Oswell said from the door. “If he shames thedragon,the best we can hope for is that it simplyleaves.”

He hated thatthatis what got Rhaegar’s face to flood with horror and consternation.

“Without covering King’s Landing in ice, you mean,” Arthur said tiredly.

Oswell deliberately took an obvious look around with raised eyebrows. “Indeed.”

The dragon’s nest, for that was where they were, was a massive stone building richly decorated with ice. There were icy tapestries on the walls carved with the murals of dragons, chairs and long tables of ice, ice candlesticks that would never be lit, suits of ice armor standing idle and empty wielding icy pikes, ice shields of both the round and triangular variants on the far wall where the high table would be, but replaced by a shallow pit. There were grooves in the sides from a dragon’s claws and a single tarnished silver scale, marking it as its resting place. To the side was a deep, round hole lined with spiraling frozen stairs that led down in the Nightfort’s long abandoned tunnels and underground vaults.

The effect was off putting.

An almost perfect replica of a wealthy, well bred lord’s meal hall, but empty of inhabitants. The hearths were clean, but dark and the rest was frozen. It was a scene from a grim tale, where the mythical white walkers were real and it was mocking the memory of the men it had slaughtered.

“What Ser Dayne is trying to say, is that you cannot dedicate your attention solely toyourconcerns and disregard the concerns of others, my prince.” Oswell finally made himself useful.

It took him two godsdamned days, but the Riverlander finally did it.

The prince frowned mightily. “I have beentoldthat dragons pay no heed to the opinion of sheep.”

Who in the Seven Hells - Arthur felt his lip curl into a sneer. No, wait, that did sound familiar, it was just using the wrong animal. “I presume thatsound advicecame from the lips of Tywin Lannister.”

“You presume correctly.” Rhaegar’s dark purple eyes flickered away from him as he nodded. “He is serving my father well as Hand,” his prince said half-heartedly with a limply raised hand. “And rules the Westerlands…effectively.”

Dawn was incredulous.

Arthur despaired.

“I do not recall Lord Lannister volunteering himself for regular lessons in lordship.” Whenever would the man find thetime between feuding with the king, advancing his own interests with new laws and drowning babes in their bathwater?

“He passes on advice when he can,” Rhaegar murmured very quietly.

“Your father - “ Arthur stopped when Rhaegar raised his eyes to look at him. “I see.”

He did.

For as long as Arthur had been at court, first as a page and then squire to the White Bull, Gerold Hightower, he had known that it was a snakepit. Half the lords on the Small Council of Aerys II profited greatly from the rift that had developed between the King and his Hand, Tywin Lannister and had wasted no time in doing what they could to inflame the wound further. Laughing at all the japes the king made at Lannister’s expense, protecting their own interests against the Hand’s attempts to curb their greed by suggesting the man had hidden motives, agreeing with the king’s every ill conceived idea just so that Tywin’s voice of reason could be made the enemy.

The Lord Lannister was not without his pride, power or ruthless ambition. In the absence of Aerys, the Hand of the King sat the throne and made judgment. The Westerlands were a prosperous kingdom, his seat Casterly Rock was built on gold mines and all knew the song, ‘Rains of Castamere’ when young Tywin drowned two rebel houses in their own mines, men, women and children all. The power plays of court, the japes and slights were all Aerys couldaffordto do against the Lord and Warden of the West.

His mother, Queen Rhaella spent her days sequestered in isolation by a paranoid husband, heavy with child or mourning a stillbirth and the less said about his father, the better. His only relatives were a Lord Paramount of his own lands with his eldest child only two or three and ten to Rhaegar’s nine and ten and fostered away at the Vale, his two year old princely brother and an old maester at the Wall.

It was all too easy to imagine that Rhaegar had simply…slipped through the ever widening cracks of King Aerys II’s court.

Arthur was a second son of a minor house. Not without its rich history or prestige, to be true, but vassals nonetheless of Sunspear. He looked back at their boyhood games and all of the sudden, the number of times he had to pull Rhaegar from the library after he finished his lessons, all the times he could notrecallif Rhaegar was still being taught at allstopped being the consequence of his friend’s bookishness and started looking…

“Who encouraged you to take up the sword?” Arthur asked. “The truth.”

“My scrolls,” Rhaegar said softly.

Arthur felt ill. “Not Willem Darry? I thought…”

He had rather thought it the other way around. The Ser Darry had finally managed to sell the prince on his martial training in a way he understood.

His little brother shook his head. “The various heroes of legend, Eldric Shadowchaser, Hyrkoon, Yin Tar…all wield a mythical blade, said to burn with its own fire or light. I…found - “ Rhaegar choked. “There is a legend from Asshai-by-the-Shadow that calls it Lightbringer and it would be wielded again when…stars bleed and cold winds blow.”

A mythical blade that burns with its own light wieldedagainwhenstars bleed.

Arthur Dayne had given Dawn’s awakening after what everyone was calling the night the Stars Fell not a second thought. After ten thousand years, the miracle that had first seen the star delivered to the Torrentine kings of house Dayne had come again.

Rhaegar looked miserable.

Arthur was sure he looked the same.

Dawn could come alive withlightningnow. Did that mean - ?

The blade feltindecisive.

As if she could not remember or was not certain of what he was referring to.

“I have been going about this the wrong way, haven’t I?” He wondered aloud. “Every time I have told you to get your head out of your books…”

“Ineedthem,” Rhaegar admitted with stiff shoulders.

“What youneedis a lord of honor that would teach you properly.”

“Lord Lannister - “

“Has every intention of wedding you to his daughter,” Arthur interrupted the prince.

Oswell let out a screech of indignation on Rhaegar’s behalf.

“Was that for my manners or about the Lannister girl?” Arthur asked.

“Both,”Oswell admitted baldly. “What’s her name - Serei? Cersei? Pretty enough when she grows, charming enough when she thought to be, but she was…”

“Possessive,” Arthur finished.

He didn’t often judge ten year old girls, but he doubted much had changed in the two years since they saw Cersei Lannister last at the tournament in Lannisport. The venomin the girl’s eyes whenever another female approached the prince had been unsettling to behold. Her father was worse. Tywin Lannister was a man that would rule through Rhaegar and then rule through his son. He knewthe man and could see no other outcome Lannister would accept. No doubt Lannister would expect to remain Hand while his daughter was Queen and the court was filled with even more Lannister men as a matter of course.

Did he not serve Aerys IIwell?

f*ck, sh*t, seven hells -

He was just about talking himself into accepting Rhaegar’s wish to court thedragonif only to avoid Lannister gold!

"I was about to say 'like a hidden river current,'" Oswell admitted ruefully. "The kind that drowns unwary swimmers."

"Shiftsand," Arthur offered the Dornish equivalent. Where the desert of the heart of Dorne met the Marches that carried the water of the Stormlands, pockets of unstable ground formed like mud made of sand instead, ready to ensnare the unwary.

Rhaegar quietly volunteered, "A slumbering volcano is a lie fore they do not sleep. They burn until they die."

All three of them were silent for a moment.

"I have two unpromised nieces!" Oswell said very loudly, coming to the same conclusion about letting Cersei Lannister anywhere near Rhaegar. "Catelyn's been Lady of Riverrun for years now, Lysa's a very nice girl and who doesn't like red hair?"

"I can convince Ashara," Arthur said next. "You need Targaryens, not Tullys," he said through Oswell's gimlet stare. "If I say her rival is a dragon, she'll be on the next boat out of Sunspear."

"Dragon wins," Rhaegar sighed wistfully.

Arthur bit his tongue.

That was what he was afraid of.

There was still hope! If the dragon showed no interest, perhaps Rhaegar could be directed to a more suitable consort. Perhaps all his prince really needed was to meet someone outside the stifling corruption of King's Landing. He did not know of many honorable lords, but they werein the North. And if Rhaegar was to be kingsoon? Just because the votes of a Great Council might not benecessaryif the beast kept its word,did not mean the support would beunwelcome.They could strike many birds with one stone.

“A royal progress.” Arthur proposed. “As was done in the days of your forefathers, Aegon the Conqueror and Jaehaerys the Conciliator.” Rhaegar’s eyes lit up as he knew the comparison to the more prestigious of his ancestors would please him. He supposed the Half-Year Queen Rhaenyra made a royal progress too, but the girl got restless and abandoned it early. “Meet with all the high lords of the Seven Kingdoms and secure their support and recommendations.”

Lannister was going to be a problem.

Rhaegar nodded quickly. His face fell into his usual thoughtful frown. “I could hear their concerns directly, the unvarnished truth.” He smiled then, full of joy. “And show them the truth of thedragon.”

Arthur smiled through his grimace.

“Speaking of the truth of the dragon,” Oswell called faintly and Rhaegar brightened further.

“She has finished her audience with the Lord Commander?” He asked, excited like a green boy receiving his first steel sword. “She is cominghere?”

“There’s a bloody great beast in the sky,” Oswell’s smart mouth replied. “Soyes, my prince, I do think it is.”

Rhaegar blew out a breath and ran fingers through his hair. “How do I look?”

“Uh.”

Dressed as he was in black ring mail armor reinforced with blackened plate pieces, sword on his hip, a tattered black woolen cloak, travel bag and the beginnings of a bruise on his cheek where Arthur tagged him in the yard that morning, the future king almost looked like any other fresh faced recruit on the Wall.

“Princely,” Arthur lied with a smile.

He did not want to think about the possibility of the animal actuallycaringabout that.

Rhaegar nodded agreeably as they started for the door. “Did you just lie to me?”

“Of course not,” he lied again. It wasn’t treason. Rhaegar was his brother. Siblings can do that.

Rhaegar’s smile gained a slant. “Ofcoursenot.”

Arthur’s grip on Dawn tightened before he forced himself to relax it.

The sword still held his spine hostage, however.

When the dragon landed, the very ground itself shook beneath his boots. The great beast was just as fearsome as when he saw it last, just as big, just as deadly with the play of powerful muscles under the silver scales just as prominent.

What hadnothappened last time was the dragon promptly rolling over in the snow like a pup in a puddle of mud.

“I WILL BE WITH YOU IN A MOMENT,” it said, proving that it knew they were there, staring as it rolled and wriggled around, tossing snow onto itself.“AAAAHHH,”it sighed happily, closing its eyes as it steamed in the winter cold. One silver eye opened to gaze at them.“WELCOME TO MY NIGHTFORT.”

“I have heard that it has been abandoned since the days of Queen Alysanne Targaryen,” Rhaegar offered earnestly. “It certainly does not seem like it.”

The beast let out a long eerie humming hiss.“NOT ANYMORE.”

“We apologize for the intrusion on your…property, your grace.” It was plain to see that Oswell had forced that one out. “We will not take long.”

“If you will allow me.” Rhaegar strode forward and put effort into mastering his expression as he got on one knee before the beast. His silver hair against its scales as the creature raised its head to tower over them all, looking down its tooth filled maw was an evocative image. “I wouldbegthat you forgive myappallinglapse in manners and permit me the chance to rectify my approach.”

The dragon’s eyes narrowed.

He unwrapped his package on the ground before the dragon. Its head reeled back like a snake that had its snout poked once he finished unfolding the black and crimson embroidered Targaryen doublet and the silver stringed high harp that it had been wrapped around.

“I know a song is not much for a courting gift - “ Rhaegar stopped talking.

The dragon’s eyes were fixed on the harp.

Arthur felt his spine shiver at the intensity of its gaze, as if the harp was the only thing it was capable of seeing.

Rhaegar no doubt noticed as the prince looked down at the masterfully crafted dark wood harp in his hands. Arthur did not see the appeal of playing the instrument, but he could admit it was a well crafted piece, carved from a dark wood with roaring dragons framing, small clear gemstones as their eyes and the strings themselves made from silver. It was well loved, with worn patches in the wood from Rhaegar’s days and nights playing.

The prince yielded to the beast, raising his hands and watched those silver eyes follow his arms up.

Hold for just a f*cking moment -

Rhaegar stepped to the right, harp held high over his head.

And then a few left.

Then back right.

The dragon’s eyes followed the harp unerringly even when the prince resorted to just waving it around.

“It’s not a dragon,” Oswell said disbelievingly. “It’s a f*ckingcat!”

That seemed to jostle the dragon out of its strange mood. A white second eyelid blinked and then it reared back, lifting its snout into the air andsniffinglike a petty noblewoman being asked to settle for linen at the market instead of Myrish lace.

“The harp itself is what interests you?” Rhaegar asked the dragon hesitantly.

“...THE STRINGS ARE MADE OF SILVER,” it ventured.

Rhaegar looked down at his harp. He looked at the dragon that was trying and failing not to look interested. He looked down again. His face twisted like he had just been kicked in the balls and was trying not to scream. He slowly extended his arms, holding the harp out.

"...do you want this for my courting gift instead?" The prince asked.

Rhaegar rolls a Natural 20!

Fascinating.

Arthur never thought he’d get to see what a dragonstruggling on the privylooked like, but here he was!

“...I WOULD NOT WISH TO PRESUME,” the dragon spoke with false modesty.“IT IS A BEAUTIFUL PIECE.”

Rhaegar’s smile was dying from a malady of the bowels. “You are worth such a treasure.”

There was a brilliant flash of silver light. When Arthur blinked the spots out of his eyes, he saw the beast had taken on the guise of a silver haired woman again. A striking figure in shining steel and white cloth. To Arthur’s eye, it wore the chainmail armor easily as it was well fitted and the dagger in its belt was possessed of no decorative flourishes. He couldseeRhaegar become evenmoreenamored with its visage, reminiscent of the warrior queen Visenya Targaryen.

Which just irked Arthur further.

The dragon approached the prince curiously. Its attention was wholly consumed by the harp while the hairs on the back of Arthur’s neck rose at the predator’s grace in its stride. The creature raised curious fingers to gently pluck the silver strings. The harp sang,just as soft and sweet as Arthur knew it was.

The dragon’s eyes rolled skyward as itshuddered.

It half-turned away, spitting what sounded to his ears a hissing curse under its breath. Then it sharply turned back.

“Is silver acommonmaterial used in instruments in this land?” The dragon demanded.

“No?” Rhaegar said, bewildered.

It wasn’t. With the finances of Dragonstone being as they were thanks to its lord paying for the whereabouts of a dragon, it was unlikely Rhaegar would replace that harp any time soon.

It spit again, but took the high harp from the prince with a gentle, possessive grip. It did nothing more than hold it, as if owning it was all it wanted with an instrument meant to be used.

“...do you know how to play?” The prince asked softly.

“No,” the dragon admitted miserably, cradling the harp closer.

“I can teach you, your grace?”

The beast side eyed him and the earnest, guileless expression his brother had sculpted into his face. “Terendelev.”

“Come again?”

“Myname,” the dragon said, with an amused slight lift of the corner of its mouth. “You said this is a courting gift and you will be teaching me. I prefer to be called by my name.”

“Terendelev, then please call me Rhaegar,” the prince said and he grinned as wide as Arthur hadeverseen him smile.

Rhaegar managed to keep his composure after securing lessons after the late meal and also giving away his doublet all the way back to Castle Black and the King’s Tower. As soon as the door closed behind them, Oswell Whent sighed in a perfect mirror of Arthur’s depressed mood. Rhaegar looked around the tower as if seeing it for the first time and then let out a shaky breath.

"She has my harp." His prince had stars in his eyes. "Sheagreed."

"I give up," Arthur grunted. "You win."

Oswell grimaced. “The terrifying dragonis letting youcourt it.”

Rhaegar threw his fists up into the air. “YES!”

Chapter 9: Winterfell

Chapter Text

“YOU ARE ACCOMPANYING ME,” the dragon said slowly.

Her silver eyes peered blearily out from the newly rebuilt central keep of the Nightfort, gleaming in the darkness like twin full moons. Even knowing how the beast was did not keep him from remembering what shecouldbe. Even though he was seeing a dragon woken far earlier than it would like, resembling one of his brothers sleeping off some heavy drink, the shiverstillran down Mance’s spine when he saw her pupils narrow into fine vertical slits.

The primal reaction to coming face to face with a large predator in its lair.

“TO WINTERFELL?”

“Yes,” the southern prince nodded agreeably. “I intend a royal progress starting with the North. If I am to be king, it would be best for my lords to know me.”

The silver eyes slowly dragged themselves towards him next. First Ranger Brenn Flint stepped forwards as he brandished his own leather satchel and what he f*ckinghopedwas not the legendary Horn of Winter within it, “Lord Commander thought it best that we avail of Winterfell’s library and knowledge as well. Three heads can’t be fooled as easily as one, aye?”

The dragon’s gaze fell on the young heir to Driftmark, Monford Velaryon last. The boy was bundled in so many layers of clothing that if he climbed up and then fell off the Wall right now, Mance wasn’t sure he would even feel it when he hit the ground.

Two woolen hats underneath the black cloak hood, outer furs, two coats, two pairs of under breeches, two pairs of socks, the only part of the boy’s face even visible were his lilac eyes and pale blond brows. He was pressed against who the Watch had taken to calling the Bonfire Prince, staring up at the dragon looking like he was seconds away from either screaming in joy or pissing himself.

“C-c-cannot sail my b-boat by mys-s-s-elf.”

“UNDERSTANDABLE,” the beast nodded sagely.“I AM NOT CARRYING ANYONE.”

It disappeared back into its lair.

There was a moment of awkward silence before Flint snorted.

“What wasthat?”The Morning Sword demanded of his prince. “You had an entire speech memorized about asking it to come with us!”

The Batguard sighed loudly. “Where you got the impression our prince canthink straightaround the creature is anyone’s guess.”

Mance shared a bewildered look with Flint. He thought southerners had made a sport out of kissing noble ass.

“Iamthinking straight!” The southern prince looked hunted. “I…can always broach the subject at a later date. When we have not interrupted her rest?”

“You turned tail!”Morning Sword said with glee. “I thought you said the lessons wentwell!”

“I ended up talking about mymarkings!”The prince cried in frustration. “A full hour of her attention and I babbled like a half-wit about my pathetic attempts at inventing a musicallanguage - “He crushed the palm of his hand into his face in embarrassment. “It wentwellas I am nowcertainshe has no wish tomurder me.”

The Morning Sword stared incredulously. He raised a finger. “There is something to be said about you not knowing that for truebefore- “

Flint cleared his throat.

“Well, you could always trip into fortune, like Mance here - “

Mance loudly clearedhisthroat. “Trip into fortune? I did notforgetyou dared me to swindle a scale - “

“Pah!” Flint waved a hand in front of his face like he was blowing away a pungent smell. “It turned out well, didn’t it?”

“I was thrown off the Wall.”

“You got better, didn’t you?” Flint asked with a sh*t eating grin. “And look at you now, first dragonrider in a century - “

The southern prince’s head snapped in his direction. “Sheflew you?”

“It was a recompense for almost getting mekilled,”Mance replied sharply. Then he had an evil thought he only felt a small amount of guilt for giving voice to. “If you want my advice for getting favor with it, all youreallyhave to do is acquaint the beast’s face with yourfist - “

“Don’t!”The Morning Sword barked and the prince froze, hand in his travel bag. “You were about to reach for your scrolls on dragon lore, weren’t you?”

“No!”

“Y-yes.” Velaryon threw the prince under the apple cart without an ounce of hesitation, making Flint bark with laughter.

“...if you think up some mating dance from yourtextsI will…” The Riverlander pursed his lips when his fellow Kingsguard turned to him with expectant raised eyebrows. “...I will challenge you to a bout in the yard so I canlegallywound you.”

“Disappointing,” his compatriot commented lightly. “But I willaccept it.”

“Please stop encouraging my companions to strike me,” the prince sighed. “I am well educated, perfectly capable and put a great deal of thought into my decisions.” The Driftmark heir chose that moment to flick his ear. The prince ducked away, hand clapped to the side of his head. “Monford! What wasthatfor?”

“Lying.”

“My prince, you were notcertainthe dragon was disinclined to kill you?” The Batguard mocked.

“You can always askmefor assistance?” The Dornish Kingsguard offered loudly to rescue his liege lord.

“Y-you know how to talk todragons?”Velaryon shivered through his dryly spoken question and then belched an acrid smelling cloud of yellow smoke before shivering harder.

“He means to ask theDornishmanfor help with women,” the other royal guard scoffed. “Becausethatcan never go wrong, is your trail of broken hearts only women or are there men too?”

The prince gasped theatrically, hand over heart.

The Morning Sword stiffened. “Andwhat?All Dornish swing with both sides of the blade? That isslander,ser. I won’t stand for it!”

The two Kingsguard stared at each in a tense standoff, eyes narrowed and jaws stubbornly set.

And then the whole lot of them broke into raucous laughter.

‘What the f*ck?” Mance mouthed to Flint, who shrugged and gave him the long face of long-suffering before rolling his eyes.

Southerners.

“HOLD A MOMENT,” was all he heard before the dragon snagged the back of his armor on a tooth and dragged him yelling back into the dark lair like an evil monster from a milk babe’s tale. He was tossed into a far corner. Only the sudden puff of white feathers kept him from hurting anything when he fell in a heap. The dragon rumbled the start of a word,coughedand then there was a brilliant flash of silver light as he bounded to his feet.

“What in the Seven Hells - “ The dragon shushed him frantically, casting an almost frightened glance back towards the opening. "For f*ck's sake, will you stop snatching me around?"

“I - my apologies. I get impulsive when I am tired.” She rubbed her face, clad in her guise wearing a dress of blue, red and gold. “ I wouldbegyour assistance with an important matter and would ask you to let me finish explaining before you respond.”

What the -

Mance studied the beast’s usual patient and polite expression, then asked in a low voice,“What did you do?”

The dragon blanched.

“Wha -how do you know -rustingLight!“ She raised her hands, fingers curled like claws and shook the air as if acting out strangling a neck.“YouandBraganonwere born from the same soul, I swear - “ She cut herself off by snatching him again, shoving him into an icy chair at the long ice table at the back of the hall. “Sit.” She turned away and then as an afterthought turned back just long enough for,“Stay.”

“I’mnot a hound - “

Mance’s words caught in his throat when the dragon near reverently placed a beautiful, masterfully crafted high harp on the table before him. It was carved from a near black wood, three snarling dragon heads reared from the frame, sparkling clear diamonds as their eyes. There was a well worn patch where it was meant to be held, betraying it for a well loved piece. He almost reached for it, but the sudden subtle tension in the dragon’s frame when he leaned forward warned him off.

“Where’d you findthis?”

The dragon hesitated.

“You were at the Shadow Tower for the late meal and so are not aware.” Her lips twisted into a pained grimace. “It is the prince’s courting gift.”

Oh.

Mance palmed his face.

“Let me guess,” he said sympathetically, muffled by his hand. “Thesilver strings?”

“I cannot help it!” She hissed back. “Ineed -do you know how hard it is sleeping without a coin bed? I spent far too long setting up a spell loop to playthis - “She plucked a note and the harp chimed as soft and sweet as he had imagined it would. “Through the night as a substitute!”

He was unable to explain why sounding like she came from the nonsense tales you’d hear from a tavern’s minstrel after a few too many beers was getting him.

“You sleep on a coin bed,” Mance said numbly.

She waved a hand at the shallow pit by the cold hearths lined with a paltry number of silver moons, stags and a few lost scales.“Not anymore!”

He started to laugh.

The dragon rolled her eyes. “Your sympathy in this matter ismuch appreciated.”

“Well, if you don’twantthe harp, can I marry the prince?”

“Mance.”

He waved the bristling dragon down, still chuckling, “Do you at leastlikethe man?”

She wearily closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. “...he is not unintelligent,” she admitted begrudgingly. “I like his hair color.” Of course she did. “I dohave the urge to lick him.”

Mance choked.“Licking - “

“Extra sensory glands in the tongue and mouth,” she said quickly with a cool affronted look. “He hassomekind of magic I cannot even begin to identify. That istroublesomeand it has gone on long enough that it is beginning toupset me.”

He snorted loudly.

“I assume you are not going to give the harpback.”That suggestion seemed to physically wound the beast. She picked the harp up from the table and held it close as if to protect it from repossession. “You are fortunate a courtship is not a betrothal! Tell me that you didn’t give him anything in return - oh,” he said, laughter withering at the beast’s flinch.

“Notyet,”she said painfully. “I am unfamiliar with your customs. I am assuming giving Dark Sister to him is a declaration I do not wish to make, but I cannotkeepthe blade.”

“Whynot?”He said sharply, an envious pinch in his belly. “That harp wouldbeggarlesser lords and then you give himValyrian steel?”

“Notyet,”she repeated.

“But youwill.”

“It is not mine,” the dragon said quietly. “It is an ancestral sword of House Targaryen. Brynden Rivers had no right to suggest that I take ownership of it. The House has living members and I amnot a thief.”

Mance pressed his lips together tightly. Then sighed. “You and your queer notions of honor.”

The chivalrous knight of tales and songs would never avail themselves of another family’s sword, no matter what he had to go through to get it, so the dragon wouldn’t either. Quick to offer aid and held fast to oaths. She had a cruel sense of humor and he wondered at the effort it took to keep it from becoming a malicious one. He dismissed the thought of suggesting a mummer’s farce solely for the gifts. The dragon would keep her own counsel, but never had the thought to lie. A true knight would never play a man false.

A pity knights like those could only be found in tales and songs.

“You might be the only being in the Seven Kingdoms that would justreturna prize like that.”

“I doubt that is true,” she replied with a weak smile. “Icannotkeep it.”

“Very well,” he muttered, thinking. “Give it to Rhaella Targaryen, the queen,” he offered. “She is Targaryen by birth as well. It’s said Dark Sister was made for a woman’s hand, anyhow.”

Her face flooded with relief. “I did not realize she did not take her husband’s name?” Mance winced. Rhaella and her husband Aerys were siblings. The dragon winced then too, realizing that very fact. “...that would be acceptable. I would have to sit on the blade longer than I would like, but it is preferable to reciprocatingin truth - “

“Would it be so bad?” She blinked as he gave a small, little shrug of resignation. “Any other woman would kill to be in your position.”

“Dragon, not woman,” she said simply. “I am superior to every mortal being you know to exist and I have no desire to debase myself birthing halfbreeds. As I understand it, progeny would be rather important to him.”

It still stung to hear it from her own lips, even when he already suspected that was the case. It took her curse acting up for the beast to acknowledge the beauty of her guise, rather than her customary polite dismissal and feigned ignorance.

Even had it been otherwise, he was a brother of the Night’s Watch. He made his peace with that.

Mostly.

The prince was earnest, at least. That harp was well cared for.

“That's it then?” He asked. “Your objection is that you are justbetterthan him?”

The great beast’s eyes widened slightly. “I - yes?”She replied helplessly. “I acknowledgeyourworth, but a half-dragon with one of a lesser race is - “ She looked as if she was about to become ill. “Anembarrassment,”she finished firmly. “A scandal even. The vast majority known to my kind were created from unnatural mishaps, experimentation or the magical infusion of dragon blood into a lineage, not breeding. It might be understood given certain, rare circ*mstances, but never justified.”

“So you were never tempted,” he concluded. “Not even once.”

“No,” was the immediate response. “Unfortunately for the prince,” her smile was wry. “I used up my allotment of poor decision making centuries ago on my Red dragon of a mate. My first mate, that is.”

“First?”He said dumbly, stunned at how it never occurred to him that her long years meant she was likely a widow. “My condolences.”

“Spare them. I was the one who killed him.” Her smile sharpened to show teeth. “There were irreconcilable differences between Rhastwyr and I.” Her head tilted like a bird. “I forgave him the murder of two of his other mates as they were awful,but he knew Halaseliax was to be left unmolested.”

Mance’s mouth worked. His mind hitched through every part of what she just said. The self-inflicted widowhood. Wife murder.Multiplewives. She did not see anything wrong with thewife killing.

“...I see,” he managed weakly.

She inclined her head. “There are a few races we of Silver consider equals and they all can change shape naturally, just as I can. It is still uncommon, but the progeny will be strong and will still be considered dragons.”She averted her gaze. “That is all that matters.”

“Have to keep the ‘blood of the dragon’ pure, aye?” He muttered. The beast’s face scrunched when she understood his reference to the Valyrian practice of incest. It was why the prince’s grandparents had been siblings and so were his parents.

“The Valyrians were disgusting,” the dragon said bluntly.

“Might be something to it,” he said, just to be contrary. “House Targaryen has this thing with those dead half-dragon babes sometimes - “

Mance jumped when the dragon’s eyes snapped to him with the sharp intensity reserved for prey before a meal.

“Whatdid you say? No,” she cut him off with a raise of her hand, the other clutching the harp to her chest. “Do not tell me - hedoesstink like a Red,” she interrupted herself thoughtfully. “Aemon as well. Is it a separate scent from his magic? It cannot be.Can it?”She made an aggrieved noise. “Licking him to find out will give thewrong impression.”

“You like red dragons and you like his hair,” he pointed out. “Youarecourting.”

She looked at him, aghast. “Yes,but - “

“I am certain he would not mind!” He grinned widely as the dragon’s eyes narrowed.

“I would mind.”

“How else would you find out?”

“I can live without knowing. I do not justlick things -I have more self control than that!”

"Lord Stark. There is a dragon licking the walls outside."

Rickard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North slowly raised his eyebrows as he just as slowly put the letter back down on his desk. He looked around his solar placidly, taking in the dark wood furnishings, the fire crackling merrily in the hearth and old tapestries of his family’s glory hanging from the stone walls. Those were the days,he thought fondly. Just ruling the North, preparing for winter…

Killing some Andals.

Then he turned back to Rodrick Cassel. “Come again?”

“Dragon,” the man said in a strangled tone of voice.“Licking the walls.”

“...it is going to be one of those days, I see.”

“HAIL, LORD STARK!” Terendelev booms from the other side of the Kingsroad Gate.“AND WELL MET.”

The yellow haired man in robes by the lord squeaks. “Ittalks!”

She is determined to ignore that, but her eyes narrow slightly in spite of herself and she cannot quite muster up the regret for his hasty steps backwards.

Lord Stark mutely stares up at her with solemn gray eyes. The man is nearly bare chested in the winter chill in just an unlaced tunic, breeches and boots while everyone around him were wearing layers and furs. His gaze passes over her closed maw and her hardened, tough silver scales. She tries not to fidget. The guardsmen attempting to hide without looking like they were hiding before the walls and large wooden gate doors kept drawing her attention. There is a ‘thwip’ sound. Her and the lord watch wordlessly as the stray arrow pinwheels in the air passed her.

She ducks her head.“I COME IN PEACE?”

“...I have been told you were tasting Winterfell,” the lord drawls calmly.

Oh for the love of -

She draws herself up in affront.“IT WAS ONLY ONCE!” And she had not thought anyone had beenwatching.That was the only reason why she gave in to the temptation in the first place!“THE MAGICAL WARDS ON YOUR HOME ARE VERY INTERESTING,” she attempts to explain.“VERY COMPLEX AND OLD…”

And it did not like her. At all.

She is disappointed, but unsurprised. If Winterfell had been constructed by the same people who built the Wall, then it only stood to reason and she feels no offense.

It was, after all, justified.

“And how did it taste?” Stark asks mildly.

“SOUR,” she admits in a rumble.“A HINT OF ALLSPICE AND SMOKE.” She would like nothing more than to put this entire conversation behind her, but she is the picture of chivalry and courteousness- as always.“IT TASTES AGREEABLE?”

Stark turns to the robed man. “I do not suppose that could be considered an offered guest right,” he says with an undercurrent of humor. The maester just gapes at him. The lord’s expression retreats back into a quiet dignity as he faces her again. “Are you willing to stomach bread and salt?”

“YES, OF COURSE.” She shifts on her hindlegs and shuffles her wings in embarrassment, wrong footed. She was no longer on Golarion. She cannot just fly to a random castle and expect the people to know what to do with her. The black brothers of the Wall taking her mostly in stride had given her a false sense of security. The fact that ‘mostly in stride’ included two separate poisoning attempts, one attempted stabbing and the accusation of being a demon is not something she likes to think about. She was never truly in danger from them. It bothers her more that they believed themselves to be at risk from her.

Only the wicked ever feared a dragon of silver.

But she is not at home.

Her earlier bravado finishes dissipating. These walls hold an entirely new, unfamiliar population and she feels her scalesitchwith their stares. A building pressure to flee back to the Nightfort wells in her chest as Stark tosses the bread encrusted with salt crystals at her. She snaps it out of the air.

