AN: Reminder, Terendelev's clumsy wing-arms apparently can't roll a fucking d20 dice to save her fucking
life so she's still Chaotic Evil from last chapter. She proceeded to fail her morality rolls 3 more times this chapter (for a total of 16 fails in a row) before a success, but luckily everyone else knows
how to fucking play table top Pathfinder.
The Far North II
"Are you…" Mance Rayder begins incredulously and she tenses.
"Brooding?"
"I am
not."
The fire in her blood flares at the defensive note she
hears in her voice. Her first instinct is to
burn the cause, but -
I have 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 simmering
panic and the curious
love-hate welling in her chest down.
It should be a simple decision. She will sacrifice herself for no one.
Not again.
But if
Father was truly the one that wished her to save -
enough, stop thinking about it!
"We
are heading 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 amusement 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 was
new and -
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 it
does.
"You're
certain?" 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,
that is 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 been
forbidden - " She clicks her teeth at the amusement 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.
The
entire Silver dragon Collective of Mendev.
A
hypocrite of an inquisitor, four ignorant royal councilors sticking their large noses
into her business, the
rusting craven of a Gold Dragon she had the misfortune of calling a mentor and the aggravating Azata angel she
really should have let
die that 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 she
could not have that.
Mance eyes her. "You have a
queen?"
"No," she says sharply. She does not
care what 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 gone mad?
It no longer matters.
She died.
Terendelev stops abruptly. Mance stops with her, raising his eyebrows in a silent question. She grimaces.
She
died.
…
and she now distinctly remembers the Second Crusade amendments to Mendev's inheritance laws regarding
proof of death and
resurrections - Apsu's shriveled balls, I'm still her legal heir!
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 a
favor.
A demon invasion had overrun Kenabres and the Wardstone was destroyed. A Fifth Crusade would have been called, she is sure. They would not have the
time to 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 gets herself painfully murdered. A sneer curls Terendelev's lip, her
hate stokes with disdain -
better yet, the demons might win and there will be no Mendevian throne to inherit at all.
"I do not
have a queen," she insists.
"Uh
huh."
She whirls on him, stepping right into his space to growl, "I do
not - "
Mance's wide eyes flicker down towards her mouth. Rage
ignites. Blood rushes in her guise's ears as she
burns at the
disgusting presumption -
you worm! It is the horror blooming in his own expression that saves his
worthless life. It is the turn of
greed in her chest -
ally want want want that makes her realize she is being a hypocrite. She is still
furious, but being lusted after is no great burden, surely? She should be used to it by now.
Of course he wants her -
I am perfect.
"Ah," she says, low and intent. She allows a slow, creeping smile instead of tearing out his throat. "I
saw that, Mance. Regretting an
oath, are we?"
He tries to push her away and ends up doing far more to push
himself back. 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. Amusement bubbles in her throat at his pained grimace. She
did warn him about the haste.
He is fortunate he didn't kill himself running into that tree.
"What's
wrong with you?" Mance snaps.
Her amusement withers. "I beg your
pardon?"
"You heard me," he bites out. "Since when do
you fucking
tease?"
"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 to
attack him? She almost laughs. The sword may be enchanted, but he cannot truly stop her -
if I want him.
She considers the thought.
He is not strong enough to resist her and is
injured - weak. Mance is
hers just as her silver coins are hers. He is not a slave -
slavery is anathema but he does not need to be one to be punished or
rewarded. 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 burning
hate dims into
fear. Risking a
halfbreed? 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 it
is. She is superior to
every being 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 still
burns, but it is simple want. A hunger to
own that 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 she
already has, what would it even
accomplish -
something is wrong with me.
She feels unclean.
"Your choice." She does not have it in her to feel offense at his rejection, just
relief. She hastily takes several more steps back, preparing to leave and not wanting to even
think about -
"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 almost
fond flicker 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 nothing
troubling 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 fucking believe you."
She despairs -
he's too similar to Braganon.
That Azata never shut up either.
"If you needed assistance with your
suicide," 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 -
bows and
bronze. She decides in an instant. The black brother lives. 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 her
vomit even as it is somewhat comforting and unspeakably
gratifying.
She
does own him.
It does not take long for her to pinpoint the location of the wildlings. A deaf and blind
wyvern would notice all the racket they were making.
