The Wall
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 -
get up. 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. Nothing comes out but air and blood
- I am to protect! Her being rebels against her nature, a familiar struggle. 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, but she does not refer to her mysterious return from death.
She thinks of decades 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, one of the gold 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 -
Iomedae, the Inheritor, when did I lose your favor? Nor the god that fathered her -
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, is it?
She stills, for it is true. She blinks her eyes open. This is no place of judgment. This is not the abode of devils nor demons. 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 the planes had twisted noble divine Dou-Bral into the cruel god Zon-Kuthon -
I would have been lost, utterly, if I were allowed to remember. 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 fucking
run.
Fucking 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 fucking
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.
Aemon looked as though they were discussing his own execution. "Perhaps it can be," the old man whimpered. "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, shit.
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 fucking 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 fuckin' 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 cunt. 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 fucking
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 fuck'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 the sale of furs and herbs for a bit 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, fucking time, but
that was when the absurdity of it all hit him. First, every weirwood in the fucking North started bleeding. The stars got tired of being up in the sky and then he was woken from sleep by a fucking
ice dragon attacking the Wall.
He was selling it.
What was fucking next, grumpkins for a few silver stags? Snarks for a groat?
Ice spiders? The fucking Others?
Desmond sighed.
The fucking shit 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 cunt that rode it.
He was starting to rethink that opinion.
Aemon gave him a
look.
Desmond sighed once more.
The
fucking shit 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
fuck 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 fucking
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.
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 shit, 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 fucking 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 cock.
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 bottles 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 amusement 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.
Fucking Valyrians.
It 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 amusement 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 fucking '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 fucking 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 fucking
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
fuck." 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 fuckers 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 cockless, I will take a hand." And wonder why you bothered. "Pack this shit 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 cunt 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.
Fucking
stupid.
AN: Hello, I'm back. Unmedicated ADHD is hell. AUoS Tuesday. Hope this one is good too.