The smell of urine immediately assaults her nostrils from one of the guards.

“THE PRINCE IS COMING TO WINTERFELL,” she blurts out. She towers over them all. If she were so inclined, she can peer right over the outer wall and would just about be even in height with the second inner wall and yet.

She feels so inexplicably small and lonely standing there before them.

She does not know these people.

“What?” Stark blinks.“What?”He barks. “When?”

“IN TWO DAYS?”She guesses. She does not know how long it takes to travel from the Wall to Winterfell. Was it a week? A couple of weeks? Amonth?She always has trouble with land travel estimates. She can speed things up, her spells are versatile.“IN ONE DAY,” she decides.“I WILL RETURN THEN.”

She spreads her wings and flees.

She flies back over the foreign snowy land towards the Wall. She had ignored the strangeness of it all on the way down, consumed with making meticulous lists and plans of action. Now she is left with herself and the final realization that she is in another world. Not just a foreign nation. Not a far off corner in an unexplored continent. Not another plane where a simple Gate spell could see Halaseliax or Braganon coming to get her.

If they even knew she was alive.

Her teeth grit as she acknowledges theoneadvantage her humanoid guise has over her natural form.

Humans could cry.

Her sharp vision spots their camp long before they see her in the sky. She lands heavily and coils within herself, retaking the form that has just begun to not feelasconstricting as before. She could be a dragon with them -but will it hurt more later?

It is an unhealthy form of compartmentalization. She is still a dragon, no matter her guise.

It does not feel that way.

Mance takes one look at her face and points her in Rhaegar’s direction.

“I donot - “she starts to protest, because he knows thelastthing she wants to do is encourage the young man. In her eyes, he was little more than a child clinging to myths and legends as a reason to evenbe alive.

All she can feel for him is pity.

“I know,” Mance says under his breath as he steers her towards their main camp fire. “Consider this, I am a black brother of the Watch.” Before she can respond that she is well aware, he continues, “After Winterfell, my duty takes me back to the Wall. I cannot go south with you.”

Her words die in her throat.

She could not even say that she had hoped otherwise. She had not thought of it at all. It did notmatter.Her lair was at the Wall. She will always return to it. The thought of preparing the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros for the Others by her lonesome was suddenly a crushing responsibility. The Mendevian Crusades against the demonic hordes hardly worked that way -I need more allies.

She will have to seek new ones out. Purposefully. With intention. With people she knows nothing about, not ones who have been in the peripherals of her small social circle for years to decades on end. She volunteered for this. Westeros is a nation that covers anentire continent. Not even the crusades reached that far. How did Galfrey do this when the Worldwound first opened?

How did anyone?

She isfrightened.

It is both relieving and concerning that Rhaegar does not ask what the problem is as he dumps his armload of scavenged branches onto the ground by the fire. “How may I assist?" The prince asks softly. "Terendelev?”

It is concerning forherself. Her maudlin state flickered her mind back to Elethiel, the stoic Iophanite angel that had been her right hand to Braganon’s left. It is not a comparison she wants to make withanyoneelse.

Angels are equals. Their hatchlings would have beendragons.

“I - “ she chokes.

“Play a tune on that harp,” Mance orders, belatedly adding, “Please, your grace.”

His dark purple eyes seek hers out. She swallows the lump in her throat and looks away, managing the barest of nods.

“It would be my pleasure,” the prince says warmly.

She grabs two handfuls of snow on a whim as she sits by the fire, crushing it into a solid ball of ice in her hands. She then absently bats the ball around between her hands as the men continue to set up their camp. The one with the bat shaped helm sees her and lets out a sound of abject disgust.

“Cat.”He declares and she stifles a groan.

“Are those your house colors, your grace?” The mage with the white sword asks with excessive politeness.

She glances down at her dress. It is what she wore at the last ball she attended, albeit she spent most of it discussing the kingdom with Galfrey’s Aasimar royal advisor, Opaline. The dress was the royal Mendevian blue, breaking into the diamond checkered patterns of the blue and crimson like the kingdom’s heraldry on the sleeves. Her false armor bodice is silver, lined with blue linen. A golden sword with a blazing sun behind the cross guard pointed tip down is emblazoned across the front.

“Yes,” she says simply. She remembers too late that she already told Mance it was aroyalhouse. She turns to him quickly, only to be met with a mocking smile and wink as he mimes sewing his lips shut.

She is inexplicably not reassured by this.

Monford Velaryon is almost crawling into the campfire, absently patting out the embers that fall upon him. Unlike the prince, the heir to Driftmark has the briny, acrid stench of a Black dragon. She does not know what it means. “Are there words?”

She stares into the fire. The noble houses of Avistan had never seen a need for mottos. Hoarding colors was reserved for royalty. Most of the petty nobility had little more than their signet rings. She thinks to tell the young Velaryon that she does not, but as the fire dances, she rethinks her answer. The royal house of Mendev had not had a hereditary motto, but it did now. Galfrey had known the crusade had need of a rallying cry.

She closes her eyes briefly. “Valor is all.”

“Good words,” the Sword of the Morning admits, a chagrined expression of reluctant admiration on his face.

“The dragon belongs to a noble house,” the Kingsguard she never caught the name of says into the air, as if expecting a god to come down from the stars to explain themselves.

“The legalities are complicated,” she says dryly and there are snorts.

“Here we are,” Rhaegar says as he sits beside her with the cheap harp he bought on Mole Town as he did during their first lesson on how to play the damn thing. “Do you have a preference?”

“The Dornishman’s wife!” The Sword of the Morning jeers.

The prince balks, head whipping around.“No,I am not singing - “ She watches his entire face turnpurple. “I was not even asking you!”

The other men all boo at him and she chuckles. “Let me hear it then.”

The purple of his face turns white with a speed that is amusing.

The Sword of the Morning, Ser Dayne loudly clears his throat and holds up his hands. She can hear Rhaegar’s teeth grind as he readies the harp just in time for his guard to belt out in a lovely voice,

“The Dornishman's wife was as fair as the sun,

and her kisses were warmer than spring.

But the Dornishman's blade was made of black steel,

and its kiss was a terrible thing.

The Dornishman's wife would sing as she bathed,

in a voice that was sweet as a peach,

But the Dornishman's blade had a song of its own,

and a bite sharp and cold as a leech.”

Within the first stanza, she knows what kind of song it is. A few words is all it takes for the rest to join in, making it clear that it is a popular song. There is a circle of smiles around the fire, save for Rhaegar who is almost rage playing, but even his foot is tapping with the jaunty tune. The pang of nostalgia for crusaders drunkenly bellowing at the top of their lungs any and every bawdy song they could think of to celebrate staying alive, knowing the melodyoptional,nearly overwhelms her.

It still hurts. She suspects it always will.

But her squad of crusaders,her people,died a decade ago in that demon ambush. Desna, the Lady Luck herself, had recalled her azata, Braganon to Elysium some few years ago. Elethiel had volunteered for a secret mission decades ago and she had not seen a feather of him since.

No one could replace them.

However, she could learn to like these people.

“As he lay on the ground with the darkness around,

and the taste of his blood on his tongue,

His brothers knelt by him and prayed him a prayer,

and he smiled and he laughed and he sung,

Brothers, oh brothers, my days here are done,

the Dornishman's taken my life,

But what does it matter, for all men must die,

and I've tasted the Dornishman's wife!"

Rhaegar’s fingers strum in a complicated pattern and the campfireroars.

The bat-helmed knight falls over, Velaryon falls backwards, the Sword of the Morning leaps to his feet as Brenn Flint lets out a shout. At one moment, there were towering thirty foot flames and in the next it all gutters out, leaving just smoking embers and smoke. Mance is left clutching at his chest as the prince stares blankly at the coals, frozen in place.

“Ah.” Terendelev lets out a resigned sigh into the silence. “You are a bard. It all makes sense now.”

She does not understand the incredulous looks she receives.

“...bards are notmagic,”Flint says.

“Ofcoursethey are,” she says, bewildered. “It is the same as skinchangers and elementalists. Youcannottell me you have never heard of people with the ability to use songs to direct their abilities?”

“Wecantell you that,” Mance tells her quietly, exchanging looks with the First Ranger. “The septon, my horn, theOthers.None of this existed beforeyoudid.”

Her mouth opens.

Nothing comes out.

“Wait - what’s this about asepton?”The bat knight yelps.

“Oh.“ Rhaegar croaks suddenly. “I was missing themusic.”

He moves to stand and then topples over in a dead faint. She saves him from diving headfirst into the remains of the campfire. His heat is distracting, prompting her to quickly sit him up against one of the tent poles.

“That was not an accusation,” Mance says.

“Should it be?” Flint is looking at her, the boisterous, jolly man replaced by a stern Ranger. “She appeared the night the Stars Fell.”

“I did not cause that,” she says sharply. The others are staring as well and she can feel the fledgling bonds of comradery between her and them dissipate. “I know no more than what I have told.I do not knowhow I came to be in this land either.”

"Magic brought you," Mance says quietly, dark eyes searching her.

"Magic brought me," she agrees wearily.

It still hurts.

She died.

“Baratheon has been holding out on us,” Rickard Stark murmured to his cousin, Brenn Flint.

“Eh, wha?” The big mountain Flint squinted down from the high table at the hall around them. “Whazzat?”

He did not hold the uncouth speech against him. The prince’s entire party had alongnight, that was plain to see from their bloodshot eyes and unsteady stances as if they all had tossed and turned the whole night. None but the prince seemed as if he had actuallyslept.

“Baratheon,” he said again. “Last I heard, the king had commanded him to Essos to find a Valyrian bride for his son, only amoonhence.” He tilted his head in the direction of where the crown prince of the Seven Kingdoms met a silver haired woman he did not recognize at the low tables. The prince in black and her in blue with both wearing patterns a matching color of red. “He found a girl with such haste? And there has been no betrothal announcement.”

“Not betrothed yet,” Brenn grunted before he rubbed a miserable hand into his face. “Courting.”

Rickard made a silent ‘ah’ as he held his mug out to be refilled with strong Northern ale. Her father must be a powerful man indeed to delay a betrothal with a future king, even when all know what the answer would be in the end. “What of our future queen then? What house is she from?”

He then had the thought.

“Is the dragonhers?”

That would explain everything.

“Aye, in a manner of speaking.” Brenn’s face broke into a wide, twisted grin that concerned him slightly. “Thatisthe dragon.”

Rickard took a few languid sips of his drink, savoring the malt taste and burn of alcohol before chewing on a sweetmeat as his kinsman waited patiently.

“Come again?”

“Thedragon,”the black brother said, leaning in close. “Can bloody turn into a woman. It’s amagical dragon.”

(!?)

Rickard mutely stared for a long moment.

Brenn stared back, utterly serious.

He glanced down at the tables again where two silver gilt heads were bent over a high harp. “The prince is courting adragon.”

“Aye.”

“A flying, fire breathing dragon.”

“Ice breathing,” the First Ranger corrected him. “Butaye.”

(...)

“...I see. Not what I would have done,” he admitted as he brought his mug to his lips again, muttering into the cup. “But I must respect theballsit takes to makethatdecision!”

Chapter 10: Winterfell II

Chapter Text

The solar of the Great Keep of Winterfell is cozy, built for function over ceremony. The throne room was the same, she recalls. A simple long hall with a simple tall chair, the only nod to decoration the snarling direwolves carved as armrests.

There is room enough for three chairs to sit without feeling hemmed in before the large desk. The back wall is full of old tapestries, faded with age but recognizable. The desk itself is a dark wood craft, wide set with a small stack of books and parchment on one end and the table legs had been carved to resemble the legs of a wolf. The fur is painstakingly detailed and the legs end in paws tipped with wooden claws lacquered black. A large hearth burns with a low fire making the temperature edge upon humid. The entire keep is far warmer and far less drafty than she had anticipated, wrongly assuming the works of the Shadow Tower and Castle Black were the standard.

Magic thrums through these walls.

“Please, be seated,” their host tells them.

She allows the prince to sit first before choosing her seat on the right by the fire. She is present only as support for now. When she suggested she could wait for the prince's audience with Lord Stark to finish, she received aghast responses. Rhaegar in particular resembled a kicked puppy and her resolve crumbled immediately.

Thatwas not a good sign.

The prince’s guard takes up a guard position on the left, angled to keep an eye on both the lord and the door. She approves. It is what she trained her own guardsmen to do.

“Allow me to apologize for my visit’s lack of announcement, my lord,” Rhaegar begins with a bowed head. “I require no feasts or entertainment. Let me do what I can to not impose on you more than necessary.”

The prince is willing to eat crow. He seems to hold no resentment for doing so either. That fascinates her. He offers to make amends with thoughtfulness, sincerity and with absolutely no hesitation, which she could not help but to approve of.

That his consideration meant he was aware that his actions would require reparations, yet did themanyway baffles hercompletely.

Lord Rickard Stark raises a dark eyebrow. “I am wondering how you managed the secrecy. A prince traveling by Kingsroad is hardly inconspicuous.”

His gray eyed gaze flickers to her for a brief moment and she suppresses the urge to cringe.

‘The dragon is not subtle.’

“Under the usual circ*mstances, you are correct.” Rhaegar nods easily. “I have just come from visiting my kinsman, Maester Aemon at Castle Black and the decision to travel back by way of Winterfell was sudden.”

She frowns slightly.

That is not a falsehood.

She can think of many reasons why one might want to obfuscate the fact that Lord Stark had not known about the dragon in his backyard. Those reasons do not matter. It is not a falsehood. It is also not thetruthand the omission grates her scales.

“Maester Aemon extended the offer of protection with Lord Commander Qorgyle when I found myself north of the Wall,” she says, turning away from the fire that burns merrily in the solar’s hearth at the right side of the room. “He invited the prince to entreat with me.”

Stark glances between her and the prince before smiling wryly. “He must have made quite the impression.”

She cannot help glancing at Rhaegar as he blanches. She fights to keep the smile from forming. She has forgiven him, of course, but she has certainly notforgotten.

“He was curious as to how true my current guise is and was rather…” She searches for the word as the prince sinks low in his seat, shoulders hiked up to his reddening ears. “Indelicatein the questioning.”

“Indelicate,” Lord Stark echoes with some amusem*nt and she allows herself to appreciate the silvery steel color of his eyes, of a brightness she associates with Aasimars. Curious. “...did he ask if he couldpersonallytest his assumption?”

The laugh bursts out of her. “As good as!”

Rhaegar palms his face and groans. “Iapologizedfor that,” he mumbles into his hands, muffled such that she doubts Stark can hear him clearly.

"You did," she allows, amused. She squashes the urge to pat him on the shoulder. Tactile responses between sentients that are not close are not done here. She does not care if she will be ‘allowed’ because of the courtship. The courtship is reason enough to avoid it. “You will find it difficult to offend me, Lord Stark.” It is as much advice as it is a warning. Difficult did not mean impossible. “If any of your householdmustask me a stupid question, as long as they are honest about it, I will not mind.”

“Honest about asking?” Stark tests her immediately.

“About beingstupid,”she replies.

The Kingsguard, Arthur Dayne barks a guffaw and then glares at her as he smothers it, as if his sense of humor is somehowherfault.

“In my defense, Lord Stark,” Rhaegar speaks up, cheeks red and a hand raised pleadingly. “I come by my stupidityhonestly.”

She curses her light laugh even as it comes out -and then he does things such as that.

She had not known it waspossibleto be concerned, wary, frequently exasperated and just as frequently charmed by the same personat the same time.

What waswrongwith him?

“Apology accepted.” Stark huffs. “Now then,” he says as he settles back into his own chair in a relaxed posture, leaning on his left armrest. “A matter of courtesy.” Stark turns to her. “You are a guest in my home and have yet to introduce yourself.”

She blinks. She has not? She thinks back -I must have forgotten!

The oversight galls her.

There are Silvers she knows that would shun her for decades if they witnessed this.

Half of it is her appalling lack of manners when running away and half of it is that she now cannot avoid the title even deathcould not rid her of.

“You are right, of course. My apologies.” He is a lord asking in a formal setting and she responds in kind. “I am Terendelev of Mendev, Lord Protector of Kenabres and heir to Queen Galfrey of Mendev.”

The crowd in the capital at the announcement had been so large, the people had to occupy the nearest buildings, peering from the windows as far as even she could see. She had felt awkward standing before them, telling herself it was solely to boost morale. She had felt ill fitting and unworthy, but when Galfrey presented her with the diadem, the cheer had been so loud...

And Terendelev spent the next decade running away from it.

Dying was easier.

She feels like the child Halaseliax occasionally still calls her.

Rickard Stark’s eyebrows fly up into his hairline as Rhaegar’s head snaps around to stare.

Arthur Dayne gurgles. “You are a dragon princess?”

“The legalities.” She sighs as she repeats herself. “Are complicated.”

“Of that I am certain,” Stark muses out loud with some humor. “I have not heard of these places. Do you speak of cities?”

“A kingdom like your own, my lord. Nerosyan serves as the capital of Mendev, from which the queen rules. My city guards our border from a magical disaster we call ‘the Worldwound.’” Her throat constricts and she falls silent.

Guardedthe border.

She knows not what became of it in the event of her death. Did the city still stand? Did its defenders?

“I am not here as a representative.” She manages to keep her voice even. “Feel free to address me by name and not by title.”

“I cannot be overly familiar.” Lord Stark rejects her suggestion out of hand. She quells the disquiet. Another land. Different rules. “Although, I will admit ‘Princess Terendelev’ is a bit unwieldy.”

She is unsurprised. The lesser races usually find dragon names such. However, hearing ‘Princess’ before it again after a full decade and a half of that nonsense finally dying out in Kenabres makes her scalesitch.

“I will answer to any variation of Lady Teren Mendev.” It is the name her guise is known in the neighboring nations of Ustalav and Brevoy. Her nose wrinkles. “And by your customs, ‘your grace’ is appropriate if you must.”

“Well met, Lady Teren.” Stark nods to her and then returns his attention back to the prince. “I assume this is not just to give apologies or to ask for the hand of a daughter of Stark.”

“Beg pardon?”Rhaegar’s eyes grow wide and then dart around the room as if looking for an escape. “I - I am not looking for - “ He waves a hand in her direction weakly as he flounders, wrong-footed. “I am certain your daughter is lovely?”

“She’s a ten year old hellion that broke her fast confined to her rooms for bringing home ashadowcatto ride like a horse,” Stark says dryly.

Rhaegar’s mouth opens. Then it closes without a word.

The lord snorts and gives her a pitying look that she returns. She takes a leap of faith on Stark’s disposition and adds, “The boyneeds help.”

Stark snorts again. “I can see that. I fail to understand what aid the North can provide. We are far away and rarely thought of down south in King’s Landing.”

“It has been too long since there has been a royal progress,” Rhaegar says, eyeing the man warily as if expecting to get slapped in the face with a betrothal. “It is as you said, the North appears to stand alone. I mean to give you the means to judge me by my merits and for me to familiarize myself with the Seven Kingdoms.”

The prince’s mouth twists slightly.

“Not just through what I have beentold.”

“Hm. You mean to have my support,” the lord deduces wisely, steepling his hands before his face. “If not my support, then my neutrality. I would ask what for.”

She feels as though the fire beside her had blown out -what for, indeed.

Rhaegar straightens almost to straining in his seat. He crosses his arms, uncrosses them, knuckles his silver stubbled chin and then miserably,painfullychokes out, “My father just burned a man alive!”

Gray eyes flick from him to her grim mien and then to Arthur Dayne’s solemn face.

“Burned alive,” the lord says blandly.

“I received the news on Dragonstone.” Rhaegar’s voice shakes. “A petty thief, barely a man grown who nicked a buttered roll of bread and was caught. Executed as an assassin by fire.”

Rickard Stark stares at him mutely.

“Burned…alive,”he repeats slowly, before his right hand finds his forehead as the Lord of the North sags in his seat.

“I did notwantto believe,” Rhaegar admits quietly and her heart aches in sympathy. “Then Ser Oswell Whent of Harrenhal was assigned to guard me and he had witnessed it in person, by the king’s side.”

“The other Kingsguard you brought?” The lord looks up. At Rhaegar’s nod, the man runs his hand down his face and lightly tugs at his dark beard. “Send for him.” It is said in a tone that brooks no argument. “I would hear his testimony.”

She is prepared to be disappointed when Ser Whent steps into the room, brown eyes searching. She does not begrudge the man his wariness of her. It is the notion of honor in this land that is twisted and broken. She will respect that he tries to keep righteousness the only way he knows how.

She expects to be disappointed with a perfunctory response that says nothing incriminating.

Ser Whent looks at the misery on his prince’s face and his shoulders slump under his proud white cloak. “This is about the burning, then?”

Ser Dayne straightens so suddenly, he almost falls over. His violet eyes wide with shock.

“Aye,” Stark says grimly. The Bat Knight holds firm. He raises his chin in a mixture of defiance and shame. “What do you know, ser?”

“A servant of the Red Keep was tried and found guilty of one count of petty thievery of a buttered loaf. It wasdecided -”Whent's mouth briefly twists into a sickening version of his dark, mocking grin. “That the theft was a front to distract from a poisoning attempt. He was put to the question until he confessed and was then burned at the stake alive in the throne room.”

His words hang heavy in the air. Rhaegar’s eyes fall to the floor as if it is the most interesting sight in the world. She clenches a fist.

She could simply…take careof the problem.

She forces herself to relax her hands and puts the thought out of her mind as unworthy of the color of her scales for what must be thethirdtime. She will not act on it. That will have to be enough.

Lord Stark’s eyes close as he leans back in his seat.“Wasthere a poisoning attempt?”

“Prince Viserys had a case of the sniffles and slight cough,” is the Kingsguard’s bland response. “He made a complete recovery within two days.”

No. There was no such attempt.

Just a king's cruel paranoia.

“I see.” The lord opens his eyes halfway and the color in them has darkened from silver to the blue-gray of freshly forged steel. “Are the Kingsguard not sworn to keep the king’s secrets?”

Her lips curl into a sneer.

Twisted, broken,pervertedhonor. There was nothingjustin the defense of a tyrant.

Ser Whent smiled the sick smile again. “It was the king’s wish that all may know what becomes of those who would dare strike at a dragon.”

Stark breathes heavily through his nose. “With Fire and Blood, I reckon.”

There is a tantalizing pulse ofragein her chest. Allshouldknow what becomes of those that dare to strike at a dragon.

But not like that.

Terendelev rolls a Natural 20!

She looks away and focuses on simply breathing. The flames of her corruption are searing, welling up, begging to be set free. She denies it with a heavy force of sheerwill.Shewillnot assassinate the king. Shewillfeed his presumptuous delusions down his very throat until hechokes on it.

Thehatredcools, satisfied.

“Thank you, ser.” Ser Whent bows hastily and nearly stumbles on his way out the door, face drawn and pale. “A royal progress,” Stark manages evenly. “Bold move, but the right one, I think. It is to be another Grand Council, then?”

“There is precedent. Aerion called Brightflame was attainted for… madness.”

“Posthumously for he died drinking wildfire,” Stark rejoins. “It was hissonthat was passed over for his madness.”

“I hope to acquit myself adequately,” Rhaegar says in a hopeful, but small voice. “Hence the royal progress.”

“Hence the progress,” Stark intones. The man visibly thinks it over, drumming thick fingers on his desk. “I will admit that in the usual circ*mstances, I would weigh Steffon Baratheon as an experienced lord with three heirs over you.”

Rhaegar nods as if that is to beexpectedand she cannot keep silent any longer.

“Elevating a lawful heir in place of his tyrant father hasconditionsin this land?” She asks tightly, flattening the snarl from her voice.

Rickard Stark smiles, but there is no joy in it.

“The grandfather of this current king was chosen by the very Grand Council we speak of. Consider how it seems.” His eyes hold a dire look. “Aerion Brightflame’s line attainted for madness. Aegon called Unlikely calls his family andpyromancersto him and then mostdie in an unexplained conflagration at Summerhall.” Rhaegar flinches, but the man is not done. “Jaehaerys II is weak and sickly, holding the throne for a mere three years while chasing prophecies, woodswitches and magic. Aerys II burns men alive.”

His head inclines.

“Four generations, three kings were mad enough to remove themselves or are better to beremoved.”

Rhaegar slumps in place, turning a plain gold band on his fingers.

Lord Stark regards him pitilessly. “We are not so far removed that we do not still suffer unfit Targaryen kings, the Ninepenny Wars but the last gasp of Aegon called Unworthy’s rule.”

The fire sparks within her again, this time of frustration and impatience. She is agitated enough that she forgets herself, snapping at the air. “The Others are on your doorstep! We do not have thetimeto prevaricate over this - “

“Hold!”Stark booms the command.

She does.

“The Others?”

Oh.

Rhaegar is staring at her with wide eyes in complete bewilderment matched by Arthur Dayne’s flabbergasted face.

She sighs, dropping her face into one of her hands.

It is a natural inclination to be…gentle. Toease the lesser races into their responsibilities and guide them onto the right path as a parent would. A Silver's wont is to observe, to advise and guide, prepared to step back and away as soon as the children find their footing. The evils that the fragile, mortal peoples could not handle would find a shining Silver standing in their defense. They are the vanguard. They protect so others do not have to. They inspire only if and when that fails. She does not lead.Silvers followorders.

She had compartmentalized. The lesser races were Rhaegar's concern. The Others were hers.

She does not remember telling the future king of the Seven Kingdoms that there was an existentialthreat on the horizon.

She simplyforgot.

“The cold terrors in the far north your legends tell of,” she murmurs. “They are real.” She reaches out and gently takes Rhaegar’s hand. “I am sorry,” she apologizes. “I have done you a great disservice in being overly secretive and disregarding your opinion in matters I should have brought to your attention.”

“Forgiven?” He whispers, staring. She squeezes his hand and then lets go.

This land isbarbaricin new and foreign ways.

There is an entire continent rife with open slaverywithoutthe technology scavenged from a ship that fell from the stars like Numeria protecting them. The world has yet to even be fully mapped with entire landmasses known only by its horrors. No one knows what is west of Westeros. Honor has rusted away to a dull pittedrot.The black brothers on the Wall even now are more comfortable with the power she holds than with her kindness.

By Rickard Stark’s words, this is a nation on the edge of breaking apart.

This is what she has to work with. If they are not enough, it is her duty to make them enough.

They have to be.

“I will start from the beginning.” She allows her eyes to glow with her silver light and sets all discomfort aside. She will not be ashamed of what she is. She does not do this to frighten them, but rather to make them understand. “I am Terendelev of Mendev, Lord Protector of Kenabres, heir to Queen Galfrey of Mendev and godling descendant of Apsu, the Dragon God of All.”

“Dragon god.” Rickard Stark stares at her mutely for a long moment. She watches him look around the room lazily as if cataloging that every item was in place and had not up and walked out from right under his nose.

Then he raises his hands to his temples.

She smiles wryly.

“You will support Prince Rhaegar because I chose him.Yourgods told me Winter is Coming, Lord Stark. I will see that Westeros is prepared to face it.”

She wonders for a moment on the nature of tyrants, but only for a moment. If she does good,it will not matter.Her Father answered her prayer with warm sunlight shining off mirror polished silver scales. He does not ask much of her.

Only to be glorious.

She can do that.

“Ser Dayne.” The dragon smiled with a quick flash of teeth. “I will be with you in a moment.”

Arthur bowed his head and stood guard.

The courtyard was bustling with far more people than he would have thought for the middle of winter in the North. These people had been bred to withstand the cold with far fewer layers of cloth and furs than he thought reasonable. Dawn was almostdizzywith excitement and it did well to push the worst of his own anxieties away.

“I will not presume to go myself,” the dragon spoke modestly. “However, there is a great deal of odd magic in those crypts that I would recommend investigating.”

The steward of Winterfell, Vayon Poole, marked it down in shaking hand. “Messengers have been sent to Wintertown for craftsmen to arrive on the morrow, my - my lady.” Sweat beaded the poor man’s forehead, his face slightly sallow when the dragon returned her hungry gaze to him. “Maester Walys wishes to make his protests known. The North’s fields are too precious for untested solutions.”

The dragon’s eyes narrowed and the man trembled. “Who is the boy in gray and ten white wolf head livery?”

“...Jory Cassel, son of Martyn Cassel,” the man answered like he was naming a potential hostage. Arthur bit the inside of his cheek.

It was not funny. It was not as if theyknewthe dragon caved like a gold breastplate before a child’s tears. A few pointers from Monford Velaryon and the boy would rule the roost.

The dragon nodded imperiously. “Assign me one field for testing, then. Proceed as usual with the other fields and I will see that Jory Cassel will be able to offset the maester’s deficiency.”

Arthur bit his cheek again.

The ‘moment’ stretched into several as the steward, mayhaps emboldened by the Sword of the Morning’s presence, took the time to take care of the rest of his list of responsibilities. He listened silently as plans were made for the dragon and some Northern knights to seek out a star that fell in the Wolfswood and investigate strange animal behavior, some form of organized sorting of magical individuals and the rebuilding of the partially collapsed First Keep, struck by lightning a century ago it seems.

An event the dragon seemed to believe should not have happened because Winterfell had protective magic woven into every gray stone.

“That will be all for now, thank you.” Arthur watched Poole escape. The dragon had an exasperated half-smile on its face. “It is as if he believes I will become peckish at any moment and justeathim.”

Arthur snorted.

“You were eyeing him like a snake eyes a plump rat.”

The dragon made a thoughtful sound as it held out a hand. Its quartered blue and red cloak emblazoned with the gold sword lifted itself from a barrel into its grip. “Is it my fault that he stinks of fear?”

“Do you want an answer to that question?” Arthur considered the creature as it snorted, wrapping the cloak around itself and the blue and gold dress it was wearing.

“Rickard Stark is considerably more poised.”

“Rickard Stark hasicein his veins.”

The dragon turned to him with a gentle smile. “Are you afraid of me, Ser Dayne?”

I would be a f*cking fool if I wasn’t.

He did not need Dawn to tell him that.

It was no longer about the dragon being a big scaly flying beast that breathed ice. It wasdemonstrativewith the powers it possessed even in its guise. It readily confessed to detecting the magic around it and in others. Of healing injuries that would shortly andsurelykill a man. The beast had simplyconjuredthe mid meal out of thin air so as to not interrupt the research and bother the kitchen staff.

It called itself a godling.

“I fear you with that harp in your hands.”

Its startled laugh drew curious gazes. “I am improving, surely?”

“Surely,” he said dutifully and it shook its head. The dragon did notlookany differently from before. The same silver spun long hair and fair face. It still stood nearly as tall as a man in its guise and still moved with a predator’s grace.

There was a new bite of ice in the air as he moved to a guarding position behind its left shoulder as it headed for the entrance to Winterfell’s godswood, expecting him to follow. It did not have to say anything to be noticed by all it passed.

That was the difference.

At some point between their first meeting and the second, the dragon’s commanding presence had diminished. Dimmed. It had left to go to the far north as a beast that did not think twice of ignoring or admonishing a prince and returned hesitant.

Shaken.

He had not noticed until whatever pall that had ailed it had lifted, leaving it as it was again.

He closed his eyes briefly.

f*ck, sh*t, damn -

The beast had encountered the f*cking Others in the far north. Twice, by its account and both occasions could have ended in its death.

‘Winter is Coming, Lord Stark.’

The creature could braid castle forged steel with its fingers as if it wererope.

Seven preserve us.

“I did wish to speak to you, Ser Dayne, but you seem to be doing more than waiting for conversation.”

“I have been assigned to guard you, your grace,” Arthur answered politely as he stepped around a patch of ice. “As Ser Whent guards the prince.”

The dragon slowed her sure steps and turned to him, vague, gentle amusem*nt on its face. “Should I take that to mean Rhaegar feels optimistic about this courtship, then?”

Who the f*ck knows what his prince was thinking anymore. After the shock wore off, he had been nearly giddy with ‘I was in theright!’and then afterthatwore off was overcome with the dread of ‘I was in theright.’

He responded to the news the same way he always had, by burying his head in books.

“Does he have reason to be?” Arthur asked instead. “You have begun to treat him more fondly.”

“That assumption is why I was distant,” the dragon said, but not unkindly. “This is not fair to either of us. He has done nothing objectionable.” It averted its gaze for a short moment. “I accepted his gift in good faith. I will act as I wish and if it does go well, I will accept that outcome.”

He was…

No longer as against the notion as he once was.