"A fuckin'
tree fell over - "
"I
said - " 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 fookin'
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 can
see what she
hears. The wind tells her of a frozen creek and she adjusts her approach. She raises a hand and pulls at the air again, at the
water in 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 are
trespassing and they will learn what becomes of those that trespass against a dragon. They will learn it
well.
She
could just walk right at them, retaking her true form and flatten the entire forest in her wake.
But where was the
fun in
that?
Even dragons enjoy a little challenge every once in a while.
He was fucking lost.
Mance bit his lip as he tripped over another root in the cold, wet haze. The fog had blown in and it blew in
thick. 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 fucking stayed where he was like she ordered him to instead of stumbling after the dragon. Instead of
still stumbling after the dragon.
Who was likely fucking
possessed.
Or cursed or some utter magic shit by whatever she found in that fucking 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. Less
everything. 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 battlelust, 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, it
will bite given reason. Had she been telling the
truth? Was he just fooling himself? Did he have the
right to feel
pained at 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 was
cold. He had no supplies or a tent. The dragon had pulled a priceless Valyrian steel sword out of her fucking
ass, but he couldn't eat steel.
He couldn't see
where the 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 fucking 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 potential prey. "Got
lost?"
He can't fucking
trust the 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 was
too close. She smelled like fresh blood. "And I'm
injured."
"A fair assessment." It was more than fucking
fair. He glared at the dragon and to his surprise, 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's
tamed dragon." He was reminded of his request that she
not avoid them
vigorously. "There were twenty one of them." The pull of her lips flashed teeth.
"Were."
The fog was hers. She could banish a snow storm and direct the winds. A little mist was nothing. The great beast preferred visibility, but she did not
need it. 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?
"Got
lost, did they?" He asked.
"Very," the dragon replied gleefully. "One by
one." She glanced over him and he held himself still as she developed a slight pout. "It
is about 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."
"This is why I like you," the dragon said with a sincerity that chilled his blood. "You
understand."
She pulled away and he remembered to
breathe.
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 the
precision of twisting a head near clean off, but leaving the spine exposed and
unbroken through 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 the
fear of one into 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 fucking
mad.
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 fucking shadowcat as big as a horse came into sight along a monstrously large boar covered in a bone like armor. The second snow bear of
normal huge size was almost a relief. Was this what awaited the Watch on Rangings
now?
"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 almost
hopeful light that shone in her deep purple eyes.
It was a look that said she hoped they
tried.
"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 the
fuck? "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 fuckin' whore, 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.
Very dead 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 you
got?" A threatening jab of a crude spear. "Bring it out so I can tear it apart!"
The great beast smiled. "A
dragon."
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 not
believe me?" The dragon
purred, 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 tribe.
One."
The wind
roared.
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 fucking mind because he
laughed as 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 choose
one."
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 could
swear some of the trees were
moving, 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. 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 reason
why - it tastes a bit like pork. The logic failed her. She could bite them in half, but could not swallow what was
already in her mouth?
What sense did
that make?
She certainly was not going to risk ingesting
demons, nor their cultists. That had nothing to do with morality. That was just not being
stupid. Who
knows where 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 and
surges -
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 her
rises in 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 is
running - enough! Burn!
A pillar of flame bolts down from the sky. For lack of a better target, she calls it down on herself.
It hurt
just as 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. She
feels it. She sees
red. Her blood
boils. 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 fuck's sake!" The
dead man bellows. "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 is
satisfying. 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 longer
resistant to ice.
She nearly trips over her paws dodging the next ice blast -
the ice spear she remembers. She over focused on the slaver and
forgot about the
rusting ice spear - she yelps as a solid chunk of snow breaks on her shoulder. It
stings. 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, 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 as
crash into 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 the
last 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. 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 said choose and they did not.
She feels as if she had been dumped into an ice cold lake. The fire in her blood gutters out -
the choice was my generosity for she had always planned on keeping one alive to spread the
message.
That - she can barely comprehend how
cruel that decision was
. Why did she -
this is not me.
She recalls clearly that it
had 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 as
exhausted as she feels. She reaches for the
hate, for the
rage because she is - she is so
cold and
tired without 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 fuck was
that?" The wildling spits instead, bristling in offense that his killer changed her mind.