Mostly because he was half-convinced that if Rhaegarhadn’tbeen courting the dragon, after today, Rickard Stark might have given a dragon Lady Stark due consideration. He did not want to think about how much more likelyotherswere to consider it knowing that the crown prince of the Seven Kingdomsalready had.Not a lord alive would not be tempted to bind the dragon to his house and line, by any means he had to him.

Rhaegar’s stupid idea was quickly turning into anightmare.

“...dare I ask the children question?” Arthur said, resigned.

“I am capable of birthing acceptable heirs,” it admitted, grimacing mightily. “If it progresses that far however, I would greatly prefer he find a second wife for that.”

His mind ground and stuttered to a complete halt. “...I beg your pardon.”

The creature sighed. “Dragon?”

What in the Seven f*cking Hells kind of answer is -

Arthur spent the rest of the walk into the godswood in blank silence as Dawn laughed at him.

The dragon’s destination appeared to be a Weirwood grove. It was a quiet, idyllic location with chestnut, ash and oak trees forming a thick, snow covered canopy above them. Three still pools were in the distance beneath the windows of the Great Keep and in the center was an ancient gnarled Weirwood. It was carved with a craggy frowning face and as he watched, the pitted eyes began to weep blood red sap. In the far distance in the other direction from the pools was a reflective glint experience watching for assassins trained him to concentrate on.

Was that glass?

Surrounded by tall pines and oaks of the godswood of Winterfell, was a glimpse of a house with both walls and roof of yellow and green panes of glass against the backdrop of the hundred foot high inner wall of the keep. His mind boggled at the cost. He had never thought House Stark in theNorthof all places had the coin to build something so fanciful.

The dragon made its eerie considering hissing hum as it surveyed the area, a critical eye on the Weirwood. “You do not like me, is that correct, ser?”

Arthur froze in place.

It turned to him, a wry smile on its face. “Do not be concerned. I am not offended by mere dislike.”

He forced his hands still, leaving Dawn in her sheath. “I am wary of you,” he managed. The beast presented itself as a civilized creature with proper patterns of speech and knowledge of etiquette. It seemed kind, but he found it hard to trust that kindness as true benevolence.

Over patronizing whims.

Aerys II Targaryen had been Arthur Dayne’s object lesson in what could become of the latter.

“Do you dislike me personally or of what I represent?”

He felt as if his spine was about to shake out of his boiled leathers and furs. “I do not know you personally.”

“You have a fair notion of how I am,” the beast said gently. “But it is difficult to separate it from the rest, I understand.”

“I apologize for my inability to do so, your grace.” Its face fell into something resembling misery and Arthur shuffled uncomfortably. “I keep to my oaths, your grace. Regardless of my personal failings, I take my duty seriously and will guard you as best I can.”

“We had an exchange about the worth of your oaths,” it said softly.

Arthur’s mouth went as dry as the Dornish desert.

The worth of my oaths.

He had cornered Oswell Whent about his testimony. The Riverlander had smiled his darkly mocking smile.

‘I remembered why I became a knight.’

“You - “ He gasped out, feeling like he was drowning. “You do notunderstand - “ He could not find the words and fell into the comfort Dawn fearfully offered. The blade sparked with lightning.

“You are correct,” the dragon unexpectedly said. “I did not understand and for that, I must apologize. This is what you know honor to be and you adhere to it as best as you are able.” Its lips quivered into a miserable smile. “You raised your sword against me at our first meeting, in defense of the prince. I trust you will readily do it again?”

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

“And you are trying to protect Rhaegar fromhimselfcurrently.”

Arthur’s jaw clenched. He would give no response.

“You are aware your blade has a mind of its own.”

It was not a question.

Arthur rocked back on his heels, reflexively dropping into a stance, stalling at the last moment at drawing the frantic Dawn because of hisoaths. “I will guard you,your grace,but you will nottouchher!”

The dragonsmiled.An uplifting, joyful, almostrelievedexpression as a flash of silver light entered and left its eyes.

“A true Kingsguard. A man who will break anddiebefore he bends. That is very good. I am in need of allies like that.”

sh*t, f*cking hells -

It was ominous praise.

“You will do.”

This dragon was going to be the end of him.

Rickard Stark could do naught but stare as the great beast landed heavily before the Kingsroad Gate and with a gentleness belying its form, set his son and heir Brandon down on his feet. The boy stood there like a stump, clutching his travel bag and a sword he did not recognize in a white knuckled grip. He was still in his riding leathers, no doubt expecting to take ahorsehome and he looked around with gray eyes so wide, Rickard was afeared they’d fall right out of his skull. His face was white as snow and his father did not blame him one bit.

“...please tell me you did not ask after my son looking like that.”

The dragonshrugged. “I DO NOT KNOW WHAT YOU WERE CONCERNED ABOUT! LORD DUSTIN WAS VERY ACCOMODATING.”

Oh, he knew there was a snowball’s chance in Dorne that Dustinwouldn’ttoss his son and heir at the first dragon that came knocking. That was not the problem. When Terendelev said she would escort his son home when she came back from the Wall, she did not say that she would be flying with him in her mouth, carried like an unruly pup by the scruff of his neck.

Brandon took a shaking step forwards and his legs near gave out on him. Rickard crossed the snow covered road and hauled the boy up by his shoulders.

“Father,” he whispered. “Dragon.”The boy of five and ten looked at him as if he didn’t know what to make of the world anymore, helpless and wide eyed like a babe in the woods. “I - dragon.Teeth.” He gestured wildly towards the beast. “Lots of teeth.Bigdragon. It said - I - ittalks. I don’t - Father.”Brandon clutched at his tunic desperately.“Dragon.”

“I am aware,” Rickard said dryly and peeled his son off him.

There was a brilliant flash of silver light. The dragon prowled forward as a Valyrian woman in shining steel plate armor and cloth of gold and Brandon’s words abandoned him altogether, eyes somehow widening even further.

“You are well? I do have the means to heal you.” The dragon swept her purple eyes up and down the mute boy for injury. “You seem to have weathered the flight unharmed?” Brandon nodded, struck dumb. He then stretched out a trembling arm and hand with the new sword in his grip. “Thank you, Lord Brandon.”

She was polite enough not to bring attention to her having to pry his cold fingers off the scabbard first. His son’s mouth opened and closed wordlessly.

The dragon nodded as if he had managed the necessary courtesies. “Shall we, Lord Stark.”

He hooked an arm about Brandon’s shoulders to help the boy stop shaking like a leaf. “We shall.”

He’d barely gotten through the inner wall of Winterfell when his daughter, Lyanna bounded up having escaped her minders. No doubt thanks to the shadowcat cub trailing on her heels like an orphaned duckling. On one hand, he had a hard time naming a man alive that wouldn’t hesitate to lay hands on the girl with a cat as big as a goat and growing. She had no need of a sworn shield.

On the other hand, asking anyone at all to keep her inside when they had a reasonable fear of losing a hand to her pet if it insisted otherwise was provingimpossible.

“They said there was a dragon!” His daughter burst out. “A living one! Why can’t I see it, is it gone, will it come back, was there a rider, was it the prince - “

“Lyanna,” Rickard said. “Breathe.”

The girl glared at him before sucking in a loud inhale. Then she hiccupped, surprise plain on her face before letting it out in a wet burp. His daughter grinned up at him sheepishly.

He sighed.

“If I may,” Terendelev stepped forward and the shadowcat cub dropped to the ground in submission, exposing its belly. “The dragon you seek is before you.”

“Oh,” the girl said with a disappointed squint. “I thought there was arealdragon, not a Targaryen.”

Rickard pinched the bridge of his nose as Brandon’s head swiveled between his little sister and the dragon, horror stamped and sealed on his face.

“You’re inarmor.”Lyanna’s attention drifted as it was wont to do. “Are you thequeen?”

“I am a Mendev, not a Targaryen,” the dragon replied with more patience than he thought it had. “And I assure you, I am quite real.”

“Then where’s your wings?” Lyanna challenged. “And your scales and fire breath!”

“Do you wish for me to show you?” The dragon raised an eyebrow and her eyes glowed silver.

(!!!)

Rickard tensed.

She flung out a hand. “Shall I retake my true form and bathe this entire courtyard with myicebreath to win yourtrust?”

His girl shrunk back.

“...no.” She said quietly, staring.

The woman broke into a throaty chuckle. “I did not think so. I am as tall as that wall.” She nodded towards the hundred foot inner wall of Winterfell. “I think if I walked everywhere as big as that, lots of people would have a great deal of trouble getting around, hm?”

“That’s fair. Thank you for your consideration.” Lyanna bounced right back, choosingnowto remember her manners. “You’re anice dragon?Is that why we think you’re all gone, can all of you change intopeople!?”

“Right.” Rickard stepped forward and swept his daughter underneath his other arm. “That is enough of that. Lady Teren will be at late meal and you can ask your questions then.”

“Your name is Taeren?” Lyana wriggled around in his grip to keep the dragon in her line of sight. “Are you going to marry theprince?”

The dragon laughed again. “He certainly hopes so.”

His daughter opened her mouth. He covered it with a hand and ignored her licking his palm as he passed the child to her older brother. “Late meal. Keep asking and you will haveyourmeal in your rooms.” He sighed again at her pouting. “This oneshould be in her lessons.Take her there, that’s a good lad. Clean up and meet me in my solar.”

Brandon gave him an unreadable look, but at least his steps were steady as he headed for the keep, Lyanna in hand with her cat behind them.

“Prepare to have your patience sorely tested.”

The dragon scoffed. “It will be no trouble at all.”

She raised the sword she held and beheld it with a skeptical eye. It was old and worn with cracking leather and tarnished bronze for its cross guard with dirt on the surface of the smooth dragon’s eye ruby. He would bet his left leg the blade itself was Valyrian steel.

“Might I request permission to speak to your maesterdirectlyabout your agricultural practices and food preservation methods?”

Rickard blinked.

“He is being difficult,” she said blandly.

He had given her somewhat of a free reign pending his approval. He did not expect the dragon would choose to use it to help withfarming.

It was a matter of importance for truth. The Others (!!!) wouldn’t have to lift a finger if they all simply starved to death before the fighting ever happened. The tales said the long night lasted for an entire generation.

“Granted. Our main source during winter is a house of glass, however.” He expected the dragon to be singularly impressed with the sheer expense of such. It was a major house’s entire treasury worth of funds.

Instead, she nodded slowly. “Just the one?”

Rickard stopped in his tracks. He turned to her, narrowing his eyes. “Aye,” he said slowly. “Justthe one.”

The dragon princess smiled sharply. “Then I will start there. Glass was a simple invention in the end.”

(!?)

“You know how to make glass.”

“Yes,” the dragon said simply, as if the Myrish glassmakers wouldn’t hire assassins on the spot if they overheard. “I will need assistance identifying your names for ingredients, but it is not difficult. In fact,” she tilted her head, eyeing him like a wolf eyes a cornered injured doe. “If you are agreeable, I am willing to make two houses of ice today in a gesture of good faith.”

“Two houses of ice,” Rickard echoed. “Today.”

The dragon held up a hand, scratched out a rough square with the toe of her armored boot and thenbreathed.

When the mist settled, there was a clear sheet of thick ice on the ground roughly conforming to the square shape.

“I will need frames of wood to form the sheets,” the dragon said, a hiss of vapor glittering with ice shards escaping her lips as he stared. “It is no stronger than normal ice, but mine will notmeltif I do notwish it so.Get me the plans for the house you have and I will construct you two more.”

“I will see if we have those plans,” he said calmly.

He had just come from hashing out the draft of a trading contract with the heir to Driftmark, Monford Velaryon’s personal trading galleys to end his imposition on the Manderlys of White Harbour. With two more glass houses, Winterfell’s reliance on imported grain from the Reach would vanish. The trading galleys would soon be trading for asurplus.

He was already drafting the letter to Olenna Tyrell through her son in his head, finally and unequivocally ending future shipments.

Good riddance.

Give that woman an inch and she would rob him of his small clothes if he let her.

“Thank you, your grace. It would be an immense boon.”

The dragon inclined her head. “I accept your thanks, but I have no intention of stopping at just two houses of ice.”

“No?” He asked mildly.

The dragon did not smile so much as bared teeth. “We are preparing for a long night, Lord Stark and Winterfell is not the entire North. I do not care about politics.Youare the border frontier. There are methods I could teach, contraptions I could build. Your people will have what theyneed.”

He marveled at the difference in demeanor from the dragon that licked his walls to the queen in all but name. “Bold claim.”

“Iama - “

“Dragon!”Was shouted across the hall as soon as they entered. The Senior Ranger that came with his cousin was a slender man of average height with dark red-brown hair and was currently heavily laden with books. The dragon met him half-way, taking the entire stack from him with an enviable ease.

“Mance. I have finally ceased brooding.”

“That explainsnothing- Lord Stark.” The black brother bowed and then shot the dragon a look that could melt steel.

He waved a hand at the Great Hall where a full score of people ushered to and from the library, ferrying parchment, scrolls, books and scraps of information to lay out as his desk was not large enough. Velaryon was pestering his steward with questions, talking with his hands as much as his mouth in a serene sea green doublet decorated with the silver seahorse. The prince had contributed the books and parchment he had brought with him to the cause, nattering away to an aggrieved Sword of the Morning who looked like he was having a splitting headache. Oswell Whent of Harrenhal stood guard, looking like a drowned rat for all the man was not wet, having removed his helm revealing a bird’s nest of damp brown hair and his drawn face.

Brenn had drafted his youngest son Benjen under Maester Walys’ pinched face. They looked to be sorting through the material, the boy on the big Flint’s shoulders pointing at books. To his credit, his cousin seemed unfazed by the direwolf pup the boy got fromsomewhereand the ghostly cold lights that flickered in and out around his head.

“What did you do?”

“Informed Lord Stark and Prince Rhaegar of what is at stake,” the dragon said, seemingly oblivious to the man’s ire.

“You agreed to follow the Lord Commander’s lead on this.”

Rickard made note of that.

“I will take full responsibility.”

“We don’t have theevidence.”

The dragon’s eyes flashed a brilliant silver. “I decided that Iamthe evidence.” She looked towards him and nodded. “Lord Stark.”

It was a dismissal of a high lord in his own seat, but he only felt bemused. That she was a dragon was no obstacle. He would call a pig in a dress ‘your grace’ if it had steel in its spine, a sense of honor and aided the North. If the prince didn’t f*ck this up, this woman was to be his queen in name as well.

He found he was looking forward to the day.

“Lady Mendev.”

Brandon was waiting for him when he made it back to his solar. The boy looked up from where he had been sneaking looks at the correspondence on his desk, unashamed.

“Father.” The boy waved his hands around. “Where the?f*ck?Did the?f*cking dragon come from!?”

“Well met, my firstborn son and heir,” Rickard drawled. “I missed you as well. I am ending your fostering a little early. I have instructed Rodrick that you will be continuing your martial training as I will be instructing you on wielding Ice.”

“I - what? Are you taking the Black?” His son’s eyes blew wide open. “Are youdying?”

His heir was as a three week old pup at times. Put him in an unfamiliar room and within the hour he will convince himself the world is ending. He was going to have to consider how to break the news of the godsdamnedOthersto him carefully.

Best to leave him stuck on the dragon for a while.

“How was the flight? Did you piss yourself?”

Brandon gave him an incredulous look that turned ashamed. Then his grimace morphed into a familiar smirk. “And left an unbroken trail of yellow snow from Barrowtown to Winterfell as well!”

“That’s my boy.” He gave the young man a hearty clap on the back. “Take a seat. Much and more has happened and I would tell you of it - “ His eyes caught on the Arryn seal on one of the letters. “Hold a moment, news of your brother.”

He peeled off the wax already dreading the conversation when Eddard visited in the spring to find his home turned upside down. He read through the letter quickly.

(!?)

He read through it again.

“Father?”

Rickard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North had a newvery large headache.

And its name wasEddard Stark.

“News from your brother,” he said flatly. He cleared his throat and then in a falsely high voice said, “Well wishes, Father. I hope you are well. I am nowblind -”

“What?”Brandon yelped.

His son snatched the parchment from him as Rickard collapsed into his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. Then he sat up straight as if stung, snatching the letter back again, this time reading between the lines and hissed through his teeth, “Why is mysonwriting this, Jon Arryn, you yellow belliedcraven - “

“He doesn’t feelcold,”Brandon said, wondering. “The old godsspeakto him?”

Rickard grunted. He was going to have to make aspectacleof Brandon receiving Ice early so no one got any clever ideas. “Part of what I wished to speak with you about. You’ve noticed Lya’s cat and all of Benjen’s nonsense, I trust?”

Brandon looked away. “I’ve got a snow eagle.”

“Those are extinct,” Rickard said blandly.

“Guess they’re not.” Brandon's shoulders hunched momentarily as if expecting a scolding, which he should because allhis children liked to keep secrets from him, it seemed. Then Brandon straightened, lifting his chin. “Dragon out flew her, but she’s on her way.”

Eddard lost hissight,but his letter assured that he had gained the ability to pin Elbert Arryn’sshadowto the ground and learned High Valyrian in a day with magica possessed dire wolfwas teaching him.

Lyanna did not seem to control her animals so much as instantly tame them. She knew somewhere in her head how to turn an ornery old horse, feral hound or wild shadowcat cub docile. He took breaks from his work more often just to make sure the girl hadn’t disappeared into the Wolfswood looking for more “pets” to add to her menagerie.

Benjen’s eyes began to burn like ice overnight. Cold lights formed around him and metal froze on his fingers. He had a young boy in his bed for nightmares for a fortnight straight after Old Nan thought itappropriateto tell him the tale of the Night’s King.

(…)

He just realized that if the Others werereal,he was going to have to look intothat.

Brandon being a simple skinchanger bonded to a nearly extinct snow eagle was almost a relief.

“There have been strange happenings in Winterfell,” he admitted. “Strange dreams and illnesses resolving into greenseers, skinchangers and who knows what else. Our blacksmith swears he can move steel with his thoughts, I personally feel stronger, yet have begun feeling overlyburdenedby my own armor - “

“Heretoo?”

Father and son stared at each other.

(...!!!)

Rickard dove for Eddard’s letter for the third time. This time the words ‘Robert Baratheon is recovering well from his illness’ leapt out at him as damning.

“Brandon. What preciselydo you mean by‘here too?’”

Chapter 11: Winterfell III

Chapter Text

It was the hour of the nightingale, the eerie time between the darkest time of night and the full light of dawn. The bleeding star had fallen beyond the horizon, leaving naught but a bloody glow in the sky to the west. Small flickering glimpses of fire up on the walls from the men on guard were their only company. Ser Whent surveyed the courtyard with a practiced eye all the same, while Arthur was still waking up, rubbing his eyes and slapping his cheeks like a child.

"I do not know whether to call you a mad fool or what," Brandon Stark bluntly stated. He then glanced back as if what he just said wouldn't earn him a few days in the Black Cells to belatedly add, "Prince Rhaegar."

Before Ser Whent could bite the Stark heir's head off for his manners, Rhaegar admitted, "You are not the first to say so and like as not will not be the last."

Seven hellsBy the Flames, he would not be the last.

The future Lord Stark was a tall youth only three to four years younger than himself with long wavy dark hair, the long Stark face with dark gray eyes, scruff on his chin and a fine cloak made of snow bear pelt. Unlike his father, he was dressed somewhat appropriately for the winter with a padded gray overcoat with a white wolf head embroidered on the front, gloves lined in red fox fur and long riding boots. A truly oversized white bird as big as a half grown child, a legendary snow eagle, was perched on the saddle of his horse. The bird was peering at him with intelligent yellow eyes as if evaluating his sanity along with its master.

Perhaps there was more to the paltry talent of animal taming than he had first assumed.

"But?" Brandon prompted, gently tugging on his horse's lead to draw it away from the straw that had been laid over icy patches of ground.

Rhaegar sighed. "Yes,of course, if she was only a dragon, then I would be questioning my own mind as well, but." He raised a pleading hand. "Have youseenher?"

Brandon's sharp bark of a laugh echoed throughout the empty courtyard of Winterfell. "Ididsee your point!Aye,be hard pressed to find a more comely creature, very well, you're not mad," he allowed with a grin. "You're either abravefool or fiendishly clever. I do not envy your search for a septon to drag in front of it."

"I have heard vows before a heart tree would suffice, my lord," he said. He could not help the small smile when the vexing Stark's face pinched.

"Aye," Brandon said reluctantly. "Though to be consideredlegalwithout needing reparations, we still require representatives of both families to be present before the old gods."

The familiar sting of

(did not know that, did you, boy? not so clever after all)

It was a slim possibility in any case, but perhaps Arthur could be his representative? His sworn brother and a Kingsguard assigned to him by the king.

The bride was slightly more complicated. Her mother was the sovereign of averyforeign kingdom and

"...do you have any insight on the proceedings if her father is also a god?"

Brandon Stark stopped dead in his tracks and turned all the way around. His gray gaze bounced between himself and his Kingsguard, searching for the jape.

"A god."

Rhaegar nodded agreeably. "Were you not informed? She is a godling of the dragon god Apsu."

It was not a name he recognized from known Valyrian gods, but that meant little. Much had been lost in the Doom and through other disasters besides. He could be a god of the old Ghiscari Empire, from Yi Ti, the land of a thousand gods or from Asshai and the Shadow.

Itfeltfamiliar, so he must have come across mention of a 'Dragon God of All' somewhen or somewhere.

"It must have slipped Father's mind," Brandon said flatly. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "God get. Right. Is a sign of his disapproval going to burn down the godswood?"

And everyone else in it?

"A fair question, my lord," Rhaegar said. His irritation with Brandon evaporated. Unlike first impressions, the youth wasnotunintelligent, just uncouth. He himself should have considered that. "I haven't the faintest."

They both ignored his incredulous Kingsguard.

"Hmm, well, the North would be honored to host you, but…." Brandon's lips thinned.

"Starting a holy war in the North is inadvisable, I agree. I will ask," Rhaegar assured him. Speaking of divine disapproval reminded him. "As for the septon, it has been suggested to me that the Seven might take offense to her presence in a sept."

"What?"Ser Whent whispered, appalled.

Rhaegar glanced at him. "I did not mention this earlier?"

"No," Arthur said tightly. "No, you didnot."

"Of course they would tell you that." Stark said dismissively, rolling his eyes. "I'm certain quite a number in the South still preach about us heathen tree worshippers."

"Not the septons. The Seven Who Are One have already made their opinion known at the Wall." Rhaegar absently corrected the misunderstanding. Given the centuries of burned weirwoods and bloodshed between the First Men and the Andals, he had been unsurprised when Mance Rayder mentioned it.

"It was rather poor. They do not like sharing."

Ser Oswell Whent began to swear under his breath.

Brandon blinked quickly. "I see." He opened his mouth to say something more, but then visibly thought better of it, simply repeating, "Isee."

"Mayhaps we shall wed according to her customs instead," Rhaegar mused aloud as Whent continued to quietly curse like an Ironborn sailer behind him. "She is still a dragon, so a traditional Valyrian ceremony is also an option."

"...and how much are you betting your High Septon would lovethat?"

"Nothing,"Rhaegar bit out, vexed.

The wedding itself wasnot supposed to be the hard part.

He had nothing but respect for the current High Septon who was a very old and very pious individual. Luckily too pious to be overly concerned with politics until politics made it his problem. The crown prince's own conversion away from the Faith of the Seven and subsequently wedding a woman his god actively disapproved of had the potential of making it his problem.

Neither of which could be helped and unlike Jaehaerys I, Rhaegar lacked a Septon Barth to assist in the reconciliation.

…mayhaps announcing the aforementioned conversion in a letter right before hisunannounced trip to the Wall was not the best decision he could have made, in hindsight. Nuncle Aemon might have had a teeny tiny portion of a valid point, loathe as he was to admit it.

Why was getting a dragon wife so complicated?

"The North would recognize such a union, correct?" He asked the heir of it. "Your father made his preference plain."

Rhaegar did not have the support of the North.

He had hoped

(you want this throne, i see it! this crown? you think they want you any more than me?)

Terendelev had won the North for him. He would not forget that.

"Don't ask mewhatFather is thinking, but aye, we won't be c*nts about it." Brandon waved a careless hand. "The Manderlys often wed in a sept alone and their Braavosi sailors have their own tradition, besides."

"The Reach is the home of the Faith," Rhaegar murmured. "It might be a point of contention."

More than it would already be.

House Tyrell did not have the hold on their lords that Stark had on theirs. The latter had a history of thousands of years as kings in the North, the former stewards uplifted by Aegon I after the extinction of the Gardener kings. He had on good authority that their vassal lords would never let them forget it.

Staying loyal to the king could gain them much, while all he could offer were promises.

"Dorne would be much the same as the North," Arthur murmured softly from behind Rhaegar's right shoulder, a grimace in his voice. "Greyjoy and the Iron Islands are not likely to concern themselves with your marriage anyhow."

Ser Whent stopped swearing long enough to snort derisively.

Brandon's smile was sharp as they passed through the Kingsroad gate. "It's just everywhere else, aye? No matter." He nodded to the side and Rhaegar followed his gaze. "You have a dragon."

He was starting to appreciate these Starks and their frankness.

"I do have adragon."

Rhaegar still had to catch his breath every time he laid eyes on her.

Terendelev wasmagnificent.

All of his books and scrolls, the records and tales and memoirs of the likes of Vhagar and Dreamfyre, the Black Dread Balerion and the Bronze Fury, Vermithor,wordscould not compare to hearing the bellows of her breaths in sleep or seeing the luster of her silvery scales. Her black talons left deep grooves in the ground and her horns curled proudly from her head while smaller blackened spines framed her face. She was hazy with steam, even as the air in her presence gained a bitter chill. Everything from the barbed frill on her back, the sharp point her jawline came to, the deceptively delicate bones of her wingsfascinatedhim.

His fingers twitched. He wascertainthat if he could find a few moments to compose her a song without the parchment catching aflame, he might be able to put to notes the majesty his words could not convey.

"It evensleepslike a cat!"

Ser Oswell Whent was decidedly less impressed.

Brandon barked again, catching himself by shoving his gloved thumb in his mouth as he turned away, shoulders shaking. Rhaegar turned to his Kingsguard with a flat look. The man flushed under his bat helm.

"I am not wrong," Whent said stubbornly.

Brandonsquealed."He isn't!"

His dragon had a wing draped over her head. Her entire body, tail included, was curled up against Winterfell's outer walls like a dog that had found a small, warm corner. She was wedged between the tall walls and the encroaching Wolfswood, her hindquarters leaving some few trees leaning precariously. Some enterprising soul had smuggled a yellow bed cushion underneath his dragon's head next tohisher high harp. Her sheer size rendered both objects almost comically small.

"Aegon the Conqueror," Brandon said, motioning towards Rhaegar. Then giggling, pointed towards the dragon. "Balerion."

Rhaegar attempted to banish the blasphemous image of Aegon I tossing the Black Dread a yarn ball post haste.

He did not succeed.

"Whydid you have to say that?"Rhaegar whinged to Stark's muffled laughter. "You will have me thinking about theCat Dreadall day."

"Ha!" Brandon guffawed.

In the distance, his dragon let out a gust of razor ice shards towards them as she stirred. Whent's guilty chuckle cut short as the shards plowed deep cracks in the ground. Stark snapped his mouth shut and waited in tense silence before she settled back into sleep.

"Well then," Brandon whispered out the corner of his mouth as he took a large step back. "I'll leavewakingthe dragon to you."

"It still scares Dawn sh*tless," Arthur volunteered before Rhaegar could say anything. "And I cannot wear armor - "

Whent squawked. "Look who is being a craven - "

"Look who is being ahypocrite - "

"It canbraidcastle forged steel! I am the only one here without any f*ckingmagic - "

Rhaegar left his Kingsguard to bicker with each other.

He took an indirect route towards his dragon, wading through the snow that melted and steamed to stay out of her line of fire. A bit of searching among the trees behind her turned up a hefty branch and he sidled back to the front. He had to admit, she looked comfortable and he was feeling a little guilty for interrupting her rest.

However, a Targaryen could not be seen balking at their dragon, so with a final sigh of resignation, he took aim.

And beaned his dragon in the snout with a stick.

Terendelev's molten silver eyes snapped open.

"Wha - "

His future wife was not someone that greeted the morning gracefully.

"Who - "She squinted, her head swaying like a viper, blearily trying to see the people in front of her. She stifled a second yawn into just a flash of teeth as she sagged against Winterfell. Meeting the stone seemed to confuse her, as she pulled away a moment later."Where?"Her head twisted on her serpentine neck to peer up at the walls."Oh."

"Good morning!" Rhaegar called out.

"Rusting - "Terendelev grumbled wordlessly as a low growl. His dragon yawned, displaying the entirety of her toothy maw.

To think he would ever be in the position to confirm Septon Barth's opinion that the inside of the mouth was not a weak point! The mouth of a dragon 'only allowed death in one direction,' indeed. He could plainly see the toughened plates lining the roof and all the way down towards her gullet.

Incredible!

And reaching out to touch a tooth would be foolish.

He would lose an arm and wonder why he ever thought to do it in the first place.

"Morning,"Terendelev mumbled. Her head twisted again to look down at the ground. He watched her double pupils constrict and focus."You threw a stick at me?"Rhaegar nodded."...did I sleep through you calling me?"

His mouth opened and then closed. After a moment, he sheepishly tried, "Do not ask me why I did not think to attempt that first."

Terendelev puffed her sigh as he shrugged.

She knocked her head against the keep's outer walls with a heavy thud."It is too early."

"You picked the time?"

She hissed, looking as close as a dragon could to someone that was hating themselves. She scraped her horns against the gray stone then buried her head in snow, swiping more onto herself with her tail. Her eyes closed as she puffed more vapor petulantly.

She -

She wasadorable.

Rhaegar smothered his smile, but he was certain it could still be heard in his voice,"Terendelev."

"Yes, yes!"Her eyes reluctantly pried open once again."Give me a moment."

She rolled around in the snow. As she steamed, she painstakingly used her wings to right the trees her bulk had pushed over in her sleep. At times nudging with her snout. When she was satisfied that the trees were all standing straight, her back curved in a feline stretch before she shook the water from her scales.

Silver light shone.

When it faded, he had to catch his breath again.

He would be hard pressed to find a more comely creature, indeed. In the dim light of the approaching dawn, her woman form seemed to have a silver glow beneath her skin. Her eyes were a clear indigo and her long hair was an exact match for a finely polished silver stag coin, the same as her scales. She looked to be of an age with himself, her face wholly unlined and beautiful.

She chose what looked to be hunting or riding attire from the Reach with plainly foreign differences, such as the extra gathered leather at the top of her riding boots and embroidered crimson patches in her leather jerkin. A long cloth of silver scarf hung about her neck, nearly as long as a cloak. A flick of her finger silenced the phantom strumming of the high harp before she picked it up, cradling it like the treasure it was.

"You are staring," she murmured as they waded back through the snow to the Kingsroad Gate.

"You look like yourself!" He blurted out. "The bones of your cheeks are angled similarly, your sharp jawline and chin reminiscent and the shape of your eyes are thesame."

She stopped walking and looked at him.

Rhaegar bit his lip, feeling foolish. "If I do not stare, I willbabble,"he admitted miserably. "And neither of us want that."

"...I would not be so certain," she said gently, a peculiar soft expression on her face that made his heart skip a beat. "And yes, Idolook like myself."

He offered her his arm. "Either way, you arelovelyto behold."

She took it with no hesitation and graceful manners. She ran as warm as he did, a bite of ice in the air around her that was missing from her pleased smile.

"Always."

The snowdrifts they had to wade through back to the gate could have beenclouds.

"This could have waited for after mid meal!" Brandon Stark called out with a tight smile as they approached.

"If I ever suggest a time as early as this ever again," Terendelev began as a bitter wind blew through their cloaks and hair. "Just…stop me. Strike me if you have to."

"Gladly."

Her head tilted in Arthur's direction. "Thank you," she said sincerely, plainly having heard whatever his sworn brother just muttered. "That would be appreciated."

The Dornishman grimaced.

"Lord Brandon," she said. "I trust you are prepared to be leading us on this venture?"

"Will I beleading?"The youth asked slowly. He was watching her the same way his bird was, wary.

Rhaegar frowned. "Yes, of course, you are."

His father would disapprove

(nothing like a true dragon, knew there was something wrong with you)

He had a suspicion that Tywin Lannister would disapprove of the crown prince following the heir of a lord instead of leading, but if he was to be honest with himself.

That sounded quite a bit of unnecessary effort and responsibility on his part.

He would not evenbehere if Terendelev had not expressed interest in attending. The last thing he needed right now was any display of disunity.

"You are far more familiar with the Wolfswood than either of us," Rhaegar reasoned aloud. "Restless creatures in your borders are a Stark concern and if a fallen star is causing this, it will be found onStarkland. Why would you not be in command?"

"Your father expressed his confidence in your ability and there will be no need to put more men at risk." Terendelev said, inclining her head. "Ionlywish to provide whatever assistance I am able."

"Why?"Brandon demanded suspiciously.

Her head tilted in an avian manner as if his question baffled her. "It is the right thing to do."

The heir to the North studied them with his head similarly tilted, along with his bird. Rhaegar kept his face open and his tongue silent at his dragon's side.

A subtle tension loosened in Brandon Stark's shoulders.

"We'll head to the southwest through the Hunter's Gate," Stark said decisively. "Reports came from the direction of a crofter village. I'll order the rations - " His hand shot up to catch the loaf of bread Terendelev tossed at him. "Where did you - " He broke the loaf, revealing fluffy white bread. His gray eyes blew wide open as he watched her bite into a red apple pulled from thin air."What?"

"You missed yesterday's mid meal," Rhaegar said, amused. "Terendelev conjured it with her magic."

"I - it might snow."

"It will not," his dragon stated as if declaring the sky was blue. "I will make certain of it. What else?"

"...we will have to match you with horses," Brandon faintly said. "It's a three day journey. There will be provisions for tents."

"Do you know how to ride?" Rhaegar asked his intended. He hoped the answer was no so they could share a horse.

Terendelev glanced at him. "Yes."

Damn.

Her lips quirked upwards at the corners as she gently unlinked their arms and pulled away, but not before gently nudging him with her shoulder.

"Rhaegar, Kenabres is a city with alleyways, fountains, market squares and deceptively fragilebuildings,"she said as she nearly danced a few steps away, crossing a patch of ice as if it were ground. "Surely you did not believe I traveled the streets as adragon?"

He had not thought that far.

He watched her head for the Great Keep with her harp and weakly offered to her back, "No?"

"No!" She called back. "I will meet you at the stables!"

Arthur snorted softly.

"I wasn't convinced on supporting the Iron Throne, neither the king noryou,"Brandon said bluntly and Rhaegar's head whipped around to stare at him, amazed.

Brandon was not unintelligent, but it apparently did not extend to speaking plain treason to his prince's face.

"But that trade deal with Driftmark, that was you, wasn't it?"

Rhaegar nodded stiffly. "Monford is a Velaryon of Driftmark and I am still his Lord of Dragonstone. It seemed an obvious solution." He let his eyes drop to the ground. "I am aware that your Father agreed for the dragon and I have nothing of value equal to her ice houses or contraptions, but that does not mean I should donothing."

He still had some measure of pride.

"Hmm." Brandon's expression turned thoughtful as his snow eagle tracked Terendelev with its bright yellow eyes. "It may be I doknow a little of what Father was thinking, after all."

"I have been considering offering Rickard Stark the title of Hand of the King," Rhaegar admitted quietly.

The North was the second line of defense behind the Wall. It only made sense.

Brandongrinned."He would hate that! Do it - wait, he would have to go South." His smile dropped as he realized it would mean he would be the Stark of Winterfell much sooner than planned. "Donotdo it, I will think of lords who would take positions in King's Landing for you."

Brandon paused and then nodded to himself.

"By your leave,your grace."Stark said with the first bow Rhaegar had ever gotten from him.

A knot in his chest loosened. "Granted, Lord Brandon."

Rhaegar held back a moment as his Kingsguard fell in line behind him. "Arthur."

"Your grace?"

"I am not wasting time, am I?" He asked as Brandon drew further and further away out of earshot. "We could be searching for more information on the prophecy or the Others in the Citadel at Oldtown or Essos." He looked to his sworn brother. "Assisting the North is important?"

"It is," Arthur said firmly. "It is a war, not a battle.Patience, my prince. Would you truly leave the North to bear the brunt unprepared? To make unnecessary sacrifices of people who you have a duty to defend?"

He did notwishto, but that meant little. "Even if the prophecy would hold the key to victory?"

"Even if," the Sword of the Morning proudly said. "I see no reason to let others suffer needlessly for that victory. Focus on securing your crown and uniting the realm first. Help whoever we can along the way."

Would that they were brothers for true as Arthur was the elder and so would be king ahead of him.

Arthur would make a truly noble one.

If Terendelev had not volunteered to justhelpwith this errand, he never would have thought to do it on his own. Rabid animals he had not thought to be any of his concern. Even the possibility of magical influence would not have changed his opinion.

He wanted to be like the dragon.

Someone who burnedbrightwith compassion and understanding and threw herself head long into righteous causes no matter how big the task or what it might cost her. Who could find herself far, far from home, gravely wounded and dedicate herself to defending strangers she did not know simply because she could.

Heneededher so badly, at times like this, it hurt. An empty sucking wound in his chest whenever he acknowledged

(there it is, that glint in your eye. not so different, are we boy?)

He would never blame his Mother for the strength every lost child took from her. He just wished he knew how to beenough.

Rhaegar shook his head. "You both make it seem so simple."

Ser Whent gave him a concerned glance.

"What do we make simple?" Arthur asked gently.

The right thing to do.

"Beinggood,"Rhaegar said.

The Wolfswood was not like the Kingswood.

The forest that surrounded the Red Keep in King's Landing was of tall broad leaf trees with a good portion being populated by shrubbery, vine, wild flowers and wild berries. The Wolfswood was dense with soldier pine, sentinels and other evergreen woods and the occasional oak and ash trees. Wisps of pale mist threaded through the old trunks. There was rarely any shrubbery, leaving the entire forest to be made of silent, stately foreboding trees and a blanket of snow on the ground, broken only by large stones like the forgotten pebbles of giants.

He did not intend to be quiet, but there was a muted quality to his voice all the same as if the trees around them were stifling sounds. Their horses snorted silently as they walked. His mare was draped in a quilted overcoat typically used for bedding during the coldest nights so he would not burn her.

"Viserys is some moons past his second name day and is already a handful," Rhaegar spoke. "He is Mother's pride and joy." Ever since she wasallowedto be alone with him, as if she would murder her own son. He stopped understanding his father's fears years and years ago. "Have you any siblings?"

"None that have acknowledged any relation," Terendelev replied evenly.

"A bastard dragon then," Brandon drawled.

If he rode any closer, Rhaegar would have pushed him off his horse.

"No such thing exists," she scoffed. "Do you think dragonswedin temples before a priest with vows and aguest list?"She waved a dismissive hand. "Why bother with such things? If I was wanted, I would be approached to be taken."

Brandon went cross eyed.

Rhaegar ventured, "You know how to ride, dance, sew, manage an estate, city and war efforts, but dragons do notmarry?"

Her bewildered glance was not promising.

"Yes?" She frowned. "I fail to see what relevance marriage has toanyof that."

Rhaegar realized that he had not the faintest notion what was to be expected from her. "Nothing at all…"

"Dragons such as I are not like mankind," Terendelev offered gently. "What is the worth of a bloodline and legacy of name to those who will live for thousands of years?"

Thousands.

Balerion died of old age at around two centuries.

"How old are you?" He hesitated to ask.

"Nine hundred and seventy three," was the easy answer. Brandon yelped, turned his horse to skip to the side of them as he stared incredulously. "I have yet to finish my first thousand years and am expecting three to four thousand more." Terendelev raised a pointed eyebrow. "That makes me ratheryoung."

"I - " Rhaegar stopped. "I apologize, Lord Brandon, but could you…?"

"Say no more!" Stark said gallantly as he kicked his horse into a canter to join Ser Oswell ahead of them.

Terendelev watched him with sharp eyes. "You are troubled by this."

"I have come to the realization that I have taken a great many things for granted," Rhaegar admitted. "What does a courtship mean to you?"

"An endless war a hundred years old has scoured the formality from Mendevian courtships." Her eyes darted to a small snow hare that darted out from behind a tree with the intensity of a hungry predator. "It could be three moons in length or three years and while marriage is welcome, it is hardly expected."

"And for dragons?"

"Does not exist as you know it," she allowed. "There are rules and negotiations, a singular gift exchange and the 'couple' may go decades tocenturieswithout ever laying eyes on one another again after conception."

He swallowed the lump in his throat. "Ours are always with the expectation of marriage. Six moons before an announcement of betrothal would be a courtship of considerable length."

The dragon hummed. "The assumption would be that we are courting only because you do not yet have the permission of your father to wed or do not wish to announce it yet."

"Yes," Rhaegar said miserably. "I apologize for placing such expectations upon - "

"Rhaegar," she interrupted him gently. "I would not mind wedding you." His mouth fell open as he stared at her, daring tohope -"If it will smooth our path, then I have no outstanding objections. A few decades as your wife is aninsignificantamount of my time."

A pit formed in his stomach.

He had no doubt the irrelevance of his lifespan was meant to be reassuring.

It seemed he had not quite understood what it meant that her father was agodeither.

"And you do not want children." he mumbled.

An apologetic expression crossed her fair face. "I will not haveanyman's children. I have no desire to. I am a dragon and my hatchlings will bedragons.Nothalfnor merelyblooded."

A fruitless, unconsummated marriage was a hollow one. It could be easily argued against for annulment. A second wife would only aggravate all who were not turned away by the first one and the legitimacy of the children could be questioned.

It would not be worth the vows.

The prophecy of the prince that was promised, the song of ice and fire stuck to the roof of his mouth. Who was he to insist on destiny to a dragon nearly a thousand years old who had gained the attention of gods? Perhaps it simply meant that she was to assist him. Perhaps she had been right to claim fate was broken.

Perhaps he had simply been fooling himself. "Is there no chance you could be convinced otherwise?"

Terendelev hesitated.

"It is not unheard of among my kind," she eventually told him. There was a faint trace of an emotion he never wanted to see on her face in his presence.

Disgust.

"It is, however,unlikely.You are no different from any other man in my eyes. I am sorry."

"I understand," Rhaegar said, nodding. "Please forgive my presumption."

It felt like

(walking around my keep with your head in the clouds like you are worth something - you are nothing without me rhaegar, you hear me?)

He knew failing expectations stung fiercely.

He had no words to describe what no expectations at all felt like.

"Nothing to forgive," the dragon replied.

"By the entire Seven hells and heavens, your pining is getting out of hand," Arthur told his prince.

Prince Rhaegarhurledhis scavenged branches into the campfire. "I am not pining."

"And I am not the Sword of the Morning," Arthur drawled as he tested the set of his tent and gave the front left stake another solid whack with the wooden hammer.

What little sky could be seen through the trees was heavily overcast with gray clouds threatening snow. The sun had risen and now it was setting as they made camp on the shores of a small frozen pond that fed into a bitterly cold creek. The late meal had been simple, but filling and Rhaegar had managed to light the fireon purposewith his cheap flute.

And then proceeded to play the song of Jenny of Oldstones like they were attending a funeral, despair dripping from every note like a physical sensation. It even seemed to drag Arthur's own heart into a pit with heartbreak somehow.

Like the overly dramatic mummer Rhaegar could be at times. His new found talent with music only made it worse.

"What is itnow?"

His prince's lips pursed. "She will agree to wed me."

"You do not sound pleased?"

"Because she simply does notcareenoughnotto agree."

"Ah," Arthur said blandly.

Ouch.

"Leave it to a dragon to be unimpressed with a prince." It was the closest he would risk to 'I told you so' as hedidsay so. The dragon was a beast, not a woman and so did not hold the same values or ideals as they.

"Unimpressed,"Rhaegar said with a bitter sounding chuckle. "Yes, I suppose that does sum it up nicely. My only consolation is that I need not fear another gaining her favor and she will have no children."

That was a relief, to be true.

Arthur glanced around to check on Brandon Stark's position by the pond. "Is the courtship to be called off?"

Rhaegar startled, looking up from the fire and hissing,"No!"

Arthur held up his hands in surrender.

"I just - " Rhaegar ran a frustrated hand through his pale hair. "I already presented her to Lord Stark and it is her that earned his support, to call it off now…" Arthur nodded understandingly. "And in the future, to be unpromised will do little else but raise the price for every lord's support of me."

"Like Lord Lannister." Arthur noted. "Fealty for a queen."

Rhaegar grimaced. "To be frank, I also do notwantto. I may have little hope, but…" His prince clenched his fists at his side. "I could love her. Truly and utterly. Do you understand what I - do you…"

His prince trailed off helplessly.

He knew what this was born from. Arthur spoke as his brother then, not his Kingsguard, "You do not need toloveyour wife to treat her well."

Rhaegar looked at him, his face stricken.

'Unlike his father' went unsaid between them.

Rhaegar opened his mouth and then closed it without a word.

The journey continued the second day much like the first. When Rhaegar wasn't wailing his sadness on his stupid little flute, he and the dragon gave every indication of a prospective couple well pleased with each other. Asking each other questions about their respective kingdoms and traditions and a few lessons in High Valyrian. They were in the middle of comparing knightly training, because of course the dragon trained as a f*ckingknight,when the beast's head snapped to the side.

"Hold!"

Were she a dog, her ears would be standing straight up in attention.

Without a word, Brandon Stark's snow eagle took flight as he slumped in his saddle like he had fainted.

He straightened a moment later and leapt off his mount. "Off! Be ready!"

Dawn hummed in anticipation.

"What is coming?" Oswell hissed before they heard the thundering. The Riverlander blanched as he drew his sword.

Just like we practiced,Arthur thought. He held out a hand over Dawn's milk glass pale blade. Lightning leapt from his fingers and Dawn held it, crackling.

What bumbled into sight through the tall tree trunks were hideous. Squat, squalid bodies as big as a wolf swarmed towards them on four thin legs, a long hairless tail, buck teeth and round ears -

"Giant rats," the dragon said flatly. Then its face lit up with an unholy glee."Giant rats!"

Giant rats with acarapaceof cloudy green gemstone thatscreamedin his ears growing out of rotting wounds on their back like an infection.

"Kill it! Kill it!" Oswell was shouting as he kicked a rat back from Rhaegar who had yet to draw his sword like anidiot- what was he doing with theflute - Dawn was already cutting one down, the blade vibrating with contempt, when glowing bolts of blue light erupted from the dragon's fingertips to gore another. Another rat crawled over the corpse, foaming at the mouth, rabid.

A pillar of fire crashed down from the sky.

Just like that, the horde was culled from dozens to three.

The thundering had not stopped.

f*ck sh*t damn -

It was the sound of falling trees. Arthur had enough time to realize the rats had been runningawayfrom something when the thundering sounded close enough to make his head ring. He did not know who cried out when the shadow of several large evergreens fell over them. Arthur leapt for Rhaegar, heart in his throat as he tackled his brother out of the way.

His prince landed heavily.

As did the tree on Arthur's legs.

The sharp wet snapping pain drove the breath from his lungs. He stopped moving, stopped breathing when a crystalline tail slammed into the ground by him, kicking up snow and ice.

The entire creature was covered in sharp, jagged spikes of pale bluecrystal. There were no eyes or nose or even a mouth, just a flattened clump of crystal growing from what could have been a snout on any other creature.

It did not seem to realize Arthur was even there. It was crouched low on a fallen tree trunk with its 'gaze' fixed on the dragon.

"Yes," the dragon said wearily."Yes,this tends to happen too."

Chapter 12: Winterfell IV

Chapter Text

f*cking sh*t godsdamn it -

Arthur Dayne stared up at the creature looming over him on the tree currently crushing him.

It was vaguely reminiscent of the firewyrms of Old Valyria. Wingless dragons with no love for men with gemstones encrusted on their molten hides from burrowing through soil and stone. It was said that many a slave mining in the volcanoes of the Fourteen Flames were found as blackened corpses by cracks and tunnels in the heated rock.

And never whole.

Victims of firewyrms.

Arthur had little notion of how one found its way to the North. The molten hide had cooled and cracked with striations, resembling hard stone or petrified wood. The gemstones on its back, crowning its head, growing from its tail spanned a variety of pale blue, green, clouded and clear crystals of unheard size, jagged and sharp. It made not a sound. Neither snarling nor growling at the dragon as if the cold had stolen its voice as it did its heat. It was as if he had found himself within one of the tales he used to beg as a boy from any who would indulge him. Tales of cursed men and fearsome beasts he used to dream about facing with Dawn in hand.

He had given up those boyhood dreams for lost, but it appeared they did not have the courtesy to do the same to him.

They had come across an honest to the godsmonsterin the Wolfswood and the Sword of the Morning wasstuck under a tree.

He held his breath as the crystal covered tail slowly dragged back. Arthur clenched his lips and eyes shut as gems as sharp as cut glass scraped his face. The monster shifted its weight, crushing him further. He could not help the pained hiss and quiet grunt escaping him as a few more quiet pops and cracks sounded from beneath the tree.

f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck -

“We need to - “ Rhaegar’s voice gasped. “We need to get him out from under -do we not?”

“We do,” the dragon intoned. “As soon as possible.”

“Arthur,” his sworn brother in white Oswell called tremulously behind him. “Do not move.”

The idea was tempting.

But if he laid there cowering like a craven, Dawn would never forgive him.

He heard the blade rattle where he had dropped her, just out of reach and just out of sight. The presence brushing his mind stopped screaming bloody vengeance just long enough to tell him that he wasdamn right.

“Terendelev,” Arthur rasped. The dragon’s name fit awkwardly in his mouth, but he would do it this courtesy. “Leave me. See the prince back - “

“Forgive me,” the dragon gravely cut him short. “But I do not abandon allies andIdo not flee.”

Arthur swallowed thickly.

How odd.

Kingsguard do not flee to save their own lives either.

Arthur rolled his shoulders and ignored the molten shards of steel that were his legs. He was slightly twisted in his effort to push his prince clear, but everything beneath his upper thighs were under the tree.

The monster continued to ignore him.

Good.

He was not going anywhere.

Above him the crystal wyrm stiffened, bristling as its flat triangular head slowly moved, tracking. It shifted its weight forward, powerful hindlegs coiling as its claws on the other six limbs flexed. At the corner of his vision, he could see silver.

Wait for it…

“Why are we juststaringat it!?” Brandon Stark bit out.

The eagle screeched furiously from above.

The pure white raptor swooped down from the evergreen canopy, talons extended.

“Stark!”The dragon snarled.

Now!

His heart twinged. His numb fingers closed around Dawn’s hilt. The wyrm reeled as those talons raked across its crystal snout and the milk glass blade came alive with orange-redflames.Arthur lunged up and swung over the trunk of the tree.

A hunting knife bounced off the stiff skin.

Dawn’s fiery blade bit into the wyrm’s left leg by the gnarled joint.

Aseamopened in the crystal face. Arthur stared down a dark mouth with a thick rotten tongue lined with icicle teeth and a pale greedy light shining in the depths of its gullet.

It inhaled.

Got you.

The dragon’s fist crashed into its side with all the force of a battering ram through a weak gate. The wyrm staggered, slipping off the tree trunk, crystals shattering with the sound of breaking glass.

Arthur fell back into the snow, gasping.

“Still alive, crusader!” The dragon glanced down at him. “Get him out. I will - “

“Youget him!” Stark vaulted over his tree, blade drawn. His large bird circled around for another pass. “AndI’llkill it!”

Rhaegar fell to one knee beside Arthur’s head. He could only watch as his prince tugged at the large trunk with both hands.

“Help me!” Rhaegar gritted out.

The dragon spit a hissing curse as it knelt on his other side, slotting hands that could bend castle-forged steel beneath the hardwood. Oswell was a moment too late. As soon as the knight reached for the trunk, the dragon lifted the entire tree as if it weighed no more than a half full sack of flour. Rhaegar slipped, nearly falling as the weight disappeared.

Seven hells -

He caught a glimpse of blood, leather scraps and bone shards on the bark and lost the will to keep looking.

“Stay alive.” The ground shook as the dragon let the tree roll out of its hands with just as much effort. “And I will make good use of this one’scorpse.”

It tore its own cloth of silver scarf in two and tossed each half to his prince and Oswell.

“Tie off his legs as tight as you can, then play something.”

“Play - “ Rhaegar’s purple eyes were wide. “Playwhat?”

“Anything that helps!” The dragon snapped at him before it leapt after the wyrm.

“That is no way to speak to a prince,” Arthur groaned.

Oswell fumbled with the scarf, hands trembling. “Can - can you feel your legs?”

Arthur gave the man as flat a look as he could manage. “I…would give my leftnutto feellessof my legs!”

Everything south of his hips felt much like he imagined wading through a river of magma felt like or like every wound he had ever suffered at once with no relief in sight. He was keeping the darkness at the corners of vision by sheer force of will.

Oswell huffed and tugged at his glove. “Bite?”

“Getonwith it!” Arthur refused the use of something to bite down on, bracing himself as his companions reached for his ruined legs.

“Ser Hightower says he’s a stubborn streak of piss,” Rhaegar quietly said. His face was worrisomely blank as he stared at the bloody mess of Arthur’s legs, almost in incomprehension. Like a boy who had first seen death, had first seen his hero fall and the next word out of his mouth would have been

‘why?’

“He does for certain,” Whent muttered.

He nearly lost consciousness at the first tug. A grinding, sharp, burning pain that crackled up his spine like lightning. The leather of his gloves audibly creaked as he held Dawn’s hilt tight with both hands, leaning into her presence. An irrational fear clawed up his throat as he blinked the tears out of his eyes, that it was death itself shadowing his eyes.

“Boy!”The dragonroared.

A chorus of shattering glass sounded.

Stark dove out of the way, leaving Arthur staring down the arrowhead of the crystal wyrm curled up androllinglike a desert tumbleweed towards him. Oswell swore, leaping to his feet with the practiced slinging of his shield.

Arthur flailed his arm, trying to push Rhaegar away. “Go - “

“ - and agility of form!”

The dragon flew across the snow. For a moment, Arthur caught a glimpse of the great silver beast as a ghostly image, claw tipped wings dragging at the ground as it led with its shoulder. It looked a woman, dwarfed by the crystal wyrm. Had he known no better, he would expect it to be a futile effort.

But the dragon was still a dragon, no matter its form.

They crashed together in the snow like boulders in a landslide.

The wyrm wriggled with all eight limbs as they brawled on the ground. Each strike of the dragon’s fist cratered its stiff skin. Gemstone scales broke with the sound of breaking glass. The wyrm twisted, opening its mouth. A white mist billowed from the rotten opening.

The dragon ignored it.

Until the cloud burst in its face with razor-edged crystal shards.

Arthur nearly vomited when Rhaegarpulledon the tie as the dragon’s pained cry split the air.

“Not leaving. Help her.”

Oswell turned, blinking. “My prince, my duty - “

“Help. Her.”

Whent stared as the dragon recoiled, clutching the right side of its face. Steaming crimson rivulets dripped past its fingers. Stark jumped in, fighting like the boy was a bird. He leapt off tree trunks and a singular large boulder to rake at the wyrm with the broken sword in his hands. Darting in to strike like the snow was no hindrance and flitting out as the white eagle swooped in and out of reach. The dragon groped in the snow blindly. It came up with a stone.

It was thrown with such force that it crumbled intodustwith a loud crack.

The wyrm merely flinched, turning around.

Oswell swallowed thickly. “As you command, your grace.”

“Dawn,” Arthur grunted through clenched teeth. “Take her.”

Oswell’s breath left him. “I cannot - “

Dawn rattled unhappily.

“Castle-forged steel is sh*te,” Arthur explained to both the knight and the sword.

Dawn was mollified and did not protest as the Riverlander reverently took the white blade in place of his own. He was no Sword of the Morning, but as long as he shed blood in Arthur’s name, he would suffice.

The legendary blade bolstered the Kingsguard's confidence and he dove right into the battle.

“Rhaegar. Sword.”

His prince did not question him. Arthur rolled his shoulder and tested the weight of Whent’s arming sword.

He was not dead just yet.

The wyrm moved like a viper, leading with its crystal covered head in deceptively languid movements only to turn and strike with a sudden ferocity.

Stark jumped back out of reach of a quick snap of its jaws and it swayed into the strike, feeding the momentum in a vicious sweep of the tail. Stark hit a tree hard enough to break the back of any man and yet lurched back to his feet.

Arthur could not tell if it was a trick of the light or blood loss that made the boy’s eyes seem golden as he screeched like an eagle.

“With me!” The dragon snapped, one eye bled shut.

Oswell followed in its wake, one hand on Dawn’s hilt and the other on the blade.

Stark did not.

The boy clasped both hands around the hilt of its broken sword for a hammerblow on one of the thin, almost wasted away limb of the wyrm. The monster swayed away from the dragon by circ*mstance more than purpose, snapping at Stark.

Now!

It weaved towards Oswell -

Clang!

And flinched as the sword bounced off the side of its head as Dawn bit into its side.

The dragon snagged one of the larger crystal pieces, yanking the wyrm back to meet its fist.

Dawn nearly took off Stark’s ear as the dragon latched onto a hindleg, dragging it to the ground. Stark swooped in with his shattered blade.

Arthur finally heard the monster shriek.

It spasmed, clipping the dragon with its tail as Starklaughed.“Youdohave eyes!”

The breath of white mist scattered all of the fighters.

“I do not know what to play,” Rhaegar whispered as he watched with bloodstained hands.

Arthur grunted faintly as he dropped his arm.

He was so tired.

“Dornishman’s wife.”

A weak smile tugged at Rhaegar’s lips. “I disown you.”

He played The Dornishman’s Wife on that damn flute, though.

And within the first verse, something changed with the music.

Arthur could not tell what.

The uncoordinated brawl that got in each other’s way more often than not began to fall into place.

It was a battle from the tales he heard as a boy. The valiant Kingsguard in his white enamel scale armor among dark evergreens cautiously lashing out with Dawn in hand. The heir to Winterfell floating through the trees and snow as if there was wind under his wings, a white raptor at his side like another limb. The monster having crawled up from the very depths of the Seven Hells.

Only to meet a bigger monster.

The Wolfswood thundered with the sound of shattering glass, splitting steel and cracking rocks.

Dawn scored a white line along its neck and the wyrm reeled, skittish. The raptor screeched raking at the other side of its head as Brandon Stark found the belly with his broken sword. The wyrm curled, sweeping its tail. The dragon shrugged off the blow as if it were a summer wind, trapping the tail under an arm and pulling. Dawn cleaved off a claw as the wyrm curled in the dragon’s grasp, maw open and thenbreathing.

They all scrambled away.

The dragon grasped at the air like it could choke the wind, snarling,“Burn!”

Fire crashed down from the sky.

The wyrmwailedlike a procession of despairing souls. Flames burst on gemstone scales in a shower of sparks and embers as crystal shards like stalagmites burst up from the snow. Its skin cracked.

“Again!”Stark yelled.

Fire bolted down like the judgment of an angry god again and again until the monster collapsed.

For a long, dream-like moment, no one moved. The only sounds were the crystal wyrm’s labored breathing and the last lingering note of Rhaegar’s flute. It laid there in the puddle of muddy water, surrounded by wisps of steam, ash and smoke. It was facing him, exhausted, pained breaths of white mist hissing from its mouth. Arthur no longer had the strength to do more than stare at it.

It felt like it was staring back.

Seeing him.

There was a ringing in his ears.

Then the dragon slowly walked forward in slow, measured steps. It knelt on one knee by the wyrm’s head and reached out with a hand. The dragon dug its fingertips into the stiff flesh beneath the crystal chin.

Its even tone carried on the bitter wind.

“Magic missile.”

He felt like he had just blinked, but when he opened his eyes Rhaegar had been shaking him.

“Arthur…”His prince, hisking, breathed.

The dragon knelt by him.

It was little more than a silhouette in his dim vision.

“Your grace,” Arthur whispered, fading fast.

His heart swelled, eternally grateful when it -shepressed Dawn’s hilt into his hands.hello darling.

“Rest easy, my knight,” the dragon murmured softly. “My brave Sword of the Morning.”

Gentle, possessive fingers combed through Arthur’s ashen blond hair as he closed his eyes.

“I have no intention ofeverletting death take you.”

“Let light and life go forth in triumph to repel the skulking shade of death!” Terendelevpushesuntil her blood begins to burn with the golden light of positive energy. She wills the fragments of bone, pulped flesh and torn ligaments of Arthur Dayne’s crushed legs to come together, to mend, toHeal.

A tree.

An above average specimen of a soldier pine hardwood with brittle needle leaves, some dead branches and an infection in the bark.

A tree.

ATiamat vl’stixkitreenearlytook her knight from her!

Arthur Dayne’s too pale and sallow face is slack in unconsciousness. The sheer amount of blood staining the snow clogs her sensitive nose. She has a long memory filled with that smell, of piss and feces and blood. A long memory of quivering warm flesh and broken bone in her claws. A long memory of hearing a hundred variations of the rattle in his chest.

He still breathes.

Shallowly, but he breathes and that isenough.

Her hands are shaking.

She hasneverchosen anyone so fragile before. So feeble. So easily broken.

Soweak.

There was a reason for that.

She never wanted to behereagain.

With the pulse of one she claimed weakly fluttering beneath her fingers. There is no room for doubt or fear in battle.

Afterwards.

Afteris when her mind begins to turn, to think about howsimplemortality is. After is when her blood hums and thedissonancesets in of being on both sides, protector and killer, of howeasilythe lesser races die. After is when she wonders how the short lived realize they have grown older by a single day, feel death breathing down their neck and do not gomad.

Aftershe is free to crack with the repeated realizations that she is a dragon and all those she wishes to protect are not.

She can not yet reverse death.

Centuries of effort in learning how to reclaim souls, nothing to show for it.

Thatinfuriatesher.

Her golden light flickers.

Rhaegar surges forward, stricken. “Is he - “

“Hewilllive,” she says sharply. She grimaces and makes the effort to breathe out her anger. If she loses her temper now, she will be unable to finishhealingherallymine mine mine.

Theragebanks into embers, smoldering at the base of her throat.

“He will live,” she says again, softer as Rhaegar clutches at Arthur’s collar with his own bloodstained hands.

The death of a companion is always…regrettable. The death of anallymine mine minewould also be regrettable.

For everyone else.

There is little she will not do to defend or avenge what ishers.

She will have to make sure Lord Commander Qorgyle knows not towasteMance’s life. She will remove threats to them. She will make themharder to kill.She will choose future allies more carefully and -I will befine.

She will be fine.

“Should I -” Rhaegar licks his lips as he fails to meet her eyes. “Should I have fought with you?”

She startles. “No?”

Yes, there are front line bards and while she refuses tojudge, they are not common for a reason -on Golarion.

Rhaegar Targaryen is a Bard.

Who does not know what that means.

A painful spasm shoots up her spine and the golden light fades.

The backlash of overdoing it hits her immediately.

A headache throbs at her temples like she ran into a surly dwarf with twin hammers and agrudge. A hollow ache forms in the pit of her stomach as if she was on the cusp of starvation, nausea claws at the base of her throat. She raises a trembling hand to her face and the itch that had been bothering her flakes away as dried blood.

Being inflexible and slow to adjust is a racial failing.

It feels a hollow excuse.

“No. I…gave you instruction,” she chokes out, mortified. He hadno ideawhat she had been asking of him. “You performedwonderfully.”His face twists and she moves to pre-empt him,“Truly.You kept our knight alive and youdidassist me.”

She would have preferred to have thespaceto fight on her own terms. Her natural form is magnitudes more capable, but what is done is done.

He searches her face. She smiles gently to convey her sincerity and a small smile then graces Rhaegar’s face in return.

“‘Our’knight?”

She did say that, yes. She has no qualms about sharing and her knight is not a slave. Silvers are perfectly capable of possessiveness without greed or jealousy.

And…

And Arthur is a Kingsguard.

Oathbound to protect the king and his family. There was only one way she would be considered Rhaegar’s family. The unintended implication is obvious.

She gives up.

It is not worth the effort.

“Our knight. And if you make me waste my efforts in healing him with some fool errands,” Terendelev says with false levity. “I will bedispleased.”

Rhaegar’s smile vanishes. “I will not. I promise you.”

She accepts his words with an incline of her head.

That is good.

She suspects Arthur would be rather put out if she killed Rhaegar to protect him. Even if it had been for his own good, her knight would ratherdiethan leave his king unavenged.

It is his best quality.

She flicks her fingers over Arthur. A simple cantrip of mending pulls the blood soaked tatters together like an invisible seamstress was brandishing an unseen needle.

“It would be best to make camp here.” The new clearing is full of fallen and broken trees, snapped branches, needle leaves and pinecones littering the ground of disturbed snow, puddles of muddy water, the burned corpses of the giant rants, unlucky horses and the…

Thing.

The horrid ringingsensationabout the Thing,not a sound, a weightlessness, a pale light so cold she could feel it, had died with it.

That it had existed in the first place troubles her.

It does not matter if it is her animal instincts talking or her time in the crusades, but the thought of wandering deeper into the Wolfswood, inanydirection, stiffens her frill. The current threats had been neutralized.

She could be sureherewas saferight now.

“Let him rest.”

“...yes.” Rhaegar agrees softly. He looks down at their knight in relief. “Let him rest.”

Her head swims when she stands. “Ser Whent.”

The man turns to show his attention, but his eyes are still glued to the corpse of the Thing. She ignores the part of her that bristles at that -my enemy, my kill, my hoard, mine.“Are you injured?”

Whent’s mud brown eyes dart to her incredulously. “AmIinjured?”

She tilts her head towards him, an eyebrow raised.

“Your grace,” he swallows. “Your eye…”

Minor shredding of the eyeball was barely noticeable.Unpleasant,but minor. She has her hearing and the mind of a dragon did not separate visual from audio the way a human mind did. She can see what she hears.

Perhaps he meant the pain?

…or the blood.

She supposes she must look a fright.

“I will live.” It comes out dryer than she intends.

“...there arecrystals embedded into your side.”

“Yes,” she says blandly. There is a stinging gash across her stomach, another down her collarbone that is likely broken, a multitude of welts and scratches that all tell her that the Thing was a creature ofmagic.Dragons have little to fear from the mundane. “And I amleavingthem in my side so I do not bleed everywhere.”

Ser Whent stares at her mutely.

She stares back.

“If you are not hurt, start salvaging supplies from the horses.”

“...yes, your grace.”

The last member of their little expedition party is overlooking the corpse of the thing on the other side of the small clearing. Brandon Stark sits on the boulder cracked from the fight, idly swinging his broken blade between his legs as his bird peers down at her from the trees. He lifts his head just enough to see her in his peripheral vision as he shifts his weight off balance backwards and his shoulders roll. Odd behavior for a human, but she can almost see the phantom wings he does not have flutter nervously in acknowledgment of a predator.

It is the same motion the white raptor in the tree above him made.

She almost sighs fondly, remembering her many encounters with griffons, giant eagles and owlbears. All so very territorial and aggressive right up until they find themselves beak to snout with her.

As it should be.

“It is Lord Brandon,” the human giant eagle chick intones as he drops his head again. “Not ‘boy,’ yourgrace.”

She will not dignify that with a response.

“We are setting camp if you would - ”

His left shoulder rises. “Why? Crofters’ village is only a half day away, we can make it.”

Her lips purse. “We are a man and two horses down and unless the reports had any indication ofthat?”

She gestures with her hand towards the body of the Thing.

Brandon frowns.

It looks somewhat like a lizard, if they were the size of a nearly fully grown drake with the wedge shaped head, long neck, slender body and long tail. Eight limbs. Two strong hindlegs, two long forelegs and four thin, almost atrophied arms extending from its side all tipped with obsidian claws. She thinks it is some kind of golem for the stone texture and toughness of its hide. The crystals encrusting its stiff hide seem illuminated from within.

It did not bleed.

Where the greatsword Dawn had cut and fire had burnt was devoid of anything resembling muscle, flesh or bone.

Just a luminous white glow.

She has never seen or heard of its like, in this world or her own. It could be caused by wild magic. It could be an arcane creation. It could be a trespasser from a neighboring plane. “We do not know what we do not know. That is the worst position to be in.”

Brandon flipped the broken sword in his hand upright. “And the village can tell usmore.For all I know, they could be fighting off f*ckingmonstersright now!”

“For all you know, they could all be dead,” Terendelev says coolly and the boy’s head snaps up, gray eyes wild. “They could also be completely safe. We could be leading danger to them. Nothing could happen. We could stumble into more trouble.”

His lip curls. “I never took you for acraven.”

So they were doing this now then.

She smiles sweetly back. “I suppose the wisdom of eldersdoestend to look craven to the young and stupid.”

His eyes widen in fury, gold bleeding into the center of the iris. “As I recall,” Brandon says, slow and intent. “I am in command.”

“Yes,” she says easily. “Youwere.”

He leaps to his feet, still holding the sword threateningly. “My father - “

“Will be hearing that I cannot trust his heir with the wellbeing of others and of your utterrecklessness.”

“You - “

“Yourushed to attack with a plan or even awarning.”She slashes at the air with a hand. “Faced a creature you knew nothing aboutaloneand showed no remorse for incidentally aiming attacks at others.”

All sorts joined the Mendevian Crusades, from righteous paladins to selfish glory hounds. She is used to the foolhardy, the overeager and the zealous.

She knows a liability when she sees one.

Terendelev steps forward. The frightening presence of a dragon is always assumed to be from their fearsome form. In truth, the form is irrelevant. She is magic in the flesh. Descendent of one of the oldest among known divinity. When she wishes to press against the confines of the Material Plane,all willfeel it.

Brandon’s lips press together and his grip on his sword tightens until his knuckles turn white. His knees lock, his breath thins and a bead of sweat trickles down the side of his face as he stands under the full weight of her attention.

“And if you keep pointing that sword at me,” she says softly. “You will not like my response.”

For dragons, anything short of death would be permissible for the insult.

After all,she can heal.

The eagle shrieks. He drops the blade.

“Thank you.” She reins herself back in and reaches out withMage Handto pull the weapon into her own hand. She flips it around and brings it up to her neck.

“What - “

She slashes it across her jugular. Brandon swallows the rest of his yell as he stares at her uninjured neck. If she pressed hard enough a mundane blade could hurt her, but the strength required to break even the soft flesh of her form was beyond ordinary men.

“Could you have taken this injury?” She motions towards her face and shredded eye. “Do youtrulybelieve that if I had not stepped in, if I had notprotected you,we would not be returning yourbodyto your family?”

His eyes roam her face, the stomach wound, the gashes showing through her sleeves and left pant leg and the mottled, bloody bruise forming on her collarbone.

Then he looks down at his boots.

She did not think so. “However, your concern for the village is valid.”

The boy twitches. “...pardon?”

“Your concern is valid,” she repeats. “Which is why Iintendedto ask if you were amenable to scouting ahead with your eagle while the camp is set up.”

His mouth opens and hangs for a moment.

She waits patiently.

“...aye,” he says faintly. “I can.”

She throws his broken sword to the ground at his feet. “Leadership is also knowing when to take advice.”

That leaves finding the runaway horses and scouting the immediate area to her. She will not risk leaving her companions undefended to search -a novice Fighter and Bard do not count as ‘defended.’Thankfully, she does not have to.

“Seefor me,” she intones as seventeen ghostly, floating eyes each with the slitted vertical pupil of a reptile coalesce before her -return to report in one hour.“Search for me.”

Herprying eyesscatter into the trees of the Wolfswood.

Brandon gives her a wary side eyed look, but says nothing as his white eagle spreads its wings and takes flight.

“I’m just saying,” Brandon was saying. “Man likely has a pecker the size of my finger and is making up for it by sh*tting gold.”

Rhaegar rubs the bridge of his nose from the other side of the campfire. “Lord Brandon, please never step south of the Neck.”

The campfire was in front of the large crude lean-to fashioned out of evergreen tree trunks carved and notched by her hands. The ground had been swept relatively free of snow and two beds of supple tree branches were yet to be used. In the corner, Arthur Dayne slept within one of the salvaged tents underneath the small pile of blankets everyone collectively agreed to toss over him. The man was cuddling his greatsword like it was a teddy bear, which she was sure would do wonders for his reputation if word spread.

Around them, the Wolfswood was showing how it had gotten its name with the distant howling of wolves as the sun continued its slow descent towards the far horizon.

“Pffha!” The Stark heir barks. “Don’t plan to!” He leans forward, setting an arm on his knee. In the firelight, his eyes burn a bright amber-gold. “My father tells me a man who feels driven to boast of his strength is a weak one. And weak mencravethe appearance of strength.”

“Lord Lannister is the most powerful lord in the Seven Kingdoms.” Oswell’s voice is flat.

“How’d you think he would handle losing that position?” Brandon’s question almost sounds innocently curious, but there is a mean curl to his words that betray his disdain.

“...perhaps not as well as I would hope,” Rhaegar ventures. “However, it is the nature of all men to resent such loss.”

“You thinkwecare about such petty games?” Stark’s slight smile was wolfish, a hint of teeth showing in one corner. “When the white wind of winter blows, either your pride dies first or you will.”

“In my experience,” Terendelev interjects as she approaches. “You can never overestimate stupidity nor its uncanny ability to drag others down with it.”

She dumps the corpse of the Thing down in front of the fire. It isn’t until after she sits by the prince and carefully breaks off a shard of crystal that she registers that her companions have stopped talking. She glances up, “Hmm?”

Oswell’s eyes are the size of dinner saucers as he sits frozen in the middle of whittling another stick for the horseflesh roasts with his dagger. Brandon looks at her with both eyebrows raised. Rhaegar has abandoned the bite he was about to take of his loaf of bread and she absently reaches over to push the hanging hand closer to his mouth.

It earns her a curiously happy puppy dog look before he obligingly continues eating.

Arthur snores in his sleep.

“What are you doing?” Brandon asks, bemused.

“What does itlooklike I am doing?” She delicately breaks off another crystal and sets it to the side.

Brandon motions for one and snatches the pale blue-green crystal she tosses him out of the air. “Hm. Looks as aquamarine,” he muses. “...it might truly be aquamarine, just…cloudy?”

“These look as Dornish sapphires,” Rhaegar volunteers, waving towards the small pile of bluer gems between them. “It would have to be appraised, of course.”

Brandon measures the gem against his wrist. “Quite the fortune.”

Rhaegar nods as he runs his eyes across the size of the Thing. “One that rightfully belongs to House Stark.”

Brandon blinks, looking up from his crystal. “Ah…”

Terendelev does not look at anyone as she removes another crystal, merely sayingverymildly, “I killed it.”

Rhaegar frowns as he opens his mouth.

Brandon silently draws a line across his neck with the crystal.

“...would House Stark be amenable to a splitting of the bounty?” The prince asks.

“House Stark would,” the Stark heir says snootily, removing some sticks from the fire. He scooches closer and offers her a stick of horseflesh that could only be called ‘cooked’ by the most generous of definitions. Blood and grease still ran freely, dribbling down his hand. “Half and half?”

She takes the stick and breathes ice onto the meat. “I do not care for the blue and green gems.” She holds up a shard to the fire. It is a cloudy diamond, glittering clear at the edges with a milky opaque color in the center. The cloudy centerpulses,and seems to stretch in places as if attracted to the warmth of her fingers. “But I amkeepingones like these.”

“...you could notwait?”Oswell squeaks.

She gives the Riverland knight alookas she crunches into her meal. “No.”

Mance told her once that she reminded him of one of his brothers in black. Small Gerd, a youth too good with numbers to truly be simple as said, just terrible with people. So unspeakably sensitive to touch that wearing poorly treated wool made him cry, would rather go hungry than eat mash of the wrong texture and the vibrations of Mance’s lent lyre helped ease his tantrums.

It was not the same, but that did not mean some of it did not ring a familiar note. She has her rules. Hercompulsions. Her hoard was more than just having pretty things. It was more than a want.

It was anecessity.

Oswell presses on. “Is itsafe?”

She glances up once more with a slight smile and raised eyebrows. “My dear knight, I assure you. It isquitedead.”

The hole bored through its skull from chin to crown spoke to that.

Oswell jabs a finger at the corpse. “It is still f*ckingglowing!”

“I trust her judgment,” Rhaegar says mildly, reaching out to gingerly pick up one of the crystals. He wisely diverts from asilvery-white shard to a blue one at the last second and she relaxes, snapping off another crystal from the Thing’s shoulders.

Oswell rubs at his temples. “Do none of you care about what that thingis?”

Terendelev closes her eyes so no one would see her roll them. “Doyouknow what it is?”

“A…Northern firewyrm?” He ventures. “Like the tales of Old Valyria?”

“Those have four legs at most, not eight.” Rhaegar’s voice is bland. “They breathe fire, nest within volcanoes and their gemstones are in thesiltclinging to them from burrowing. Not like this,” he finishes quietly, turning his crystal over in his hand.“Nothinglike this.”

“You would not find such inourtales either,” Brandon mutters, glancing at her.

“So none of us know what it is, but we do already know a weakness,” she concludes. “If it is not a northern creature, do you have the first clue of where to look tolearn?”

Oswell looks towards his prince for help.

Rhaegar shrugs.

Brandon snorts loudly as Oswell slumps in place. “It appears I do not, your grace.”

“Then it does not matter what it is besidesdead,does it?”

“...no, your grace.” The Kingsguard grumbles wordlessly as he returns to whittling sticks. At her side, Rhaegar huffs in amusem*nt.

“Take pity on the poor man.”

She tilts her head towards the prince, an expectant raised silver eyebrow and half-smile on her lips. “No.”

Brandon laughs.

The Stark heir was a boy that reveled in the impetuousness of youth, unashamed and unafraid. So when he chokes, eyes widening as the blood drains from his face, she feels a prickle go down her back.

“Lord Bran - “

The boy flings his meat into the fire causing the flames to jump as he scrambles to his feet and without a word, runs for the horse at the other side of the clearing. Terendelev spits a curse, rolling to her own feet. He is going to beat her to the horse.

Fine.

She suffuses her voice with magic as she calls out,“Do not go anywhere!”

“f*ck off!” Brandon snaps back over his shoulder. “Let me go!” He cuts through the tied lead with his hunting knife, swings into the saddle and kicks the horse in the side.

It does not move.

“The f*ck - come on!” Brandon’s voice cracks as he kicks the beast harder, whipping the back of its neck with the reins. “Move! Ride! P - please. I - I need to go - ”

“Thank you Hazel,”Terendelev says as she drags the boy from the saddle.

don’t eat me,the brown mare neighs nervously.

“You have my word,”she promises easily as Brandon twists and flails at her grip. She turns him around and leans her head back when he swipes at her with the hunting knife, catching his arm and twisting his wrist until the knife falls to the snow. He immediately rakes the blunted nails of his other arm down her cheek before she catches that arm too. “What wasthat - “

She really should have expected the headbutt.

She staggers backwards, far more surprised than hurt. His jerkin rips as he tears a hand free and plants a fist right into the ragged wound in her side.

A pained gasp leaves her.

“Let me go!” He roars at her as he desperately pulls at his trapped arm.

She does.

Brandon falls ass first into the snow. He is scrambling to his feet when she catches him about the collar and drives his face into the ice.

“Geroff me!”He bucks wildly as she holds him down, trying to escape a grip that has crushed demon lords.

He will not succeed.

She looks up into the evergreen canopy as he tires himself out struggling against her. It feels unsettlingly like disciplining her own headstrong hatchlings kneeling in the snow like she is, pressing just hard enough to keep Lord Stark’s son breathing, but little else. It probably says something that her pureborn were universally more of a pain in the ass to raise than her incredibly improbablehalf Redcrossbred clutch.

Exactly what it says, she still does not know.

And just like a dragon wyrmling throwing a tantrum, he eventually exhausts himself. He takes breaks before renewing the struggle, his attempts become weaker and weaker and then finally he gives up.

“You gave me too much trouble for me to let you go off and get yourself killed,” Terendelev says evenly. “You found the village.” He did not warn the rest of them. He did not ask for her help, so she already knows, “They are all already dead.”

Brandon shudders in the snow.

“Fires are cold,” he rasps. “Livestock gone. Snow blew in over the footprints.”

They have been dead for some time.

“The bodies - they look like they’ve been - “ He skips the word. “For years.As if they had been buried in burrows and crypts, taken out to just…toss around.”

She knows what he means. Desiccated corpses. The cold of winter would have preserved the bodies, which means their deaths were unnatural.

“Iknewthem,” Brandon croaks. “Stubborn bastards that didn’t wanna come to Wintertown for the winter, always said they could handle themselves, wouldn’t want to presume on us when times are hard…”

She remains silent.

“...there are huge crystalseverywhere.”

She hums. “Then you have two choices. You can tell your father what you have learned and help him prepare, or we can continue as we are. I am capable of handling any threat we come across, provided youletme.”

Brandon sniffles.

“What do you want to do?”

He is quiet for a long moment.

“Lord Brandon?”

“I…wantto continue. They deserve - I must see to them.” The eagle chick lays there like a beaten young dragon, only managing to flop a tired arm over her boots when she stands. “But I should go home to Father first,” he says miserably.

She looks down in surprise.

He does not meet her eyes, muttering, “Leadership is knowing when to ask for advice.”

“Yes,” she says softly. “It is.”

At the edge of her hearing in the depths of the Wolfswood, she hears something small, quick, but oddly shaped with what sounds to be six legs. She turns her head and her sharp eyes pierces the misty gloom among the trees.

A glimpse of opalescent.

Before it scuttles out of sight.

Chapter 13: King's Landing

Chapter Text

"However, Elia would be queen." Rhaella Targaryen cursed her tongue as soon as the words came out of her mouth.

Why did she say that?

A cold winter breeze blew through the open balcony. A small tea table laden with biscuits, sweetmeats, cakes and two cups of tea in gray Yi Ti porcelain gilded along the delicate edges with gold leaf sat between the chaise lounge chairs.

"She would be queen then, yes," Cereza Nymeros-Martell, the Princess of Dorne replied neutrally.

Rhaella picked up her tea, plate and all and hid her grimace with a sip of the steaming beverage as her companion marked her place in her book. She kept her eyes forward, blinking away the steam that blew into her eyes.

'Do not look at them!' Her mother had told Rhaella. 'You are to be their queen, you command and they obey.'

And yet she still felt the craven.

She did not want to see pity.

The urban sprawl of King's Landing lay before her. The Hook cut a muddy brown path through the white snow covering Aegon's High Hill, from which the Red Keep rested. Down below, what she could see of the streets of Silk and Steel were dark lines overlooked by the snow covered roofs of various noble manses and estates. The marble walled Great Sept of Baelor crowned Visenya's Hill to the west with seven crystal towers defiantly standing against the gray clouds rolling in from the distance. The sky was as blue as a robin's egg with a pale sun glittering off the shores of ice lining the bay of the Blackwater Rush.

A few moons past, she would have been risking catching her death out in this chill wearing little more than her day dress, a flowing design of black with slashes of crimson within the ruffles of the skirt and bodice. Her kinswoman would have playfully refused to step outside at all and Rhaella would have allowed it. She remembered well that first moon Cereza spent in King's Landing being rife with a runny nose, lethargy, coughs and infections of the ear.

Sunspear rarely even glimpsed snow so matter how long the winter. Now, the cold bothered neither of the women sitting beneath the gentle flurry of snowflakes.

The last time she sat with Cereza like this, they had been princess and handmaiden. Now they were queen and princess, but so much had changed since then.

More than she had believed possible.

Cereza's eyes had once been black as coal.

They were now a startling blue, a color that shone sapphire in shadow but the slightest addition of light revealed the vivid flecks of violet. Silver-gold locks contrasted sharply with the remnant of the once all-black hair at her right temple. Refined cheekbones and chin reminiscent of the memories Rhaella had of her mother, Shaera Targaryen had reshaped Cereza's face. That she retained the olive skin, the two small moles on the side of her chin and by her left eye, the same straight hawkish nose, the same wide but full lips, the same…thesamefeatures that let her recognize a stranger on sight only contributed to the odd sensation of surreality.

Dorne's Princess had always been more striking than beautiful. Clad in the flowing Dornish silks of gold, the light slap demanding your attention when she entered a room was now a backhand with a mailed fist.

She averted her eyes, still feeling her mother's suspicious narrow eyed gaze on the back of her head decades later.

"My daughter will take no comfort in the title of queen," her distant cousin said simply. It did not matter if it was only Rhaella's ears that heard the unspoken 'Just as you have not' as it was true all the same.

Cereza had thattalentof saying just enough to prick, but not enough to reveal the knife. Those half spoken sentences had once vexed Joanna so…

Rhaella hid a second grimace in her tea, hoping the hot drink would settle her turning stomach.

"He might be disappointed with her look," the woman continued. "A single silver dragon streak and one eye of violet." Rhaella was sure she was not imaginingstrainin her laugh this time. "Little changed for Doran aside from going gray before his time, but Oberyn is Olyn Nymeros-Martell come again andhating every moment of it."

The name of the first son Daenerys Targaryen bore her husband Maron Martell after the Submission of Dorne, Rhaella knew.

Cereza played with her tea cup, turning it on its plate. "I sent him with Elia to have somepeace,to tell you true."

"I hope…itwas painless?" Rhaella asked, thinking of her other cousin, Steffon Baratheon. Daenerys Targaryen had been Cereza's great grandmother. Rhaella's own aunt whom she is named after, Rhaelle Targaryen is Lady Baratheon and Steffon's mother. Their relation was far closer.

And it showed.

Cereza's fingers on the cup went still and that said a thousand words. Rhaella winced, wishing again that she had not said a word.

"I see."

The conversation stalled.

The words hung in the air like a dead cat in a bag for several long, torturous moments.

"Joanna might have leapt at the offer." The Princess said as if it had just been an idle thought of Rhaella's, extending the white flag of parley as she set the book on the edge of the small table. "She had her hopes set on a desert thorn over a fish."

"Tywin Lannister would have leapt at the offer," Rhaella corrected gently, blowing needlessly over her tea. "And Joanna had always picked her battles carefully."

Cereza hummed thoughtfully.

"She practiced that, I am sure," was said lightly.

Rhaella stared out over the city. "Picking her battles?"

"Opening her mouth and letting her husband's voice out."

Rhaella could not help her shocked glance.

"Do not look at me like that," Cereza admonished her with the wicked smile Rhaella both recognized and did not on the strange-familiar face. "She had to practice such a thing, so whenshewanted something, well, of course Tywin was always willing to listen tohimself."

Rhaella's lips pursed. "You areterrible."

"Guilty as declared."

Most of the time, it was as if the funeral had been six years ago, but every once in a while, it felt like yesterday. If her answering chuckle was a little sad, a little choked, Cereza was kind enough not to mention it and instead picked a biscuit off the tray.

"Elia's hand would only be given in marriage with her consent after having met the match, this I promised her."

"You sent her toVolantis."Andthathad no right to sound as accusing as it did.

Where her mother sent the girl was of no concern of hers. Not even thepossibilityof a betrothal between Elia and Rhaegar had been raised at the time.

Rhaella hid athirdgrimace in her tea.

There was an art to such a thing. It could not seem hurried nor that she was necessarily hiding an unwanted expression. She swallowed another unappetizing hot mouthful.

At this rate, she will have drunk more boiled leaf water in a single meeting than she has all year.

"I have full confidence that she will not return intent on bullying me into approving a match she made for herself in Essos." Cereza smiled wryly. "She is not Doran."

"So she will ask politelyfirst,"Rhaella quipped and was rewarded with a small chuckle.

"Just so."

"A familiar tale, is it not?"

Cereza conceded the point with a tilt of her head. "I have been cursed with children all too much like myself."

Rhaella hoped, sheprayedthat she was under such a curse as well. Viserys was only two, a happy, babbling babe.

Who has to betoldshe was the woman that gave birth to him.

She was still never left alone with her youngest son. Aerys' baseless suspicion had not yet abated that much. He - Viserys was still warming up to her, but she had faith that she would not need to dismiss the wetnurse he also called 'mama' just yet.

Rhaegar was more complicated.

"Steffon could be sent to recall her early if you will not," Rhaella pressed because it had not been just an idle thought. "A marriage alliance between our two houses is not so terrible, surely?"

"And so the king shall wait until she returns if he is truly of the mind to inquire after her," the Princess spoke dispassionately about the same king who had taken to cheerily naming the woman 'cousin' before all and sundry.

"She might be good for my eldest," Rhaella ventured. "My boy tends to fly with his head too close to the clouds." Or in books and scrolls. "He needs someone more goal oriented, grounded."

"Perhaps she will agree," Cereza allowed with a pointed look. "Whenever he returns from his recent flight of fancy."

A fourth grimace was obscured by the delicate Yi Ti porcelain cup.

Rhaegar was more complicated.

Her own father Jaehaerys II had been so enamored with an old woodswitch's "prophecy." So much so that it decided the marriage of his children for some 'promised prince.'

Bollocks,all of it.

Her treacherous mind turns to her child at seven name days of age. A small boy who never truly knew his grandfather, excitedly chattering about a 'destined bride' for him before she even knew she was with child. He had been right about the timing and gender of the child.

But her girl Shaena had been born dead.

Rhaegar had been devastated with more than just grief. A truly clever boy with moments of true brilliance.

Consistently marred with somethinguncannythat Nuncle Aemon only encouraged in his letters.

Sevenforbid,that boy comes back married.

"I would not call it a flight of fancy," Rhaella rejoined. "Unless you would say your visit is one such flight of yours?"

"Ah,yes."Cereza did not bother to hide the unhappy twist of her own lips. She never had. As the heir to the rulership of Dorne, among young women taught from birth that their worth lay in their marriage, she never had to. Rhaella had always envied that.

She still did.

"I will admit to acuriousinterest in revisiting some things. What strange times we live in, hmm?" The Princess of Dorne ran a considering hand over the faded, leather cover of the book she had been reading.Remnants of the Dragonlordsby Archmaester Gramyon were engraved in the red hide in faded gold lettering. "When history no longer is content to remain - "

A heavy knock on the door to the joining room sounded out. Rhaella set her tea on the table, sitting up as the oak door on black iron hinges swung open.

"Your Grace." Ser Jonothor Darry, the Kingsguard assigned to her, stepped in. A thick overcoat in the colors of House Darry lay over the white enamel scales of his white armor, fur lined his gloves and the ser was miserably battling a stuffy nose judging by the redness of it.

By the king's command, the Red Keep was once again outfitted for summer. Windows open, reduced consumption of firewood, meetings held in the many gardens of the castle amidst wind and snow. Fortunately for the running of the keep, there were enough dragonseeds found in King's Landing that could prove their lineage eager and willing to serve in the place of warmth seeking others. Knightly and Masterly houses such as Longwater, descended from Velaryon and Targaryen bastards, were unaffected. The blood of the dragon proved true. More and more pale haired heads filled these halls, leaving all who suffered the chill with their king's not-so-quiet contempt.

The Hand of the King, Tywin Lannister, numbered among the miserable.

That was reason enough for Aerys to command it.

"What is it, ser?"

Ser Darry bowed deeply. "Begging your pardon, your grace. The High Septon has sent a request for a meeting with your grace here in the Red Keep. What is your will?"

"I would be willing to speak with him at his earliest convenience." She did not have to consult her itinerary.

She had no desire to attend court with her brother-husband. The stench of burnt flesh and ash still tickled her nostrils. She long since ceased counting any noble women of prominence within her circle. Years of Aerys' predations and whoring had cured her of it, which left her with the unimportant dregs of the Crownlands.

She had her fill today of watching her little boy look for another woman as he played.

Rhaegar was still missing.

She could hold private banquets or meetings, perhaps sewing in a circle with other noble women.

She did not want to see pity.

Ser Darry turned in the doorway to address someone in the hall and then turned back. "In a bell, your grace?"

"So soon?" A small kernel of concern lit in her stomach. By the time a messenger descended the hill and made his way through the streets to the Great Sept of Baelor, the High Septon would have to depart post haste to make it in time. "An urgent matter?"

Ser Darry grimaced. "I could not say, your grace."

Of course not.

That would be too simple.

Gods, she hated politics. For all that the High Septon preached, dealings with the Faith werealwayspolitical.

"A bell then," she said after a moment.

Ser Darry bowed once more. "As you command. Your grace." He turned to her guest. "Your grace."

"Ser." Cereza had picked up her book again, looking for all the realm as if she was engrossed in the reading were it not for the complicated expression in her vivid blue eyes.

Rhaella nibbled on a biscuit as the door closed heavily, stalling her own reaction.

Letting her fears run amok would not help her.

"I am not sure I wish to know what this will be about," she finally released with a sigh. "Nor why he thinks to approach me with it."

"You should be glad for it," Cereza mildly rebuked her as only the older woman could. Rhaella had not needed to defend her right to do so to her mother, Shaera as Cereza gladly did it for her. "Approaching the lady of the house before her husband is seeking alternatives before formal action, is that not the way of things?"

That was the way of things. Her biscuit sat heavy in her stomach.

That the High Septon of the Faith of the Seven, their Voice among men, would be moved to seekalternatives…

"Theburning?"Rhaella whispered.

"Mayhaps." Cereza grimaced. "Mayhaps."

"Whatelse?"

For a long moment, there was no answer as the Princess of Dorne ran her fingers over the cover of her book once again. "I did not know how to admit this.Forgive me."

Rhaella watched numbly as her distant cousin picked up the small steel spoon from the candied sweetmeats tray. As she held it up, the metal near her fingers began to hiss, steam and finally gain a dark red glow that grew brighter the longer she watched.

She did not understand what she was seeing.

"...how?"

Cereza smiled grimly as the spoon began to warp and bend as the sticky syrup of caramel dripped back onto the tray. "A gift. In return for my life."

Rhaella raised her eyes from the spoon. "Agift?"

Cereza's lips pressed together hard enough to drive the blood from them. "You were aware of the journey through the kingdoms I underwent with my two youngest children some years ago?"

Yes, she remembered.

Because Cereza was able to do on a mere whim what she could not bring herself to beg Aerys for.

To see Casterly Rock, home of her dear Joanna Lannister, after her friend passed away in childbirth.

"It must have been in the Stormlands, wet and miserable as it is." Cereza flicked her fingers carelessly. "I contracted the consumption."

Rhaella choked.

Her free hand darted to her mouth as she coughed. "I beg yourpardon?"

"Consumption," Cereza repeated with a sad smile. "Fear not. The Flames burned it out."

The Flames burned it out.

Rhaella put her tea down. With shaking fingers, she reached across the small table between them. The Princess did not retreat, allowing her queen to grasp a silver-gold lock of her hair. She rubbed it between her fingers as if the pale color would give way to the black it had once been.

Quietly, she asked, "What Flames?"

"I believe you know," Cereza replied just as quietly.

"The gods of Valyria." The silver-gold lock slipped out of nerveless fingers. "The Valyrian gods gave you agift."

"They did," her cousin confirmed. "After Mother Rhoynerejectedme." Rhaella let her hand drop as Cereza drew back, the first flicker of vulnerability Rhaella had ever witnessed on the older woman's face. "I thought I knew hatred," Cereza murmured. "I thought I knew it, until my daughterdrowned."

Rhaella startled in her seat. "Then Elia - " She stopped herself at the way Cereza's eyes wearily closed. "Then Elia…"

"I did not send her to Volantis," the Princess admitted. "She is at the mercy of greater mysteries and powers far beyond me."

Aerys would be disappointed with Elia's look, Rhaella remembered. Only a single dragon streak of silver and only one purple eye. Princess Nymeria and her ten thousand ships of women and children had fled the embers of the fallen civilization of the Rhoynar who once revered their mother River Rhoyne.

Torched by three hundred dragons of the Valyrian Freehold.

They landed in Dorne and the joining of houses was the birth of the Nymeros-Martell name.

"What strange times we live in." Cereza echoed. "When history is no longer content to remainhistory."Her violet flecked eyes opened. "Wateritselfanswers Elia's call. Who am I to deny her? And the Seven…" Those eyes looked away. "It was nowhere to be found."

"You converted."

Cereza's lips twisted unhappily again. "How could I not?"

How could she notindeed?

Rhaella did not have the words.

This woman in front of her should be near to her deathbed, if not on it already. Consumption was a slow, insidious killer, a disease of the lungs that ate away at the tissue until the victim coughed more blood than air. Drowning on land, unable to breathe or simply wasting away.

"The Princess of Dorne," Rhaella began slowly. "Holds to the gods of Valyria."

"I do."

Hearing it plainly did not make it feel any more real.

"My little brother Lewyn currently tends to a sapling tree of white bark with red five fingered leaves."

"Aweirwood?"

"Flourishing in the middle of arid Sunspear. Desert rosesareblooming."

Aerys had once boasted of digging a canal through the Red Mountains to 'make the desert roses bloom' in Dorne during their visit to Sunspear years ago. A painfully fanciful idea, discarded andforgottenby him like so many others.

Cereza's small smile quickly faded. "We will have a proper Northern godswood in a few years time. He is not alone and gifts such as mine?"

She lowered her voice.

"Are not restricted to only thenobility."

"Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, your grace," the High Septon greeted her with a dusty, but strong voice.

He did not bow.

She expected it. He was the voice of the Seven among men. The laws of a king were one thing, the laws of gods were another.

The High Septon of the Faith of the Seven was a short, weedy man swimming in the long robes of his office, tastefully and simply decorated. Rhaella did not know his name, for all shed their names upon being elected to the position and this one a contemporary of her grandfather, Aegon the Unlikely. The crystal crown on his head glittered and he shuffled with thick sleeves of parchment in his wrinkled hands. Age spots nearly as numerous as freckles dotted the face not covered with a white beard, but his eyes were sharp and his back straight.

Rhaella inclined her head in acknowledgment. "The Iron Throne has ever been a friend of the Faith since the days of Jaehaerys the Conciliator."

"And it is that friendship that brings me to you today."

Yes, it did seem to be as Cereza had said.

Alternatives before action.

Politics was a cesspool she had no desire to wade into.

But needs must.

"Shall we sit, your holiness?" She kept her voice even as she gestured towards the seats.

"Yes, thank you, your grace." The old man let out a quiet groan she pretended not to hear as he sunk into the cushioned sitting chair.

She had chosen a sitting room far out of the way within Maegor's Holdfast, the fortress within the Red Keep that housed the royal apartments. She had no illusions that the Master of Whispers, the eunuch Varys, did not have ears even here, but that was no reason to be careless.

Rhaella kept her pleasant expression as a pale haired maidservant poured two golden goblets of mulled wine and stoked the fire she had ordered prepared beforehand.

Leaving the High Septon to freeze would be unseemly.

She subtly shifted in her seat, ruthlessly suppressing the flinch of phantom pain. It had been several moons, She was fine. "Seven willing," she murmured to hide the movement. "The Citadel has made their prediction correctly and this winter will end soon enough."

"Seven willing," the High Septon echoed and now, more than ever, did those words sound hollow to her. The old man smiled as he sagged into the cushions. His crystal crown stood high and proud on his wrinkled bald head. "Am I to understand that you still keep to the Seven the same as your forebears, your grace?"

Rhaella blinked.

"Ye -es…"she said slowly.

The gods of Valyria had chosen not to speak to her. A woman of Valyrian descent, of the house of dragonlords was unworthy of an audience. All she remembered before she woke in bed with her blood aflame was a dream of a molten eye.

And an unseen dragon's beating wings.

"Forgive me," the High Septon said heavily. "I assumed you were aware that our prince of the realm has renounced the Faith."

Rhaella set her wine down on the table beside her before she threw the cup.

Of course he did.

Of course he did.

Her son had justdisappearedoff the face of Westerosagain, leaving Aerys' eunuch piecing together what had happened at Dragonstone, but she was hardly going to say that. Only her own timely reminder of their kinsman serving as a maester in the Night's Watch calmed her brother-husband from suspecting treason from his heir heading north.

Never mind that an hour before, he had been fretful that Rhaegar had been assassinated or kidnapped instead.

She did notneed this!

"I see. Near two moons hence, I wager."

The old man's head bobbed. "You wager correctly, your grace. He had the forethought to send a copy of the announcement to the Starry Sept of Oldtown as well as the Sept of Baelor here in King's Landing."

Forethought was not the word she would have used.

This already stunk to high heaven of her boy's sudden, unexplained decisions. Shestillhad not the faintest notion what prompted Rhaegar's turn from a reclusive scholar to a celebrated tourney knight. He was often just shy of erratic by his ability to explain his actions in a logical manner when pressed.

Afterthe fact.

"That is curious, I will grant you." A childish burst of pride at her ability to keep her voice calm flared in her chest, then faded. "Surely, that cannot be the sole reason for this visit? Rhaegar would hardly be the first Targaryen to hold other gods."

"But none on the throne," the High Septon rejoined.

"Rhaenyra Targaryen," Rhaella said swiftly with an eyebrow raised in challenge as the man's brow wrinkled.

No matter how many would prefer the only queen to sit the throne to be known only as a pretender, the line of their current king was that of the Half-Year Queen andnotof her usurping brother Aegon II.

"There were many arguments against her ascension. I do not recall her faith being one of them." She settled her hands in her lap to hide trembling fingers. "Uncle Duncan was disinherited for refusing to set aside his smallfolk wife, not for holding the old gods of his mother and wedding before a heart tree, unless you recall differently?"

"No," the man who had joined Aegon V in pressuring the boy to dissolve his consummated marriage murmured quietly. "I recall no different."

Perhaps had Duncan married his beloved Jenny in a sept before a septon, that annulment would have never crossed the High Septon's mind in the first place.

She breathed out and squeezed her hands together. "I was under the impression a new monarch being crowned by the Faith to be mere tradition, not arequirement."

"It is, however, aconcern,"the High Septon continued strongly. "The Iron Throne made the commitment to protect the Faith of the Seven, an agreement signed and ratified by the Conciliator in exchange forexceptions."

Like incest. A marriage such as her own was decried as a sin and her two boysabominationshad they been anyone else but Targaryen. "You wish to know how good a protector can a monarch who rejected the Seven be?"

"You have the right of it, your grace." The High Septon rustled the sleeves of parchment on his robed lap. "I would seek to hear from the Crown Prince for I would be remiss in my duties were I to not at least try for an understanding. To see if he could be guided back to the Faith or seek reconciliation. However…"

The old man looked up at her from under his white bushy eyebrows. "I am short on time. With no expectation of when Prince Rhaegar will return to the capital, I bring it to you."

"Short on time." Rhaella repeated.

"There are certain matters that cannot be put off and succumbing to the temptation to do so, promises to create a quagmire from which it will be difficult to escape."

She chewed on the inside of her cheek.

Gods, she hated politics. "Speak plainly."

The High Septon hesitated. "You grace…I speak of the rearmament of the Faith Militant."

"The FaithMilitant?"It flew from her mouth at the speed of an arrow loosed from a goldenheart bow. "You cannot be suggesting a reformation of anarmybeholden to no lord or king under the command of no more than the local septon?"

'Are youmad?'She did not say.

The Poor Fellows, the more 'humble' order of commoners and women had scaled these very walls of the Red Keep seeking to murder the royal family after Aegon the Conqueror's son married his children together. The Doctrine of Exceptionalism did not stop the Good Queen Alysanne from nearly being assassinated for her marriage to her brother-husband and pregnancy.

Aerys was not fool enough to aim such a dagger at their own hearts.

"I am aware of how it sounds," the old man said heavily. "However, I see little choice in the matter."

"Because Rhaegar would not worship the Seven?" She asked incredulously.

"No," the High Septon said quickly. "No. Your grace." The man held up his hands, palms up as if asking for alms. Rhaella opened her mouth, but before she could utter a sound, a lightflickered into being in his palms.

"Behold," he said quietly, reverently. "A skilltaughtto me by a septon serving Flea Bottom, in the face of the poor and downtrodden, himself a farmer's son, found his heartfelt prayers answered. A more humbling experience," he spoke of the miracle in his hands. "I have never before known."

Rhaella stared wordlessly.

"I am still investigating occurrences, but have found…enough, I believe. A hedge knight with the ability to call the Warrior's blessings to his sword," the man spoke. "A woods witch with the Crone's miraculous cures. Craftsmen receiving ingenuity from the Smith. All need neither oaths of fealty normyleave to proceed as they see fit. Justfaith."

The High Septon held out his hands to her and the sparkling light reflected off the spires of his crystal crown.

"You misunderstand me, your grace. This is not a request. It is awarning."

Rhaella sought the comfort of her own apartments after that conversation. The familiar richly colored Myrish carpet and finely polished copper mirrors and other luxuries greeted her in all their cold, uncaring glory. The red brick, black iron and dark wood furnishings Maegor the Cruel had commissioned for his grand fortress before he murdered all the builders surrounded her, trapping her.

The High Septon'swarningrang in her ears.

"You look as if you have seen a ghost." Aelyn Longwater pressed a wooden cup of chilled Arbor Gold wine into her hands. Rhaella stared into the dark drink until her lady-in-waiting took it back. "A bath then," she sighed at her queen's unresponsiveness and gently hustled her towards her bedroom. "Are you willing to share, your grace?"

Rhaella started a little.

She looked at the young woman with pale blonde hair and lilac eyes of too low birth to truly be considered for Rhaegar's queen, no matter how loudly her father boasted of being of proven Velaryon descent.

Bastard descent, but proven nonetheless.

"Not yet, I think," she murmured.

"The bath or whatever's got you so unsettled?"

Rhaella sighed. "Both, Aelyn, but thank you."

She wrung her hands, guiltily. "I could go gather up the others?"

"Please do not, I have not the energy." Aelyn was rambunctious, but earnest. There was no pity. The girl still looked vaguelyhorrifiedinstead. Rhaella reconsidered. "Perhaps a bath. I trust you know my preferences."

"I do." Aelyn Longwater had no fear of scalding water any longer. "Pleaserest, your grace."

"I will."

Left alone, she hesitated before the door to her bedroom. Her gorge threatened to rise, her stomach turned as her bruises seemed to burn from theproximity.Gritting her teeth, she pushed the heavy dark wood door open and swept in hurriedly.

The Myrish lace. The delicate silver and gold furnishing on the wall scones, lining the furniture. Oppressive dark wood and black iron. Her room was just as she left it.

She still did not know how to feel about that, save for the queer sensation that she must have feltsomething.

It was in her avoidance of looking at the bed that she found the one thing that had changed in her room.

There on her windowsill was a small steel coloreddragon.

Her hands flew to her mouth to stifle the gasp.

Was Aerys harboring dragon eggs in his room again? Was her numb thought. It must have just hatched, being no larger than a cat curled up as it was on the stone sill with its stinger tipped tail hanging down. The blackened tip was twitching in its sleep. It had its small head tucked under its tiny wing with a pudgy belly and stunted claws on its hindlegs.

"Oh,"she finally breathed.

And like a spell being broken, the little creature woke up.

It yawned. Needle sharp little teeth in a tiny maw followed by the cutest little chirrup she had ever heard. It then hiccuped, a puff of steam and then its wide surprised eyes narrowed. Its eyes were steel, or silver, the same as the scales of its body and Rhaella felt tears come to her own eyes inwonder.

A dragon.

A real, live dragon.

The first dragon seen in over a century.

It wasgorgeous,perfect,livingand -

And it was beginning to look alarmed.

Her heart stopped as the beast spread its wings, drawing attention to the sword belt looped around its thin shoulders. It was not going to -

When it launched off the sill, she yelped. "No!"

The small dragon pitched drunkenly over her head, nearly braining her with the long scabbard it was carrying as it made its way out the door.

She rushed after it, "Wait, no, pl - "

Her pleas caught in her throat.

"My apologies," a silver haired woman said with audible frustration as the light about her faded. "I keep forgetting drakes cannotspeakbefore a certain age."

At first, Rhaella looked about the room.

Checked the tall rafters.

Peeked behind the stuffed long chair.

The same scabbard the little dragon had been carrying was held in the strange woman's arms. Her hair was the same shade of shining steel as the little dragon's scales.

"You…"Rhaella's mouth worked. "You?"

"Yes." The young woman had a sheepish half-smile as if Rhaella had just found her nicking pies from the kitchen hall and not being discovered as a youngdragon."A pleasure to make your acquaintance, your grace. I am the silver dragon, Terendelev."

For a moment, luminescent silver scales flashed into being over the woman's visage, gradually fading into silver light, then lit outlines before fading.

"Yes," her mouth spoke without her. "A pleasure."

Rhaella blinked then.

"...I need tosit down."

She collapsed into the long chair, tilting her head back until all she could see were the rafters of her ceiling. She breathed in. Breathed out. She stared long enough at the top of the holdfast until she could feel herself turn as if on a slowly spinning plate with a dash of vertigo before she inhaled once more.

She looked down.

The woman was still there. "Are you well?"

"I do not know," Rhaella answered honestly.

The woman held out a hand. Rhaella grasped it before she could think better of it.

She wasreal.

Her hand ran just as warm, porcelain skin with long fingers and a firm grip. Rhaella's eyes trailed from the hand up the soft leather silver sleeves patterned like dragon scales. The top of her dress were made of those same scales, cut away at an angle across the flat stomach. A luxurious blue silk formed the rest of the dress, the skirt embroidered with ruby diamonds fell to the floor. The woman herself was the very image of what it meant to be a dragonlord. Her face shared the same sculpted perfection her Rhaegar inherited, but unlike her pale haired son and herself, the dragon's loose long hair was trulysilver.It shone and glittered as if each strand had been spun from the metal itself.

Eyes of dark indigo stared back, a distant predatory amusem*nt within them.

It was those eyes that convinced her. "You are adragon."

"I am."

"...are you…bigger?"

Rhaella flushed as the dragon broke into unashamed laughter.

"Much,muchbigger."

She pulled back and was allowed to slip her hand free. "How? Why…?"

This 'Terendelev' smiled then, flashing straight white teeth. "I was born with this ability. And I have come to offer you this."

The scabbard was held out and only then could Rhaella finally notice that it housed a blade. "What is - " Her voice died for the second time in so few minutes when the sword came free with a cold whisper and revealed the dark smoky gray steel.

Valyrian steel.

The shining bronze flame shaped pommel. The polished large dragon's eye ruby on the wavy crossguard below the black leather hilt.

"Is this…"

"Dark Sister," the dragon finished for her. "Recovered from Lord Commander Brynden Rivers by yours truly. And now I return it - "

"No!" Rhaella blurted out.

The dragon blinked."No?"

"No," Rhaella said, softer as she tightened her grip on the blade to keep her fingers from trembling noticeably. "The blade of Queen Visenya should be in the hands of a warrior."

It was a powerful symbol, a reclaimed ancestral Valyrian steel blade granted back to their house by adragon.

A powerful symbol wasted on the marginalized wife of the king.

Provided her son had not gotten himself killed -

"Not yet," the dragon said with an amused twist of her lips. "I understand the concern,believe me."

Rhaella stared up at her. "I - pardon me, I did not realize I said that aloud."

Amusem*nt flashed strongly in the dragon's eyes. "That would be because you did not say it aloud."

A chill shivered down Rhaella's spine as she swallowed thickly. "...you have met Rhaegar then?"

"Have Imethim?" The dragon smiled once more as she sunk into a courtesy Rhaella was instantly envious of before her, not a single waver or wasted movement. "I have granted him the honor of courting me."

Rhaella sprung from her seat.

"Oh thank all the gods!"

The dragon's lips twitched. "There are Northmen that would swear on their deathbed that he was mad."

"Of that I am sure," Rhaella scoffed. She took back every unkind word she hadeverthought about her eldest son and forgave him for taking off to Dragonstone, leaving her with his father alone after the thief burned.

He claimed adragon.

This was it.

This was the answer to everything. This dragon had beenbornwith the ability to change forms. She would not question it. Dragons broke the back of the Faith once before. Dragons could break it again.

She shoved Dark Sister back into the bemused dragon's arms. "Please, give this to him. Did he truly go north?"

"To the Wall," the dragon confirmed, still looking unsure as she adjusted her grip on the blade. "Maester Aemon had sent a letter to Dragonstone about my presence."

"Well, thank the gods for him as well, then." She took back every unkind word about Nuncle Aemon too. "Where is my son now?"

The dragon's mouth opened before its hungry indigo gaze suddenly darted to the corner of her sitting room behind one of the Tyroshi tapestries lining the walls, a mural of a dragon killing a harpy in aerial combat.

Rhaella stiffened when the dragon held a finger up to her lips and a whisper sounded quietly, but clearly in her ear.

'Play along.'

Terendelev turned to give the wall her back, incidentally obscuring any glimpse of Dark Sister within her shadow. "Is there anything you would like me to prepare after your bath, your grace?"

Her fingers trembled. "Only some mulled wine, and perhaps some of those hazelnut cakes from the kitchens, Taeren."

Rhaella winced immediately for using an unfamiliar name that Varys would no doubt latch onto. She should have just saidAelyn.

The corner of the dragon's lips pulled up. "Of course. I might take one for myself, they did smelllovely."

"Not too many," Rhaella said reflexively as another whisper sounded,

'Meet you on your balcony.'

"Yes,yes,not too many…or at least commit to walking up and down the Tower of the Hand afterwards?" The dragon swept out of the room as if she belonged in the royal apartments. Then again, shewould.

Rhaella eventually began the stagger back to her bedroom, half in a daze.

Her son was to wed adragon.

Within a quarter of a bell, a considerably larger silver scaled dragon swooped onto the small brick overhang attached to her bedroom behind the tall oiled wooden shutter door. Silver light overtook its form and the silver haired woman dropped with cat-like grace onto the floor.

"Where I come from." The dragon dropped a napkin sack onto her dresser. "Spying on your own monarchs was treason."

"Only the king himself is beyond suspicion," was Rhaella's practiced response. Where the dragon came from - no, she was not dealing with that today. "Are those hazelnut cakes?"

That distant, hungry amusem*nt of a cat watching a mouse struggle to escape shone in her eyes. "Yes."

"Thank you," Rhaella said helplessly and the dragon inclined her head. "...you said you were bigger."

Whydid she say that?

"I have been told that my natural form is comparable in size to the Great Queen, Vhagar, albeit a bit smaller." She barely heard the 'smaller.' Any dragon comparable to Vhagar was an awesome beast of power and destruction. "Age is not a restriction for my ability. As for your earlier question, he is in Winterfell." The dragon smiled gently. "Lord Stark has agreed to support Rhaegar's bid for the throne."

Rhaegar must have made a favorable impression -

"Wait." Bid for the throne. The Crown Prince, already crowned as such before the realm once he reached his majority, did not need to make abidunless his ascension was in question.

Like if his father was still alive.

Hope and dread pooled in her belly in equal measure. It was too early. It could never be too early.

"Now?"

The first sign of the dragon's ill temper surfaced. "Notquite,"she spoke sharply. "I have been advisedthat subterfuge was necessary at this junction. He wished to announce his bid after securing the Vale and the Riverlands."

"Impatient?" Rhaella ventured cautiously. At two moons since he had been reported missing it was too soon to tell, but she knew her son. Rhaegar was not so good a man that he would not think to force the issue as Duncan had. "Forgive my prying, but you have not yet lain together, have you?"

Revulsionstole over the dragon's face."Never."

"Oh," Rhaella breathed, her excitement cooling. "Then you cannot…"

"I can." The dragon said bluntly. "I simply will not."

That answer refused to make sense no matter how many times Rhaella rolled it around within her skull.

"Why?"She gasped. "Without a legitimate heir - "

"He has a younger brother," the dragon nonchalantly interrupted a queen. "Does he not?"

Rhaella clasped her hands before her. "He is still young," she forced through her lips. "An illness, a battle, a tourney injury or even a Trial by the Seven could leave no heirs at all. It has happened before."

Daeron the Good's heir, Baelor Breakspear, suffered a blow to the head in a Trial over a tourney accident. His two sons were taken by the Great Spring Sickness, leaving his younger brother Aerys I the throne who shunned his wife's bed, leaving the throne tohisyounger brother, Maekar I.

Whose heir predeceased him from illness.

And his second one was mad enough to drink wildfire.

When the Peake Uprising killed Maekar, a Grand Council had to be called to settle the succession.

"We are too few. Questions would rise the longer he goes without an heir of his own, a single heir in his brother is far from a stable reign. The court is full of vipers with poisoned smiles looking for such weaknesses."

Aerys had summoned Steffon to King's Landing, only to order their cousin to search Volantis for a bride for Rhaegar. Those behind the Black Walls of that city were covetous of their lineage and the purity of their blood. Her and Aerys' grandmother was a Blackwood. Before that a Dayne and then a Martell.

Perhaps Aeryshadconvinced himself of the feasibility.

But only a fool would not consider it Aerys' attempt to deprive his own heir from making a powerful marriage alliance in Westeros. She considered it telling that no one, not even her brother's newest pet spy from Lys, volunteered the lower hanging fruit of Lysene and Tyroshi noble daughters.

It would have been a mission doomed to fail.

But then the stars fell from the sky.

"Such things are of even more import now. To ascend ahead of his father's passing isunprecedented."

"So I have learned." The dragon's smile was thin and cold. "I am choosing to believe that your house must have fallen far without those beasts of burden you call dragons." Her indigo eyes were ravenous. "To speak tomeof such petty concerns."

"Petty?"Rhaella echoed, shocked.

"Petty." The dragon waved a hand in the air. "What concern is it of mine what is said behind my back or to my face? Words are wind and I am adragon."

Dragons do not heed the opinions of sheep, Rhaella thought suddenly. A foolish, pithy statement Rhaegar had taken to parroting.

She was the queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

She was sheep.

Rhaella breathed. The years she had spent seeing venom behind every false condolence for yet another lost babe. Seventeen long years of her worth repeatedly, loudly questioned by grasping former friends. Her brother. All over a living heir was but apettyconcern of petty, small beings.

She was not even angry. "Is it petty to fear that any family that weds a daughter to Viserys would have every reason to hasten his ascension?"

"I have already committed myself to Rhaegar's protection," the dragon readily dismissed. "Do you truly believe any house would be so eager to earn my wrath? Neither his injury nor his illness frightens me."

She committed that to memory even as she softly rejoined, "You cannot be at his side always. You are not at his side now. You need only be late answering his call once."

The dragon's face softened. "That is true."

There was no grief on the dragon's face at the thought of surviving Rhaegar. No anger, resignation, concern or even pity.

A muted, distant fleeting regret.

That was all.

And why not?

Rhaella blindly groped behind her for her chair and fell into it heavily.

Why not?

The mighty Vhagar readily flew young Aemond Targaryen at thefuneralof her previous rider. It was said that dragons were as gods on earth. Atop their backs, the dragonlords were above both gods and men.

And gods were beholden to none but their own peers.

"Yes," the dragon answered the unspoken thought once more. "It takesmuchto offend me precisely because so much isbeneath me, your grace. You do not wish it were otherwise."

She supposed she did not.

The dragon sighed. "If Iwereto concern myself with such things, another bride would be for the best for children regardless." Rhaella looked up in confusion. "Mayhaps the first generation will be…stable,"the dragon drawled with a faint sneer. "The third would not."

"...why?"

"The first generation would bear the full effects of their lineage," she replied coolly. "Such thingsquicklystop being assured. What happens if the heir of the heir did not manifest his bloodline, but his younger brotherdid?"

If Rhaenyra Targaryen had not managed to claim a dragon of her own at all, but Aegon the Usurper always had his dragon Sunfyre. Or if she had, but amidst the rumors of the bastardry of her heirs, her sons could not.

"Or neither did, but the nephew born to the house his mother wed intodoes."

"I understand," Rhaella croaked.

The dragon inclined her head as regally as any queen. "If he does not change his mind, Viseryswillbe his heir."

Even had Elia Martell been available, her marriage bought only ten thousand Dornish spears. The Lord of the West was no friend of the Iron Throne. Not anymore. Rhaegar knew better than to give enemies a marriage and Cersei Lannister was too young in any case.

House Tully of the Riverlands would benefit from a royal marriage.

Far too much.

Factitious, insubordinate vassals both capable and willing to check their Lord Paramount's power and an indefensible land that had seen countless wars fought within its borders. Fit for a second son, as her own father had been, but not the throne.

Both had scales, but between a fish and a dragon was no contest.

"He will not change his mind," Rhaella murmured, twisting one of her rings around a finger.

The dragon smiled briefly. "I suspected as much. Should you wish to tell him anything, send the raven to the Vale. Your grace."

Silver light shone.

Rhaella rushed to the balcony, watching as a startlingly large white raptor with gray speckles on its feathers bore away on the harsh winter wind north. Dark Sister hung around its neck, the sword dangling down as it winged towards Rhaenys' Hill and the abandoned ruins of the Dragonpit.

…had that just happened?

It must have.

"Your grace?" Aelyn's voice called from the door. "Your bath is ready."

It must have.

The napkins had lost their knot, leaving two small hazelnut cakes on her table.

"Cousin!"

Rhaella felt a burst of chagrin when Steffon Baratheon swung around precariously at the sound of her voice.

"Cousin!"Lord Baratheon boomed, unaware or more likelyuncaringof the disgruntled, swaddled courtiers he left behind as he hobbled towards her. The robust, ruggedly handsome features and coal black hair had been…burnedclean.

Only his voice and character were recognizable.

The rest was as if an artist had taken exception to the traits of the old Durrandon kings. A file and chisel had been taken to the sculpture until only a man who could have been the Spring Prince, Baelon Targaryen come again, remained. Hair as gold as any Lannister shot through with silver and more pale hairs in his close cropped beard. Red-purple eyes set in a finely featured face; a jawline that could cut glass, a regal brow and full lips, but at least his straight nose still carried evidence of being broken three times.

"Come to save me from politicking today?" Steffon jested jovially as he insisted on holding out his arm. "You are too kind, my queen."

"Not at all," she said tightly as she took it, adjusting her stride to compensate for the click clacking of the cane he still leaned on. His eyes were still glassy with illness along with a faint pallor to his newly pale skin.

She still did not understand it.

She woke up with fire burning in her blood. Cereza had to accept a cold bargain, her worship for her life.

Steffon had been comatose with fever for near to an entire moon.

Did he receive a 'gift' as well?

Kept quiet for fear of Aerys' volatile nature?

A sudden fear took her as she searched the meeting room she was in with new eyes. Varys, the Master of Whispers tittered in the corner, dressed as always with just enough clothing to suggest he felt the chill, but not enough to say for certain and draw Aerys' ire. Lucerys Velaryon was Aerys' lickspittle lord who also woke with fire in his blood. Had either been offered anything?

Penrose? Chelsted?

Lannister?

"I am saving you from sycophants so you can assistmewith politicking."

Steffon made a face. "Lovely."

"Quite."

She pulled him along out of the shallow hall into the corridors of the Red Keep. The red brick Maegor the Cruel commissioned surrounded them, decorated with black iron, dark wood and hanging tapestries and portraits. Ser Jonothor Darry followed shortly behind them. The clanking of armor muffled by the man's attempts to stay warm under layers in a sharp contrast to the light black doublet Aerys' had made for their cousin. The Baratheon gold decorated the collar, clasps and cuffs, but the emblem on his breast was quartered with the stag and a single headed crimson dragon.

To be afforded the right to that crimson dragon was a great honor she had not agreed with.

More so now.

Steffon sighed. "What did he donow?"

"Nothing yet." Rhaella glanced up into his concerned plum colored eyes. Steffon washandsomeso she looked forwards again.

The Princess of Dorne, the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands and the Lord of the West were all in King's Landing. Tywin would be difficult. Cereza's support was inconsequential, but would still be welcome.

Steffon was dangerous. She needed to know just how dangerous.

She despised politics.

But as needs must.

"Nothing yet."

Chapter 14: Interim: Golarion

Chapter Text

“How bad was it?” Galfrey, queen of the crusader state of Mendev, swiftly strode down the corridors of the Cruciform Cathedral of Iomedae.

Unlike other monarchs, she did not rule from a castle or palace, but from a temple that doubled as a military base. All of Nerosyan, her capital city, was built the same way, function over form. The city was built in diamond shaped fortifications centered around the Cathedral for the sole purpose of making the districts easier to defend in the event of an attack. There were some flourishes. The white marble was red-veined, dark wood furnishing, plush red carpet, gold plated braziers, statues and candelabras, but for the most part, this was a place of worship and righteous purpose.

Galfrey prided herself on living similarly. Her full plate armor was richly furnished with brass embellishments, not gold to make it easier to replace. The darkened steel itself still had nicks, dents and scratches from battle, evidence of repairs by the blacksmith’s hammer. She was without her full helmet, but what replaced it were the braids of her golden hair and her crown forged from plain steel.

“By far the worst case of demonic corruption we have ever seen.”

He was a humble looking man, out of place walking just behind the queen of Mendev in her plate and crimson and Mendevian blue cloak. A farmer or woodswitch by trade from the look of him, with coarse clothing sparsely decorated with stitching and bird feathers. A lined, weather beaten human face under a mop of red-blond hair, but the warning growl of a dragon echoed from his throat and shivered across the high ceiling.

Galfrey turned slightly.“We?”

“We,” Halaseliax rumbled.

That included the entire Silver dragon Collective and their combined centuries of experience with the demons of the Abyss and the corrupted land of the Worldwound.

She let out a slow breath and hiked up her shoulders. “Understood.”

“Do you really?” The Gold dragon had a talent for asking condescending questions without quite sounding like he was.

“I understand enough,” she said curtly. “A Tarnished Metallic dragon is akin to a fallen paladin. Terendelev lost her way.”

“By the time I arrived to guide her back…” the Gold dragon hesitated. “I was ready to die trying. She was a Rift dragon of the Abyss in all but name. Her scales weremidnight.That she is recognizable right now is testament to her strength.”

In spite of herself and the subject, Galfrey smiled.“That’smy girl.”

“Do not reject her.”

Galfrey stopped dead in her tracks. “You really think I would give up onforty yearsjust like that?”

Halaseliax looked at her placidly. The only evidence of his displeasure were his brown eyes had been replaced with twin orbs of pure gold. “Your goddess did.”

Her stomach clenched. “...why?”

The Gold dragon looked away. “Our efforts in cleansing the corruption, of purification, were failures.”

“But then…”

“She is recognizable. She is notcured,”the elder dragon stressed. “The usual methods either did nothing, or the malady reacted so violently, I could have easily killed her had I persisted.”

“She proved capable of driving Deskari’s premier warlords from the battlefield only five years ago.” Galfrey's lips pursed. “Perhaps it is not so surprising that the demons want her dead so badly.”

The Gold ducked his head. “I am certain that would have also been an acceptable outcome.”

That cryptic statement drew a frown from her.

She supposed a mad tarnished Silver dragon equal to a balor lord with intimate knowledge of the crusade’s military could do alotof damage before she was…put down.

That was how demons worked.

Dedicated to calculated misery.

“With an inability to rid her of this…curse,”Galfrey settled on. It was not her fault. Never. “I take it you went the path of control instead.”

“A chaotic form of evil cannot truly be controlled,” Halaseliax said slowly. “Only denied. Or appeased.”

Her stomach sank along with her heart. Terendelev put in the work. The effort, the hours and the service to be ordained as a cleric of Iomedae instead of relying on the power of her birthright. She could not imagine the Inheritor turning her back on any paladin, inquisitor or cleric of hers that denied the pull of the Abyss.

That left appeasem*nt.

What pieces of herself Terendelev was capable of protecting against the caustic, ravenous hunger of the Abyss.

And what she could afford to lose.

“She isrecognizable,”the queen said dully.

“She is recognizable,” the dragon repeated miserably. “Please. Do not reject her.”

Galfrey breathed in, quick and sharp. ‘My strength is not in my sword, but in my heart. If I lose my sword, I have lost a tool. If I betray my heart, I havedied.’

Iomedae’s decisions were her own and it was not for her to gainsay them. However, her paladinssworeto always guard the honor of their comrades, to havefaithin the best of them.

“I will not. I swear it.”

Halaseliax studied her. Even in his humble guise, the full weight of his years and majesty still shone through.

He nodded. “This way.”

The Gold led her to one of the small chapels sequestered away within the Cathedral near the barracks. It was a room meant for quiet contemplation and confession rather than grand sermons, attended by a single elderly veteran of the crusades. A warpriest perhaps, or an old paladin. It was in his stance and sharp salute when he saw her.

“At ease.” Galfrey waved him down.

The evening sun was spilling red light through the thin high windows, bathing the entire room in a bloody glow. The Inheritor’s statue dominated the far wall of the small room. The regal woman in gold plated armor with a longsword boldly pointed at the sky and the other hand resting on a kite shield planted on the ground emblazoned with the radiant sword symbol was a familiar sight. There were a handful of small plain wooden pews and red cushions at the sides for kneeling.

Not far from the door in the back pew, a miserable figure was hunched over clasped pale hands.

“Terendelev,” Halaseliax rumbled. “Yourrhîsskhais here.”

Galfrey startled. She knewthatword. “Her what?”

The figure jerked in her seat, rasping. “Mywhat?”

By the Inheritor, her girl soundedwretched.Galfrey gave Halaseliax a ‘youwillexplain that later’ look, unimpressed with his innocent smile, before she approached the pew.

Terendelev turned to face her.

Matted silver hair damp with sweat. Sallow pale skin. Deep blue eyes red-rimmed and hazy as if suffering through a high fever.

Halaseliax, as good as naming her Terendelev’smother, was instantly forgotten.

“Oh,Tee,”Galfrey murmured, stepping forwards even as the silver dragon in human form cringed back.

She was trying to make herself as small as possible, Galfrey noted.

Not that it was very difficult.

Dark, dirty clothing that her human guise practically swam in, as if she had recently lost weight she did not have to lose. Her silver hair was dull and unevenly cut, missing in some places like locks had been yanked out at the roots leaving scabs behind. Her cheeks were sunken. The bags under her eyes looked more like bruises. Justsittingthere on the pew, Galfrey could see tremors of exhaustion wrack her form.

“Your Majesty,” Terendelev croaked. “You didn’t have to - I mean - “ She started to rise from the pew, to bow or curtsy because even half-dead, vulnerable to any stiff breeze, Silvers adored their manners.

“Forget protocol,” Galfrey cut her short.

The dragon froze.

“In fact,” Galfrey said. “Iforbidyou from standing on ceremony with me.”

“I - I - I - In - in public and polite company, surely…?” Terendelev stammered. She licked her cracked lips, blue eyes darting around the small chapel as if looking for an escape.

It was a split second decision that was long overdue. “No.”

The Silver cringed again.

“Really, you act as if it would kill you.” Galfrey stepped forward carefully, as a druid would when approaching a frightened, hurt animal. “It’s been almost a year. You weremissed, dear one.”

Terendelev shuddered. Her expression crumpled.

Galfrey slipped into the pew beside her. Slowly, gently, she wrapped an arm around Terendelev’s thin shoulders. Those shoulders shook once.

Twice.

Then the girl all but collapsed into her side against the hard steel plate. Galfrey’s free hand came up reflexively to cup the dragon’s clammy cheek. The cold nose nuzzled into her palm as Galfrey hugged her closer, wishing she had the forethought to change out of her armor into something more comfortable.

“Allow me,” Halaseliax murmured. In an understated show of strength, the Gold tore Galfrey’s thick tangled cloak free from its steel fastenings and wrapped it around his student.

The girl felt like a baby bird in her arms. Shivering, weak and feverish.

The queen’s heart broke.

“There we are,” she murmured into the dirty silver hair. “There we are.”

“You shouldn’t have come,” Terendelev murmured brokenly. “I couldn’t - I failed. I’m notsafe.”

“Well, I don’t know about that. I feel plenty safe right now.”

Terendelev pressed closer. Her thin hands grasped at Galfrey’s armor as if they were still tipped with razor claws. A sibilant hiss. Bared teeth scraped over her jugular.“Areyou?”

Galfrey held herself still and relaxed. By her goddess’ blessing, she could heal herself through a torn out throat.

She’d done it before.

“I believe you are capable, and more importantly, willing to control yourself.” Her words came out evenly around the ball of ice in her stomach. “The dragon I know will settle for nothing less.”

The Silver hissed again. “The dragon you knewdiedin a squalid cave on the border to the Worldwound.”

“Did she?” Galfrey mused aloud. “Then I wonder why whoever it is I have right here bothered to try to warn me away.” The dragon in her arms trembled. “Could it be that she doesn’t want to hurt me?”

“But Idowant to,” Terendelev whispered.

Ah, Galfrey thought. She turned her head slightly, catching sight of golden eyes and a nod in her peripheral vision.

This was what Halaseliax meant.

Merely recognizable.

“And yet you still haven’t.”

“Don’ttemptme!” The Silver’s snarl shattered the peace of the chapel.

Out of the corner of her eye, Galfrey saw the attending cleric slowly rise from his seat. She held out a hand, halting him. Terendelev sniffed contemptuously, eyeing the man like he was a bloody steak she would love to tear apart.

But the dragon remained harmlessly curled into her side on a pew in a chapel devoted to Iomedae.

There was still hope.

Those dark blue eyes, the same shade as that of her father, the last prince of Mendev, looked up at her from under silver lashes.

Galfrey vividly remembered when that color was chosen.

Like many Silvers, Terendelev had defaulted to silver for her eye color. Unlike many Silvers, the girl quickly realized andcaredthat meeting her gaze was difficult for the lesser races. The predatory draconic instinct that kept her from being mistaken for a celestial-blooded silver haired Aasimar instead was not helped by the unnaturally bright color of her eyes.

The dragon had awkwardly asked forpermissionto use the same shade of blue as Galfrey’s own.

She denied it, of course.

Half in jest and half out of a desire to see what the dragon would come up with.

When it was her father’s eyes staring back at her from a hesitantly smug face, Galfrey realized what Terendelev had really been asking permission for.

Silver dragons. Silver eyes.

Dragons themselves were separated into subtypes bycolor.

It was too late to allow her the use of Galfrey’s deep sapphire eyes, but she could, and did, explicitly allow her to keep her resemblance to the Mendevian royal family.

Terendelev’s eyes dropped.

“Someone once told me, a wise and kind Silver dragon, actually, perhaps you know of her,” the queen said lightly to Terendelev’s watery, weak laugh. “That we crusaders werebeautiful.”

The Silver groaned and shrunk in age old embarrassment as the Gold snorted softly.

“I remember that.” Halaseliax teased.

Terendelev muttered something unintelligible.

“That even amidst our suffering, our loss and despair…we held onto hope. We gave our all for our loved ones, for the world. Out of compassion, out of duty, we continued on.”

“Duty is not enough,” her dragon murmured. “Compassion, sympathy, affection, all of it burns away. Justrage,”she growled. “Andhate.”

“Then do not think of it as your duty,” Galfrey offered. “Just don’t let the demonswin.”

The Silver went still.

“...yeeeessss.” The eerie hiss crawled up Galfrey’s spine. “I do not have to care.”The dragon rolled the words in her mouth, savoring them. “But that is no reason to let themhavewhat theywant.”

“Do good,” Halaseliax’s deep voice tentatively ventured with the air of someone hesitantly reminding another of something. “And it will not matter.”

If she was to be honest, redemption through sheerspitewas not the worst idea Galfrey had ever heard.

Or proposed.

“I will try,” Terendelev said in a small voice. Then she cleared her throat. “But not because I was ordered to.”

In spite of herself, Galfrey had to smother a smile. “I do not recall making it an order, merely a suggestion.”

“Because I want to.”

“Of course.”

The Silver grumbled a little. “...I’ll kill you last.”

“And voluntarily put yourself at the back of the line of all the demons that want to kill mefirst?”

“Good point,” Terendelev muttered sleepily.

Halaseliax’s exasperated stare bored into the side of her head.

Yes, she should probably aim to not make things worse.

“I will not give up on you,” Galfrey murmured gently. “So do not give up on yourself.”

Terendelev’s breath hitched.

Choked.

There were no tears.

The sun set and the light from the windows to the chapel darkened and died as they sat together. The old cleric lit the candles with murmured prayers to the Inheritor, the Light of the Sword, the Lady of Valor. She could repeat those prayers in her sleep.

She likely could repeat them whiledead.

Barely audible, came a guilty whisper, “You remember your oath to Iomedae?”

“Always.”

Galfrey smiled in bittersweet nostalgia.

It was strange, sometimes.

To remember that there were noble houses in Mendev that prided themselves ongenerationalworship of Iomedae.

When she herself had been alive for longer than Iomedae has even been a goddess.

Once, she had simply been the herald of the Living God, Aroden.

Then Aroden died and Iomedae took his place.

“No matter how arduous, no matter how dark the skies, no matter how much blood flows from my wounds, I shall stand with you.”

It was almost a bedtime story.

A bedtime story of a young queen’s faith and conviction, among the first to take up the banner of Aroden’s heir amidst the shattered promises. Back when the Age of Lost Omens and broken fate had begun, when the Worldwound had just opened, but she still believed. Saw victory against the demons of the Abyss on the horizon.

“We shall fight for our loved ones and our friends, for the right to live and die free. We shall do everything we possibly can, and after that, we shall begin to do the impossible.”

That had been some ninety years ago.

“...and if the hour should come when our arms can no longer raise our swords, our bodies will become a shield for those who still have the strength to fight. I, Galfrey, Queen of Mendev, swear this toyou.”

Over the years, familiar faces changed. Grew older, wrinkled and gray before finally becoming absent, replaced by new faces that became familiar.

Then grew older, wrinkled.

She stayed the same.

“This I vow,” she whispered.

Galfrey was one hundred and thirty four years old with all the strength and vigor of herself at twenty three. Her life is prolonged by powerful, expensive magics as a crutch, to keep Iomedae’s chosen paladin at the head of the crusade movement. Every close companion, comrade in arms, friend,familythat stood with her on the battlefield when the Herald of Iomedae blessed her was long, long gone.

So great was the need, that the simple fact that humans were not meant to live forever was disregarded.

It waslonely.

Her faith remained.

And a Silver dragon.

There was a slight tug on her armor.

“Again?” Was a quiet, childish plea.

The queen of Mendev rested her cheek against the top of the silver gilt head. “No matter how arduous, no matter how dark the skies…”

It was in the middle of her third recitation when she realized Terendelev had fallen asleep. As always, Terendelev looked painfully young asleep. Even as a dragon, her tendency to curl into a ball meant stumbling upon her was more adorable than intimidating. Her thin frame swaddled in Galfrey’s thick cloak and bird’s nest of silver hair was the image of a tired child.

With careful movements, she shifted the girl off her pauldron onto her legs. Her fingers picked through the knots and tangles of silver hair.

“Thank you,” Halaseliax said, heartfelt. “She thought her friends had abandoned her to suffer and perish.”

“We did not want to leave her. We just all wanted her to get better,” Galfrey murmured, working through a matted clump of silver hair.

“I thought of bringing her to the azata first,” Halaseliax admitted.

Galfrey raised two incredulous eyebrows. “That would have gotten one orbothof them killed.”

Her first cousin Countess Brenhild Arendae had seensomethingin the angel of Elysium all those decades ago, but in her experience, Braganon was best in very small doses with at least three days minimum before repeat exposure.

“I am aware,” the Gold deadpanned. “We will depart in the morning - “

“Back to thatcave?”Galfrey interrupted. “Let her stay here. The royal wing is private enough - “

“Not for a dragon throwing a tantrum,” Halaseliax said. “The minute she begins to feel overly burdened with a human form, shewillshed it and if I should need to stop her…”

Galfrey stifled a sigh.

Her first impulse was to insist and hope for the best, but her sense won out. It had taken nearly a year after that demon ambush for Terendelev to ‘only’ threaten Galfrey’s life instead of actually trying. Dueling dragons in her capital city would be a disaster.

“Look at her,” she said softly instead, carding through the silver hair. “She’sexhausted.”

“Our hearing is impeccable. Her lair and coin bed is far from here,” the Gold said warmly. “She would still have trouble sleeping, if she did not feelsafe.”

There was an almost painful twinge in her chest.

“I will have rooms prepared in the royal wing anyway,” Galfrey found herself saying. “For when she returns.”

When.

Not if.

“As is your right.”

“As hermother?”Galfrey laughed coarsely. She strangled her own voice when Terendelev stirred and kept quiet until she settled. “She is at least eight times my age.”

Halaseliax bowed his head. “That meansmuchless than you think.”

“Yes, I know.” She could only agree. A hundred year old elf was an adolescent. A hundred year old dwarf was on the far end of middle aged. A hundred year old human should have one foot in the grave. “Sometimes she is almost a thousand and sometimes she is almosttwelve.”

A confident, regal and poised woman when in her element.

An anxious, awkwardmessof a teenager when she wasn’t.

“The first time I saw her, she was in the main hall, looking as if she wanted tocollectmy crusaders, their armor, boots and all.”

“I had to keep her from wandering off before she actually managed to enlist,” Halaseliax reminisced fondly. “She didn’t evennoticeI was holding the back of her collar.”

He hadn’t even needed to look, Galfrey remembered. As soon as Terendelev started to move, fixated on some curiosity, a weathered claw had already been snagging her shirt.

“I called her child then.” ‘Dear one’ was a compromise. “I still feel that impulse whenever she is being irritatinglySilver.”

“I am guilty of that one as well.Constantly.”The Gold sighed. “For the exact same reason.”

“Which is ridiculous, as I know she has had children of her own.”

Halaseliax let out a long, drawn out sigh of resignation in response. “Teenage rebellion.”

Galfrey blinked. Weren't true dragons considered full adults at two centuries?

“Atfive hundred?”

“Yes.”

She snorted. “Well, we do have our fair share of encounters with headstrong Silvers. Sevalros - ” The Gold winced and she bit her tongue. “If it is any consolation, the Silver Collective reported no sign of him recently.”

Silver dragons were reclusive and isolationist as a rule. She has heard it said that Silvers in a territory could be ‘neighbors’ with another Silver they will only set eyes on once a decade at the local meet up. The Mendevian population of Silvers waged their own war against the demonic hordes of the Abyss, understanding how vital Mendev’s struggle was to the safety of the rest of the world.

A concept many of the bordering nations failed to grasp in favor of their own petty politics.

If she tried to run her crusader state the same way the Silvers governed their own, her army would rebel asone.

And they would be right to.

The sheer perfectionism she only received glimpses of from Terendelev boggled the mind. Mentors were assigned to younger dragons efficiently with signups, negotiations and numbered tables. Detailed, yet concise military reports on their efforts were submitted on time, every time with a precision she could set her clock to. Shift length measured inweeksof hyper vigilance and little rest or food. A dragon ‘officer’ and a dragon ‘grunt’ were divided only by responsibility. No difference in pay, privilege or luxury. Internal report cycles that expected one hundred percent participation with a recent referendum to makematingless burdensome to bolster their numbers.

To be a Silver dragon was to be meticulous, thorough and driven.

That did not make them callous or uncaring.

Every so often, news crossed her desk of the great lengths a Silver dragon went to for the sake of their friends. Right here in Nerosyan, under the watchful eyes of senior clerics of Iomedae were Silver dragon hatcheries. Part of their agreement with their nominal allies was keeping their young safe, even as their parents fought the demonic hordes. There were losses, even among their mighty comrades. So far, five haddiedin attempts to bring Terendelev’s wayward sworn brother and fellow student of Halaeliax, the Silver dragon Sevalros back from the Worldwound.

No egg ever went unaccounted for.

She was considering copying their rotations for mental health herself -

No egg…

“...she introduced herself only as being of Apsu’s line all those years ago,” Galfrey realized. At the time, she had been thoroughly distracted by the ‘rogue’ Silver wishing to enlist and fightwiththe crusaders instead of with her own kind. “That is not typical of Silvers, is it? Not with their record keeping and pride.”

The Gold dragon smiled. “Perhaps.”

There are no orphan Silver dragons.

Galfrey traced the shell of Terendelev’s ear. “Who is she?”

“Whoever she makes of herself.”

Her lips pursed. That was not an answer. “I see.”

The Gold held out cupped hands in surrender, but said nothing else.

She changed the subject. “It would be for the best if the tale of a corrupted Silver dragon overcoming her trials to regain her former purity was the one told.”

If she could learn to control, or at least tosuppressher curse…

No one else needs ever know.

It would be a private matter between Terendelev and the goddess, Iomedae then.

“And I will remove her from the front lines.”

“Your generals will not be pleased,” the elder dragon rumbled. It was not a warning. It sounded more like he was curious.

“I find myself not giving adamnwhat will please my generals,” Galfrey scoffed. “The same reasoning they used on me to keep me safe applies to her now. We cannot risk the conqueror of the balor lord, the Storm King.”

She was safe now. And must bekeptsafe.

They already almost lost her once.

This must be a taste of what dragons feel, Galfrey thought. To be both possessive andprotectivealmost beyond reason, ready to bare her teeth before the gods themselves, all for the sake of the hurt hatchling huddled underneath her wings.

Kenabres. The fortress she saved a decade ago would be ideal.

Terendelev was already fond of the city and its people were fond of her. They kept a broken claw of hers in their Estrod Museum, celebrated as a hero of the crusades and invited her to attend their festival parades as a guest of honor.

The Fourth Crusade was a disaster. She could admit that.

A decades-long slog of attrition accomplishingnothing she bollocked up at the start that soon the Church of Iomedae would call an official end to.

Their Silver dragon’s victory over Khorramzadeh, the Storm King, the only spot of hope. Morale was a resource like food or water and it was running dangerously low. Atriumphantreturn of their hero would lift spirits.

Terendelev would feel obligated and it would be for her own good.

A military promotion was dead in the water. An excommunicated paladin or cleric was to be court-martialed, not promoted. Even if any agreed to waive the need for a trial in recognition of her great deeds, it would saddle her with too much responsibility too quickly.

There were spare noble titles.

There was one she was thinking of.

The legalities would be…complicated.

But not impossible.

If none of the Silvers could be bothered to claim her, then Mendev would.

Shewould.

Halaselix looked at her dubiously, but his lips twitched in amusem*nt. He must have plucked the thought from the surface of her mind. Now she knew where Terendelev picked up that habit from. “My apologies, but, good luck getting her to agree tothat.”

“Headstrong Silvers, yes, I know. Don’t fret.”

Galfrey smiled softly down at the mess of silver hair on her lap. The lightly furrowed brow, pouting lips and slim fingers desperately clutching her crimson and blue cloak as if to ward away nightmares.

Terendelev.

TerenMendev.

“I will think of something.”

That had been fifteen years ago.

“Thank you, all of you. I expect to see you all tomorrow, but in the meantime, you may take your leave.”

“With all due respect, appointing this - “

“Viscount Thalun.” Queen Galfrey’s voice turned to cold steel. “You aredismissed.”

She watched the various members of her staff and council file out of the room dominated by the crude long table. It had taken three knights to bring this monstrosity in and she still wasn’t sure who decided she needed it, but it was here covered with her campaign map and reports.

One of those reports was picked up by a delicate hand.

“Prepare yourself,” the dark orange haired aasimar lightly said. “You will be hearing a hundred variations of ‘Galfrey, why’ for some time yet.”

“Allof you.”

“The royal advisor has been duly dismissed,” Opaline said calmly as she continued organizing the reports on the table before her. “Do you intend to throw out a friend as well?”

In the low light, the crimson tracks that ran from her molten eyes looked bloody and one could easily see how the Emberkin excelled in Cheliax where her other celestial blooded kin were persecuted as threats. It was a nation bound to the legions of Hell. Scions of the planes of Good were not welcome, however it was not Heaven's light, but Hellfirethat burned in Opal's veins from her Fallen angel ancestor.

“I am…not in the mood for your games, Opal.”

“I know,” she said softly. “That is why I am staying.”

Something hot burned behind her eyes and Galfrey lowered them.

The abandoned inn still stunk of smoke and blood.

Kenabres was in ruins. It would take years before the city resembled what it had been. The inn itself was half a building, a mostly intact northern section facing the outer wall of the defenses of the fortress city with the southern half crushed by a large chunk of what must have been the roof of the Gray Garrison. The local churches and temples were either thoroughly desecrated by their short term demonic inhabitants, or infirmaries and beds for refugees and crusaders. Galfrey turned down the invitation to use the church of Shelyn, the goddess of beauty, from a shell shocked Sosiel Vaenic, the last surviving member of the local chapter.

He would have to prepare his brothers and sisters in faith for burial. She had no wish to impose upon that.

Not when she wished she was able to do the same.

She looked tired, she supposed. They had just completed a forced march to Kenabres from Nerosyan as soon as the news came in of the attack, so looking tired was excusable. She had been right in the thick of it with each band of fleeing refugees her forces intercepted, cutting bandages and healing until her gift burnt out only to do it again the next day. She kept her hair in neat braids and her armor shined.

She was on the edge of falling apart, keeping herself together by keeping herself busy.

“You remember my interview, I hope,” Opal continued, slightly teasing. “I was hoping for a minor courtier position, only to walk into an office with the queen herself.”

Galfrey closed her eyes.

“You talked a dragon into going to a sewing circle,” Opal quoted. “It was a brilliant idea, she enjoys it and that look you are giving me right now, yes, that one. I like that about you.”

“How would you like to advisemein matters of state…” Galfrey murmured, finishing the small tale.

It had caused a small scandal in Nerosyan, as nearly every one of her decisions did nowadays. A former Chelaxian noble, from that kingdom of Devils, premier advisor to Mendev’s crown? To many, it seemed a sudden, rash decision. As far as she was concerned, Opaline was still being evaluated and tested ten years later.

She had nothing but time.

She had made a certain, resigned peace with it. She would live until the Church of Iomedae decided they had no more use of her. When that day came, and it would, she would have her successor prepared for the task of ruling Mendev. She was intimately aware that Opal was no saint, nor righteous by any stretch of the imagination, but she was intelligent and tactically-minded. A rogue with insight into the finer details of where the rule of Law fell apart.

Perfect for telling a Silver dragon what she needed to hear.

The queen Opal was meant to learn how to advise was not herself.

A gentle hand landed on her shoulder.

“What hurts?” Opal said simply. “When itshouldn’t?”

Without her permission, Galfrey’s mouth creaked open like a rusted hinge. “...whythem?”

“You haven’t even met them.”

And yet, shehatedthem already.

They could be a saint, a true god sent gift of generosity and selflessness with angel wings sprouting from theirf*ckingback and it wouldn’t change agodsdamnedthing!

Opal clasped her hands together in front of her. “Why them…and not you?”

“I would haveunderstood if it was me!”

It felt like she swallowed glass shards. Galfrey swayed in place, suddenly exhausted beyond belief. She slowly sank into her seat as if saying those words aloud had taken something more than air from her lungs to say.

“Do you haveanyidea - “ she cut herself off because Opaline always had some idea. “I don’t understand.”

Her mouth worked. The walls seemed to be closing in.

“Ido notunderstand. She blessedmea century ago. I have ledfourcrusades in her name, was the first to take up her banner as Aroden’s heir and it was this randomnobodythat was given immense power -” She held up a single finger high in the air. “Which theystill have!By the way! Performing a great bloodymiracleblowing to roof off the Gray Garrison, taking back the city from the demons, a complete and utterroutmeredaysafter it fell- “

Her voice broke.

Justdays.A little over a week after Terendelev’s head was separated from her neck, Iomedae saw fit to intervene.

Too late.

The shine to Terendelev’s scales returned with laborious effort, support and a rather frivolous anti-brooding reptiles law she did not regret. There had been whispers that the day when Galfrey had finally outlived her usefulness had been sooner than everyone thought and her replacement a shining Silver beacon who defied the Abyss' at every turn. She believed it herself. She had not cared. Her pride would never come before the wellbeing of her dragon.

Would that their goddess felt the same way.

She had been ready. And yet, when the dragon held her vigil to be re-established as a cleric of Iomedae, there had been no response. The day Iomedae rejected Terendelev for the secondtime was the day Galfrey saw exactly what it would take for the noble creature to finally give up.

For her best toneverbe good enough.

She did not wish to think that Iomedae left Terendelev, who tried so godsdamned hard, to die…

But it was difficult.

“What is this, Opal?” Galfrey looked up with one hand raised and a flash of golden, healing light surrounding it. “I am still her paladin. What does that evenmeannow? What did I miss? Where did I fall short? How did I fail?”

She could have understood if her goddess chose the only individual that couldpossiblycompete with a Silver dragon.

She chose neither.

She did not know if it would be better orworseif the hero of Kenabres hadn’t actually been chosen by Iomedae at all.

“Alas, I do not have an answer for you,” Opal admitted sadly. “Only such questions willpoisonyou, if you let them.”

“I don’t - “ Galfrey looked down at the table and with deliberate movements, petulantly shoved one of the report stacks off the table. The sheaves of paper fluttered to the ground. “I don’t - “ Her voice broke again and she could only hoarsely rasp, “They took herbody,Opal.”

She couldn’t even give her dragon a dignified burial.

She’d give her crown and throne both for just achanceto say goodbye.

It felt just like losing her father in Sarkoris all over again:

‘Here’s a new impossible crisis you have to fix, oh and, your family was just messily reduced by one and you didn’t have a lot of that to begin with.

Congratulations.’

A depressed kind of silence permeated the borrowed room.

The demons must have dragged it away to who knows what damnation. If she was fortunate, the dragon was being displayed as a trophy. If she wasn’t, they found a way to desecrate her sacrifice even from beyond the grave. Where would they have taken her? Drezen? It had a certain, twisted poetic sense to it. A trophy of the crusade's current hero displayed at the sight of its greatest failure.

“It should have been her,” Galfrey finally said. “She should have been here, in this room, accepting the position of Knight-Commander of the Fifth Crusade.”

Terendelev would have thanked her for the responsibility with thinly veiled panic in her eyes, but she would have donewonderfully.

That -washer girl.

“That was the plan,” Opaline said softly.

Demons lived to ruin those.

A celebrated war hero, the heir to the Mendevian throne, Terendelev would have had the full backing of her court and council. Now those preparations would have to be salvagedfor a complete unknown who may or may not be chosen by Iomedae in a blatant gamble to make something of this disaster and fill in the dragon-shaped hole.

She could not afford to waste precious resources and personnel on a random adventurer.

She was being uncharitable.

It changed nothing.

Nurah Dendiwhar, perhaps? A historian of the Worldwound could be of use. Terendelev had been slow to trust her, but that was true of most people.

And Terendelev was not here.

“There is a celebration planned in the Defender’s Heart inn,” Opaline offered. “Perhaps it would be best if you attended, instead of being holed up in here.”

“Put on a brave face?” Galfrey’s lips twisted unhappily.

“I was thinking in disguise, actually,” the rogue admitted with a demonstrative twirl of her hand, displaying and then vanishing a gold coin. “Sit in a corner with a mug of terrible beer and simply watch your people rejoice.”

That…did not sound too bad.

If she drankenough,putting on that brave face might even be possible.

“And then afterwards.” Opal looked at her with large molten eyes. “You will sit down with other parents who have lost a child to the crusades.”

That was it.

Something in the back of her throat painfully snapped and then hot tears were searing their way down her face. A wail rattled in her chest at finally,finallyhearing someone acknowledge what she had lost. She raised that girl, gods damn it! Helped her learn to live without wings, sent her to classes, answered her questions, soothed her fears, rejoiced in her triumphs! It was a child’s rightto inherit after their parents. She had never been a curiosity, a noble figurehead, a quaint friend or a - an irrationalill-conceived ploy to silence opposition.

A little over a week after her daughter's head was separated from her neck, Iomedae saw fit to intervene.

Too late.

She was supposed to besafe!

A gentle hand rested on her armored shoulder.

“I watched you two for ten years,” Opal whispered. “I know what I saw. And I amso sorry.”

“It was preposterous when her mentor said it.” The words tumbled out like broken slag from a shattered furnace. “Absurd. Then it was almostreasonable,accepted.”

“Then it was familiar,” Opal said. “Comfortable with no need to put it into words.”

And now there were no words left.

“I don’t even have a body,” Galfrey whispered.

Now there were no words left.

“Ah, Soot! Come back - !” The shingle under her foot gave way, her knee collided painfully with the edge of the roof and Ember had a moment of thinking, ‘Well, that’s not very fair. I’m an elf’ as she tipped backwards.

“Whoa there!”

A hand grabbed her wrist and pulled her onto the rooftop of the Defender’s Heart Inn. Ember blinked a few times, patted herself down and smiled up at her new friend.

“Thank you for saving me, Butterfly Mister!”

“Butterfly Mister,” her friend echoed with a familiar quirk at the corner of his mouth. “That’s a new one.”

“You have butterfly wings,” Ember said. Maybe he didn’t know about them? “They are very pretty.”

“Why, thank you,” he said and Ember clapped as he turned to show them off. He had two really big wings pointed up and four smaller ones pointing down, just like a butterfly. They shined blue and purple and green in the moonlight and seemed tosparklein time to the music pulsing through the roof under their feet.

Speaking of feet… “And you have fuzzy feet!”

“Paws,” he corrected her gently. “Like a lion. Rawr!” And like a very silly person, made claw motions with his very humanoid hands.

“And tall ears,” Ember told him. “Like mine!”

“Ayup. Bet you noticed the tail too.”

“I didn’t,” she admitted sadly. “But I noticed it now! It’s also fuzzy! And really short, can you make it bigger?”

“Ouch,” the man muttered.

“I did notice your hair,” she offered, feeling bad for hurting his feelings. “It’s pretty too.” Purple like jewelry. His tail really was short though, a bob really, like a bunny rabbit’s. Her new friend had bright blue eyes that matched his blue clothes, but his belt was green. He had feathers and a flute hanging from it that she pointed at. “Do you play?”

“I wouldn’t carry it around if I didn’t,” the nameless kind stranger said with that quirk to his mouth again.

Ember gasped, finally placing the smile. “I know that smile! You look like one of my new friends! He has a fancy title, so maybe you know him too?”

“If the title is ‘Count’ then you’ve got it the wrong way around,” the man said. “I don’t look like him, he looks likeme.”

Ember’s felt her eyes grow big. “Are you his dad?”

“Add a great and then a grand in front of that, kid.” Then the man frowned. “Or was it two greats? Three? It might be three. When was the Second Crusade again? sh*t.” Then he frowned harder. “You didn’t hear me say that last word.”

“It’s okay,” Ember reassured him. “You don’t have to be sorry. I heard a lot worse on the streets.”

“...oddly enough, that does not make me feel better.”

“Oh.” Ember muttered. “That doesn’t seem to make anyone feel better.”

“Wonder why…” he said in a funny, slow tone of voice she heard other adults use alot.

“I wonder why too,” Ember said solemnly.

The man palmed his face. “Note to self: Absolutelynosarcasm.”

“Why not?”

“How about you tell me what you are doing climbing up on top of roofs?”

“Oh!” Ember turned quickly, only saved by taking another fall by the quick hand on her collar. “Well, Soot led me up here. She usually does that when someone needs my help, but…” Ember squinted, but not even her eyes could locate the bundle of black feathers. “But she seems to have gone off somewhere without me.”

“The crow, huh?” The man seemed sad.

“She’ll come back.”

“She will,” he said confidently. Ember knew that already, but it was nice of him to say it too. “Here. Take a seat - away from the edge, thank you - and I’ll keep you company until Soot, was it? Until she comes back for you.”

It didn’t matter who or what he was, really, but he looked like one of the angels her dad talked to her about. Outsiders from Good planes that came down to the Material Plane to help, just because they wanted to when the gods couldn't. Ember had a sneaking suspicion that he was who Soot wanted her to help and he looked kind of sad, even when smiling, so she wanted to help him too. And maybe, he wanted to be helped? It didn't take very much for him to start talking, about everything and nothing, just the way Ember liked it.

Listening to people who wanted to talk to others was something she tried to do, because everyone deserved to be heard.

He was really silly though.

“Instead!” The elf looking man with lion paws and butterfly wings cried out, jumping up to his feet in the middle of his story. “She would only spit on him if he were on fire because he grew up a prickwith some weird crush on her uptight queenmother.She's super old? And they’re, like, second cousins or something. Who does that? Gross!”

Ember squinted up at her friend. “But you want your grandkid to marry your friend and they’d still be cousins too. How is that different?”

The nameless man sputtered. “Well, I mean, it’s like this, it would be kinda sorta, but no, it’swaydifferent because she’s adopted?”

Ember squinted further. "And she's a lot older than him too..."

His shoulders slumped. “Okay, look kid, donotcome at me with the logic. I will fight you.”

She clapped her hands over her mouth with a small gasp. She didn’t want to fight! “Sorry!”

“It’s alright,” he said indulgently. “You didn’t know.”

“I understand though!” She kicked out a leg and listened to the strains of music that had grown more chaotic and whimsical rather than any known melody the longer time went by. “You were just trying to look out for your friend, but it didn’t work out.”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “It didn’t work out at all.”

“I’m sorry,” she apologized again. “I’m not helping at all, am I? I’m just making you sadder.”

“You’re helping,” he said. “Trust me. You are. If you weren’t here, I’d just be brooding like a loser up here.”

“You’re not a loser for feeling sad about your friend,” Ember said, frowning. “It’s good to care. Sometimes caring means we get hurt, but we have to keep caring so that we don’t hurt others.”

His eyes shined wetly. “I’m - I’m being a jerk and Tee would have already rearranged my gut with her bony elbows…my name is Braganon.”

“I’m Ember!”

“Nice to meet you, Ember,” Braganon murmured gently.

“You lost her,” Ember ventured, because she had the sinking feeling that his friend wasn’t just hurt or missing or too busy and they hadn’t seen each other in a long time. “Was it when the demons attacked?”

“Right at thef*ckingstart!” He spat over the side of the roof.

It was a familiar story.

A lot of her friends were gone too. They were homeless, like her. So no basem*nts to hide in or guards to protect them or horses to run away on. She still doesn’t know how Soot guided her through the back alleys without getting caught, but it meant she could help others.

So she did.

“And it’s weird, because we’refriends.”He said it in a strange tone that echoed in her ears with a hand over his heart. “And, get this - wait, you don’t know what an Aeon is, do you?”

Ember shook her head.

“Uh, right,” he said, thrown. “They are like - you know those knights that patrol the streets to keep them safe?”

“Oh!” She smiled. “I know them! They keep the shops safe by chasing away all the ‘riffraff’ or take money when they think no one is looking so they can do their jobs properly and I’m not supposed to ever talk to one of them with the funny helmet and to run away really fast if he tried.”

Braganon stared at her.

“You help,” he said slowly. “You do help, but talking to you is also f*cking depressing.”

Ember pouted. “I’m not trying to be…”

“I know, just - “ He palmed his face again.

“Not all of them are like that, though! Some of them were really nice and gave out food and medicine on their patrols. One time -” Ember leaned in close and motioned for Braganon to share in the secret. He obligingly moved closer. “One time one of them offered to adopt me and everyone said she was a princess!”

Braganon’s eyes closed like he was tired. “Did she have silver hair?”

Ember blinked up at him. “So she really was a princess?”

“Technically.”

She hated that word. Was it yes or no?

“I don’t know why she offered. I’m nothing special.”

“It was for nice and not-so-nice reasons.” That didn’t explain anything at all! “She wanted to do something good for you.”

“But I’m an elf,” Ember protested. “So I don’t get sick and don’t need to eat as much as the other kids do. They needed her more.”

“And that’s the not-so-nice part. She’s -wasworking on it, but as an elf, you live longer. Just like dragons.”

Ember thought this over, tumbling it around in her head. “The other kids needed her more then.”

“Probably.”

“But I would need her for longer?”

“That’s right,” Braganon said softly.

“I feel bad now,” Ember admitted. “She was fighting with herself and it looked like it hurtlots.It scared me and I was doing fine on the streets, so I said no.” She tucked her knees up to her chest. “I could have helped her get better.”

“It’s not a good thing that you stayed on the street,” Braganon said. “But you saying nowashelping. It’s not the kid’s job to support the parent. It’s supposed to be the other way around.”

“But - “

“No buts.”

“You said it first,” she muttered and he laughed quietly. The kind of laugh that ended unceremoniously of someone feeling guilty for laughing in the first place. She didn't know what to do about that, so she just scooted closer. Beneath them, the broken city of Kenabres stretched out as far as the eye could see. The plumes of dark smoke from fires was finally gone, but it still looked devastated and it would for a long time yet.

Just like its people.

A cloaked woman late the party, a braid of blonde hair briefly showing from beneath her hood before she brushed it back marched with determined steps up to the Defender's Heart. She reached for the door, hesitated and glanced back and away before cracking the door open and slipping inside.

“Are you looking for an aeon to help you?” Ember asked after they sat in silence for a good long while, so long, her butt was getting a little cold and numb. “The special knights?”

Braganon huffed tiredly. “Special knights who serve this…thingwaaay out in space who really likes order and really doesn’t like it when things down here get f*cked - " He shook his head roughly. "f*ck, I need to stop swearing - get messed up.”

“Like demons everywhere?” She guessed.

“Like fffffreaking demons everywhere!” He crossed his arms. “One problem, there have been freaking demons everywhere for over a hundred years already.”

“My dad said I was born the year the Worldwound opened, so that meant I was meant to help.” Ember’s smile dimmed. “He died though. The crusaders got mixed up and thought we were bad.”

“That would be where you got those burns.” Braganon said in a strangled tone of voice.

Ember smiled down at the ropy scars that ran up and down her legs and arms and her missing fingers. “A kind knight got me off the pyre, so it’s okay.”

“It’s not, Ember. It’s really not.” He turned away. “Anyway, Aeons fix crap happening that isn’t supposed to happen. Over a hundred year old problem called ‘the Worldwound,’ no Aeons. So what I’m trying to figure out is why the everlovingf*ck - “

He flung out an arm in the same direction the hooded woman had looked. Towards the center of Kenabres, where the market square used to be.

A Silver dragon died there.

“After a f*cking century,did an Aeon only decide to show upafterTerendelevdied?”

He kicked at the roof.

“And what the f*ck did itdo?”He fell back against the roof, tears finally spilling down his cheeks. "What did it do..."

Chapter 15: Winterfell V

Chapter Text

"Great Apsu, the Fresh Water, Maker of All, the Waybringer and Exiled Wyrm, greatest of all dragons, god of Kingship and Glory, I humbly beg for an audience."

The statue continued to snarl at him, unimpressed.

Rhaegar sighed, dropping his hands.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Arthur suck the inside of his cheek as he ran a cloth over Dawn's milk glass white blade. No doubt arguing with it again. Ser Wendel Manderly of White Harbor meditatively folded and unfolded his white cloak, lined in Mendevian blue along the edges. The jingle of silver buckles and enameled scales played through the still air as Ser Oswell shook out his leg and resumed standing guard.

The Riverlander sighed. "Am I the only man still baffled that asking agodfor a bride can be done now?"

Arthur shrugged as he peered down Dawn's edge. "Durran Godsgrief and Elenei?"

"Historydoeslay precedent," Rhaegar intoned before giving Arthur a sideways glance. "Of gods attempting tomurdertheir daughter's suitors…"

His sworn brother shrugged apologetically.

Oswell looked pained.

"We fought an evil tree five days past," Wendel said simply as he folded his cloak once more.

They all turned to stare at the second born son of house Manderly in his plain boiled leathers.

Wendel raised an eyebrow as he met their gazes evenly. "TheSeven."He repeated. "Let mesmite.The Seven Hells. Out of. Aneviltree."

"That does not make this any easier to swallow," Oswell sighed.

Arthur snorted. "Swim with the current, fishie. Glub glub!"

The knight kicked snow at him.

It was a strange clearing within the godswood.

The oiled leather covered windows of the Stark's Guest House were dark pits in the moss covered gray stone of the walls. Beneath it, the small forest of the Old Gods lay sprawled. Three pools, red Weirwood leaves floating on their placid surfaces and the wisps of steam drifting off the water had given the clearing an otherworldly look long before Terendelev thought to ask Lord Stark for permission.

'In the Name of my Father, the Waybringer,'the dragon's voice ever so softly floated among the rustling of leaves as a memory. She had beenradiant, the wind playing with her silver hair and eyes bright with a joy that made his heart ache.'I, Terendelev, declare where I stand to be hallowed ground.'

A gentle, silver light lapped at Rhaegar's boots and broke into silver ripples. It welled up from the snow and moss and mud and stone as if he were standing in a shallow spring. Between the pools, a perfect silver orb bobbed in the air on unseen waves before the carved wooden shrine of a dragon and a direwolf keeping an unceasing vigil.

'Through his grace, may the dead find peace and trespassers theirjust reward.'

It was unsettlingly lifelike. Shaped with the meticulous precision of a master at her craft with each scale, tooth, claw and strand of fur carved into the light wood. One could see the wolf bristle in warning. The dragon had a claw raised and its weight shifted, as if it had paused in the middle of walking on by.

The wooden wolf held a proud stance with its head lifted above a broad chest, sturdy legs ending in sharp claws and a low hanging tail. Its head was raised and turned with watchful ears, a hint of fang and hackles raised. The dragon of the shrine radiated strength in its powerful chest covered in thick plates, feathered wings that ended in bone spurs, a segmented crest like a knight's helm around his skull parting for two vicious upward horns. For all that it was the larger creature, the dragon did not overshadow the wolf. Positioned behind on four legs, not looming over, a challenging gaze and a long tail wrapped protectively around them both.

The statue was lightly varnished, just enough to deepen the shadows and protect it from the ravages of snow, wind and time.

As he stared up into the dragon's exposed teeth, he pondered.

'Maybe He does not wish to speak to me, a lowly pilgrim unknown to Him,'his mind whispered, up to its usual tricks once more. The unwanted, intrusive thoughts.'What is one mortal, one little prince, one petty king to agod?'

He lowered his gaze and clasped his hands together.

His daughter accepted reverence, but never demanded it, preferring to be called by name instead of by titles. Would selfless Terendelev hold her Father in such high regard, were he so callous towards lesser beings?

He would not believe that to be true.

'Then why am I addressing Him as if I do believe it?'was the faint reproach, always sniffing within himself for signs of irrationality, of weakness.

Of madness.

Rhaegar closed his eyes.

"Apsu," he pleaded softly, hoping beyond hope that he was not making a mistake. "My name is Rhaegar Targaryen and I would ask for your daughter's hand in marriage."

A bitter cold wind blew.

It cut right through the fire in his blood, sending an unfamiliar chill down his spine as he opened his eyes.

The weak midday sun cast a harsh, moving shadow behind the dragon's horned head. It loomed over him, seeming ten feet taller. Its wings were no longer protective, but threateningly flared as it silently growled with grinding wooden teeth. He was pinned to the spot beneath its narrow eyed glare.

"I - " Rhaegar's voice cracked as every instinct begged him torun."Please, I…I am not a dragon, but surely a prince or - or aking -"

A memory overtook him.

He was in the library, as was his wont, but he was not truly reading. He had been staring at the same page for an entire bell, because he had not been there toread.

But to escape.

His father had an innocent woman beheaded, as if the wet nurse had aught to do with little Jaehaerys' death. Then he had been overcome with paranoia that his son had been poisoned rather than dying of a weak heart. He imprisoned his mistress. Rhaegar had overheard the news that her family was being called to account for her 'crime.'

He had been five and ten and knew well what that meant.

'Behold,' his mind hissed. 'The worth of a Targaryenking.'

"I am not my father," Rhaegar pleaded with himself. "There - and there was nothing I could do."

'Did I even try?'

Even if he had failed, had it not been worth trying? The King had them all put to the harsh question until they broke, confessing to everything and nothing at all just to make the pain stop.

It did not stop.

Not until they died there in the Black Cells under a torturer's skilled hand.

He had still been his father's only son and heir. He would have been safe to try, risking only humiliation, perhaps the stocks or being confined to his rooms. Even if he could not save them, even if he had only managed a noose or a headsman block for them, it would have been kinder.

He did nothing.

Shame curled in his chest.

The dragon statue snarled at him in disdain.

More memories began to surface, of his father's black rages and his mother's tears. Never focused on any grand suggestion, but the little moments.

On what he could have done.

When he could have stayed to comfort a servant, a hedge knight, a dock worker. When he could have volunteered his help for a courtier, petty lord, messenger, Kingsguard. When he could have made his position clear instead of disinterested ambivalence, letting men heknewdid not have the best interests of the realm at heart do what they will.

Tywin Lannister tarried in the attempt to free the King from the dungeons of Duskendale. Underneath his words of false concern for the King's safety and Darklyn's threats was a bitter, petty satisfaction.

Rhaegar knew.

He did nothing.

The King sat in Duskendale's dungeons forhalf a year.

Once freed thanks to the bravery of the Kingsguard, Ser Barristan Selmy the Bold, the King took the heads of not only Lord Darklyn, but the man's family. His wife, Serala, Aerys had burned alive after cutting her woman parts and tongue out. The Hollards, who kept faith with their liege lords, were executed one and all save for a single boy Ser Barristan had begged clemency for.

He had told himself that he was not responsible for the sins of others.

The statue agreed.

His sins were his own.

'I tolerate evil,'was the insidious whisper of his mind.'I would commit evil if I thought I had reason. Is a crown enough to make a half-mad apatheticboyworthy?'

"No," he croaked. "I - I amtrying,but I need - "

'Need?'

The shadow shifted on the wooden dragon's angry visage.

'I need the loyalty of lords. I need to be king. I need men. I need coin. I need answers. I need to learn my magic. I need dragons. I needthatdragon. I need. I need. I need.I want.'

Rhaegar swallowed thickly. He could have been earning that loyalty. He spent seventeen years as the prince of the realm. It's only prince. He squandered Dragonstone. He chased prophecies while the North and its legends of the Long Nightwere right under his nose!Terendelev would help him. Shewantedto help him.

Because it was the right thing to do.

He still wanted more from her.

Greed was unbecoming.

'Why do I want these things?'

To save everyone.

Rhaegar dropped his gaze, unable to look at the dragon's terrible visage any longer.

Why was he so invested in being the savior of the Seven Kingdoms when he proved disinterested in saving one person right in front of him, countless times? Could the people of Flea Bottom eat the music he played for them? Did the city stink less for his victories in jousts before cheering crowds? Were the laws any more fair for his niceties to the common folk?

It was not enough. He knew it was not enough.

He did nothing.

He scrabbled in the dirt for purpose when a treasury of worthy causes were refused for no other reason than their mundane nature. Worthy of a prince. A king. Not alegend.

Simple hubris.

(Jaehaerys - they all knew! Vipers, all of them, vipers! He would have been a worthy heir, he would - not this - this useless craven - I will have justice! I will - )

He shoved his father's bile away.

(Viserys. He will be Viserys! A good, strong name for - a strong son. For one that will live. Akinglyname. I named my first after his mother, a woman, you see, that - that was the problem.)

It lingered.

( - playing at war when you do not have the stomach for it. The piss and the sh*t, gutting the other man before he guts you - that's what war is, you fool -)

Half-wit.

Fool.

His father alternated between callous indifference, momentary pride and jealous, bitterdisdainof his eldest son. He could never be enough to dry his mother's tears, no matter how hard he tried.

The dead child was always of more importance than the living one.

Eventually, he stopped trying.

Deep down, deep enough that itbled,was the childish desire to beableto make someone like Terendelev happy. It selfishly grew every time she seemed startled by how much he paid attention toher,as if she expected him to be blinded by her scales forever.

Startled and - he did not believe she evenknewhow it made her smile.

If adragondeemed him worthy of her affection, then he was not broken.

'And then what?'His mind sneered.

Shadows played along the grooves of the dragon's wooden scales, giving it the appearance of having shifted in place.

'A happy ever after? As one of my precious songs?'

She was lost.

Alone in a land she knew not, surrounded by unfamiliar faces with strange tongues and customs. What could he give her?

'To whom would she turn to for friendship?'

Only Mance Rayder had ever drawn a full laugh from her.

What foreign queen could find true companionship in King's Landing? She alreadyhadfriends. A beloved mentor. Comrades in arms. Amortal mother. Her kingdomwas out of her reach. And the jealous twit that he was could only be glad to see the back of the man in black.

'With whom shall she share the skies?'

There were many things she did not understand about their ways. Refused to. Too much, too fast and she would disappear into the Wolfswood or simply…

Fly away.

She wasalone.

She learned High Valyrian with ease. It did not compare to the way she spoke the dragon's tongue for the youngest Stark, Benjen.

Like it freed hersoul.

Magic was in his blood, but he did notbreatheit the way she did. He did not look at a broken blade and think it a simple task towillit whole. He did not see gathering storm clouds and think a coming blizzard to be a matter ofpreference.He could not comprehend Death as a condition that could becured.

he almost lost arthur

No one did.

'I would have her fall down from her clouds to break herself upon these rocks -'

'No,'he thought then, horrified.'I just want her to behappy.'

'So do I,'was the miserable whisper.

Rhaegar's head shot up.

The statue was just a statue. A stoic, protective wooden dragon only a little taller than himself with its wings tucked in against its sides behind a wooden direwolf. Its expression was placid. Its jaw was closed, showing no teeth at all.

Rhaegar turned, disoriented.

"My prince?" Arthur called. His brows furrowed with concern as his purple eyes flickered to the others. Oswell was alert, but confused. Wendel was looking up at him from the ground. Had they not seen - had they not heard him speak - ?

Rhaegar's mouth opened. Then closed.

Of course.

He had asked a dragon god for Terendelev's hand in marriage.

It was not like her to carve the visage of her beloved Father as aught but strong and welcoming. The anger, the threat had not been another conjuration of his diseased mind. It had been a sign that he was unworthy.

The answer was no.

The prince walked away from the shrine on unsteady legs.

To his credit, Arthur realized what had happened immediately, rising to his feet. "We leave for the Vale on the morrow - "

He knows.

"WithLord Starkto seek the support ofLord Arrynpassing through the lands ofLord Tully,"he called at Rhaegar's back as he marched out of the clearing. Away from the cold gaze of dragon and wolf. "Dragons do not evenwedso it might mean nothing to her, Rhaegar, you do not have to -don't be rash - !"

He knows.

He was painfully aware that he could do nothing at all.

"Andour prince lost a bard battle against a Black Brother," Arthur quipped among the books and scrolls of Winterfell's library. Maester Walys was in his quarters, scribing records and letters, leaving them with the impressive collection of parchment already deemed irrelevant for the coming Others.

It was hard to believe those words. Those were the sort of words that a man could drown if he dwelled on them.

So he did not.

"If that can happen, there is little that cannot," Arthur continued.

It was Rhaegar's turn to sigh. He knew what Arthur was doing. "Please stop calling it a 'bard battle.'"

All three men around the table waited.

"And I did notlose,"the prince continued peevishly from behind his book, because knowing your older brother was trying to vex you did not meanhe did not succeed.

"We see fire all of the time," Wendel mused, running a gloved hand through his auburn locks and scratching at one of his sideburns by the door. "Jory's dancing plantswererather novel."

Oswell smiled nastily. "Much better than beingevil."

Wendel glared at him."Why was it evil?"

"Any tree that gives men therunsis evil and the Seven agreed," Whent said shortly.

"I'll not argue that," Arthur said cheerily. "Which is whysomeoneshould have thought to scout outthe creepy tree before burning it."

Rhaegar dragged a hand down his face.

"In our prince's defense," Wendel attempted to rescue him. "The last thing a reasonable person would expect the diseased tree you just set on fire to do isreach out to kill you back."

"Yes!" Rhaegar waved a grateful hand at the Manderly knight. "Thank you!"

Oswell jabbed a mailed finger at Rhaegar's nose. "We weretoldthat the grove wascursed - "

"When was the last time you took such a warning seriously as aught other than wives' tales?" Rhaegar hissed back. "When hasanyone?A century at least!"

And Lord Rickard f*cking Stark had not even batted an eye!

He completely understood why the Andals burned down all the Weirwoods south of the Neck. He had no trouble imagining they suffered through that nonsense, marched up to Moat Cailin, discoveredspidersthe size ofhorsesand wolves the size ofbearsand wisely gave up.

What kind of arse-backwards regionwasthe North?

Why did they not know thissooner?

Heavens wept.

And no one said aught about the North's underground caverns! He would have liked to have known about the underground caverns evil trees grow evil roots inbeforehe fell in one!

"You have been courting amagical dragonfor the past moon!" Oswell cried, throwing his hands in the air. "There arespidersthe size ofhorseswith - " The Riverlander clawed at the air around his head. "With afacethat can appear out of thin air! The Sword of the Morning canenchanthisswordwith theelements - "

"Lightning," Arthur volunteered.

Wendel raised a finger. "Can you not bespellmultipleeffects - "

"Lightning."

Dawn rattled in its sheath menacingly and that was enough of that. Dawn was now strong enough to overtly disagree with events, much to Rhaegar's chagrin.

Getting bit by a swordhurts.

"You undermine your own argument, ser," Rhaegar sniffed. "If I should have known a cursed tree wastrulycursed becausemagic, then - "

"No,"Oswell said.

So trying to sing the plant to sleep did not work. And he didnotappreciate crawling back to Winterfell, vomiting every ten steps, only for the dragon to patiently remind him thattreesdid notsleep.

Or have ears.

But what was hesupposedto do?

Set the enclosed space they were all in on fire?

"Strike it with aswordlike therest of us,"Arthur's smart mouth answered. "Or a fist," he amended with a befuddled grimace. "In Lord Stark's case."

Rhaegar crossed his arms with his best disappointed stare.

The Dornishman ignored him.

"That Willam's illusions were impressive," Arthur continued. "Rayderwasable to break a boulder in half, so perhaps there is truth to the horn of winter bringing down the Wall."

"And what would you call near setting the Wolfswood ablaze?" Rhaegar asked snippily. It was a reasonable question, because all the judges being Northerners meant they were sadlybiased,and there was no legitimate reason why singing badly enough that rocks break to make it stop wasbetter-

That was his jealousy talking.

Arthur slowly raised an eyebrow."Not winning."

Older brothers wereawful.

Or mayhaps that was just Arthur Dayne.

"Do you think Lord Arryn is doing the same thing?" Wendel spoke up, looking around at them with ocean blue eyes glimmering with rainbow light. "Not the - " He circled a finger in the air. "Contest."

"Bard battle," Arthur supplied, earning the Northern knight's exasperated look and Rhaegar couldstrikehim, by the Flames -

"IsTully?"Oswell froze in his seat with realization. "If the Seven are blessing knights in their name throughout the Seven Kingdoms…" He looked at the Manderly knight, before softly finishing, "It could cause chaos."

Ser Wendel, the dragon's sworn shield, smiled tightly.

The light of the Seven shone brightly on Ser Wendel Manderly after the Stars Fell.

His older brother, Wylis, their father's heir was unchanged.

Lord Wyman Manderly's second born came to Winterfell with disturbing, fractured rumors from across the Narrow Sea. Of Volantis in flames, abominations rising up from the mazes of Lorath, chaos in the Dothraki Sea, the silence of the Iron Bank as a blood-soaked madness descended upon Qohor…

And the quiet, unshakeable confidence of a man who knew he was blessed.

The Sevenchosehim. Another god's daughter had beenthrilledto learn of his gifts and would see him trained in them.

Yet he would exchange his cloak for the white of the Kingsguard, or if he had been refused, the black of the Night's Watch before he threatened his brother's seat.

Ser Wendel Manderly had more honor in his little finger than many knights Rhaegar knew.

More than knights he had knighted personally.

More than himself.

"More than that," Arthur gently murmured. "What if it were not just Stark? The blood of the First Men kings runs through many a house. Mooton, Mallister, Bracken and Blackwood - "

"Hoster's heir, my nephew is a boy ofeight,"Oswell muttered into a hand.

Left unsaid was if houses that could boast more men, more wealth, more land, a longer history than the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands received sorcerous talents, monstrous beasts or blessings from the divine.

But Edmure Tully grew to be just a man.

"That would complicate matters, would it not?" Rhaegar murmured. "Merely promising to uphold Aegon the Conqueror's elevation of Lord Tully could be reason enough for other Riverlands lords to refuse me."

"There would have always been those grasping to improve their fortunes," Arthur said, but there was a troubled wrinkle on his brow all the same. "All the more reason for the progress to better know the situation. Lord Arryn has a strong hold on his lords, but the mountain clans…"

"Heavens forbid the f*ckingFreys…"Oswell moaned, adding a second hand to his face. "Please no f*ckingmagicweasels…"

Wendel huffed and turned back towards the hallway as guard.

Rhaegar returned to his book.

Stark hardly needed his help to command his lords. A lord that needed such assistance might prove himself a constant thorn in the Iron Throne's side. Much as his forefather Aegon the Fifth needed to quell repeated rebellions in the Westerlands under the weak rulership of then Lord Tytos Lannister. Mayhaps Tully would prove unfit to be Lord Paramount. Mayhaps the problem would solve itself by the time he arrived.

He could do nothing.

"Your grace," Ser Wendel simpered. "You are a vision of loveliness today."

He spoke the truth.

Most of her silver hair fell loosely save for twin braids that framed her face. She wore a slim gown of glittering silver scales with a Mendevian blue skirt, a sash of white crossed her center, pinned by her collar with a small golden sword pendant. What he would not give for the colors to be red and black, but she would be beautiful in rags.

"Youwoundme, ser." Terendelev answered coolly as she brushed past him into the library. "Has there been a day when I have not been so?"

Rhaegar smothered a smile.

Ser Wendel surrendered and turned to the prince with an exasperated sigh, "I was wrong. She isalwaysthis difficult."

"To compliment?" He gave himself a safety net."Yes."She wore her vanity openly. "There is a trick to it, however," he pushed ahead before Terendelev could get a word in edgewise. "If you wish to flatter a dragon, tell her something she doesnotknow."

There it was.

The startled, soft and nearlygratefulsmile.

It was gone too soon.

"Bards,"she muttered fondly as she slipped into the seat across from him. The beginnings of her cruel smirk lifted the corner of her mouth as she addressed her knight. "You act as if I do not hear you cursing me toeachof the Seven Hells in the yard, ser. Icanmake your training worse."

Ser Wendel flushed and straightened, turning back around. "That - ah, will not be necessary, your grace."

Arthur snorted.

He choked on it, pounding his chest, when the dragon's purple gaze sought him out with a raised silver eyebrow."Yourstoo."

Oswell snickered.

"I… am glad to see that you returned, Teren," Rhaegar began uncomfortably as she picked a book from the small pile on the table. "Before we set for the Vale."

"I gave you myword,"was the dragon's even response. "The matter of the Ironborn's slaves still troubles me," she admitted and he bit down on the urge to say they were merely 'thralls.' Her eyes flashed towards him, as if she knew what was on his tongue. "I will accept the need to handle that matterlater."

"Later," he offered quietly.

The Lord of the Iron Islands, Quellon Greyjoy seemed open to compromise. And if he was not, a dragon had a way of changing one's mind.

"Once we have the legal authority." A tension seeped from Terendelev's shoulders. A ravenous gleam in her eyes tucked away as she smiled gently. "Later."

He let out a slow breath and listlessly turned a page.

"Your mother seemed a sad woman," the dragon murmured as she settled into her sturdy, ironwood chair, flipping open her chosen collection of Northern sagas

"What?" Rhaegar looked up, frowning. "When did you meet my mother?"

She looked up from over the hard leather cover of her book with her eyebrows raised.

He backpedaled immediately.

"Not that I am doubting your assessment, or accusing you of aught - " He rethought his trajectory. "You certainly do not need my permission to travel wherever you please, I apologize for the presumption."

He crossed his toes.

"...she seems to be under a great deal of stress," Terendelev said slowly. "She has not been sleeping well and could stand to eat more. Isuspect."Her head tilted towards him questioningly. "That there are some faded bruises she is very aware of."

"Oh," Rhaegar said.

The correct answer wasasking after his mother's wellbeing.

"Oh," he repeated softly. "I…apologize, my mother has been sad for quite some time, so it failed to -"

Failed tomatter?

Failed to deserve his attention?

"What I mean to say is that many have expressed that sentiment - " And what has he ever managed to do about it if so many were concerned about thequeen?"My father has always - " Deflecting blame again. "I am sorry, I - "

There were no more excuses.

"I am sorry."

Terendelev closed her book. "Rhaegar. Why are you apologizing to me?"

"I…" His lips twisted into a bitter smile. "It is one of the few things I am good at doing." As was turning every subject to be about himself. "Is there aught I can do for her, do you think?"

"...she is a contradiction of pride and humility which leaves me uncertain," the dragon allowed with a sideways look at him. "I told her to seek you in the Vale if she had need." Her head tilted in that avian manner that did not necessarily indicate confusion the way he had once thought it did. It meant she was weighing her words. "I thought it prudent to inform her of our courtship." Rhaegar's stomach sunk down to his knees as the godling shrugged one shoulder. "She was supportive."

"Yes," the prince murmured. "She would be."

He sent the Starry Sept a letter of his renouncement of the Faith, but thought nothing of leaving his mother alone to his father's fickle mercies without so much as a 'by your leave.'

Faded bruises.

His eyes squeezed shut.

This was why her father thought him unfit.

A light touch on his arm opened his eyes. Terendelev's indigo gaze was eyeing him with concern as she pulled back her hand. "Rhaegar, what is troubling you?"

Because he was.

"I believe - " He was speaking with shards of dragonglass in his throat. "It would be best…if our courtship was…" He swallowed and looked away. "If I released you of any obligation towards me."

Terendelev startled."What?"

"I can explain it to Lord Stark!" The words tumbled out of his mouth quickly. Hehadto be able to explain it. He was good at apologies. "I can think of something - "

She held up her hand and he stopped talking.

"Arthur." Terendelev bit out with silver eyes and slitted pupils in a face full of lightning as she pointed at the prince."What isthis?"

"Prince Rhaegar asked your father for your hand," the Sword of the Morning dutifully replied, none of his misgivings on his face. "Apsu rejected the suit."

Terendelev sat up in her chair like she had been stung. Her silver eyes narrowed dangerously, a hard, violent glint in them that was shockinglyuglyon her. Her gaze slid to the side, seeing through the walls of Winterfell's library.

"Oh,didhe now?" It was a sibilant hiss. "Where did he get the notion that he hasany right - "She stood up, smoke escaping her lips in a wisp. "Rhaegar, I did not tell you to ask, so you are beingstupid. Consider yourself fortunate that I need to talk to the bigger fool that is myrusting Father first."

She turned on her heel.

Wendel shot them all a panicked glance as he followed her out of the library.

"Youhadto do it," Arthur said flatly.

"Let us ensure the godswood remains standing," he muttered instead of dignifying that with a response.

He was undeserving. This was for the best.

They caught up to her in that godswood clearing, having a staring match with the wooden shrine. With an outstretched hand, she called a muddy stone to her hand which she placed on top of the wolf's head.

"You are not getting a proper offering," the dragon said flatly. "I am rebuilding my hoard. I know you know how important that is." A thin, cold smile spread across her face. "And if my presence here wasyourdoing, then you cannot complain because it is alsoyour fault."

The weak midwinter sun slipped behind a cloud, casting a long shadow on the wooden dragon.

"Thank you for saving me," she allowed softly. "But the way you did it also makes you anass."

Oswell spluttered behind him.

Arthur leaned in. "Is this a prayeror a whinging family - "

Terendelev turned her head, frowning.

Arthur shut up.

"Thatbeing said."She turned back to the statue. "We do not let you talk to novice devotees of the Platinum Band for areason."

The shadows lifted for a moment.

"This is that reason,"Terendelev growled and the wooden dragon was shrouded in darkness again. "Youknowif the boy was a dragon who knew he was discardingme,I would have torn his head off andshat down his neck."

Oh.

"I have not done so," she snarled, "Because he is not a dragon and youoverwhelmedhim taking liberties you do not have the right to!"

A cold breeze picked up, scattering a handful of evergreen needles across the shrine that suddenly seemed smaller against the moss covered wall of Winterfell.

The dragon of silver reluctantly softened slowly, the silver light fading from her eyes to return them to the clear, precious indigo.

"...Rhastwyr wasmy choice,Father. We may have failed each other, but my only regret is that I was not enough."

The sun playfully peeked from behind the clouds.

Terendelev blanched.

"I regrettwothings, you lecherous - why were you evenpaying attention to that?"She held up her hand. "Do not answer that. You do not interfere with other dragons. We both know every color but Gold would have rioted if you tried. I do not understand why you chose to intervene withmine. Claws offmy things."

Some stray needles slipped off the wooden snout, catching on some of the scales in a crooked smile.

Terendelev gave the statue a suspicious look, but turned away.

"And as foryou."

Rhaegar gulped.

"I believed we had anunderstandingabout what our courtship meant,"the dragon purred in a low, growling tone. "One we informedLord Starkof when he was offered the position of Hand of the King. I agreed to foster Benjen inKing's Landingin theRed Keepin exchange.Every lord that visited Winterfell was told. I just told you I informed your mother. Ser Wendel is to leave my service for the Kingsguardafter thewedding, instead of the Night's Watch or risking Oldtown's interference in White Harbor through him, did we not agree to that?"

Rhaegar opened his mouth.

The look she gave him could have melted castle-forged steel.

He closed his mouth.

"So I will speak very, very plainly." He took a small step back when she stepped in close. "I will be your queen. Yourmiserablelittle kingdoms will bemineto defend." She was close enough to kiss as her voice went quiet and threatening. "And you willneverstain my honor by making aliarout ofme. Do you understand?"