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 said one 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 considering
eating them. She feels sick -
I never - I did not want - She wipes her mouth. And wipes and wipes and
wipes and wipes but the white snow is always turning
red and she will
never 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 wipes her face. "You had me fucking
concerned for a bit, woman."
She cannot even recall the last time she slipped so badly, not since the infection had been
new - something is wrong with 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 cannot
tell him she considered using lust to make him
hurt. She wants to
weep.
"I'm
right here!" The wildling interrupts.
Mance groans. "You
had to 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. Fucking
why?"
"Don't fuckin' start with
me, crow - " This 'Tormund' wildly waves his arms. "Why am I still
alive!?"
"Why are you fucking whinging about
that? You
mad?" She does not speak. She presses her muzzle into Mance's cloak as he starts arguing with Tormund over her head.
Mine. The thought
sears. 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 is
tired.
" - still keep Guest Right, don't you?" Mance's mocking voice brings her out of -
did I fall asleep?
"Of
course I do, you
fucker - hold."
"Seems to me - "
"I said fuckin'
hold, crow!"
"Then that's a problem solved! This here's an
honorable dragon." Her throat closes on a whine -
no no no no.
"...that is a
wolf."
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 it but she does not say a word.
"Oh, so that scream came from the
wolf then," 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 to
crows - "
"I think you are the
lone survivor 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.
"Fuck." He turns his back to them, grumbling quietly to himself. "Tormund Dragonsbane - I can be bane of
two, wait, didn't kill it, shite
buuut that ain't
needed ain'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.
"I swear this on my Father's name."
Tormund squints. "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 shite - " The wildling abruptly turns on his heel and starts stomping away, shouting. "The
dragon is a
woman and a
wolf that spits
fire from the sky and god get and I am fuckin' 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 Hear
Pra-yers?'" he says, voice cracking in disbelief. "Your father is a
god?"
She buries her head under her paws.
She
cannot.
She trots after Tormund.
"Don't you ignore me, woman! Your
father is a god." Her ears twitch backwards, but she does not answer.
"Your father 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 it
finally 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."
It 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 praying
hard."
"Can you even grow old?"
"You said all your magic comes from your
birthright. That includes the weather changing shit, yeah?"
"Wait, how fucking old are you anyway?"
"And then one day a
dragon god decided to fly forth and shack up with a miller's daughter and - "
"I am
pureborn!" 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.
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.
Hatchlings are
precious and bloodties 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.
Except for hers.
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 the
balls on that queen of yours?" It is not virtuous of her, but it was a
relief when 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 shit that's
calling me," he spits, twisting and she gently pushes him back against the tree with a finger.
"Please stop 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 trust
her. "When were you going to tell me that you have a punctured
lung?"
"And a fucking 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 make
your own injuries worse' because she does have
some notion of appropriate bedside manner. The look he gives her suggests he hears it anyway and 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 and
death.
It is familiar to her and it is no longer faint ambient magic. It is almost a
physical taste on the wind, far, far stronger than what she was capable of detecting at the Wall. What was
causing it? Will it keep getting stronger the further north she travels? Towards the Land of Always Winter?
'Winter comes,' 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 towards
wellbeing!"
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 with
silver.
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 she
will find a way to bring him back if he dies would be welcome. 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
life going 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…
something alcoholic. 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 a
look. "No lip and
don't ask."
The bread is broken in half and offered. It is coarse and gritty and
tastes 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 just
magic crows, 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 with
my life, 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 -
I have been taught better than to murder retreating foes.
"If any man tells you that killing it will be simple, know him for a
fool." He meets 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.
'The rot comes. The bleed comes. The flame comes. The void comes. Winter comes.'
"And death with it," she mutters. Save for the last, nothing comes to mind of what the direwolf could have been referring to. They
might be calamitous natural disasters -
would that I were so lucky.
"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. "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 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 darkness. Entire kingdoms prepared for it, calling it by different names, the First of the Last Humans, the Golden Age, the Great Promise…"
Mance hums. "This has something to do with you, I take it."
'A beast can do as it likes,' the bronze, wind and
blood had 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 been
fine. "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 like
this and says
'run.'"
"Was to be?" Mance asks with dread in his voice.
"Well, fuck me running, says I and I
leg it, tossin' ice o' my shoulder, whoosh, whoosh! Duckin' and weavin', trying ta lose it among the trees and then it
pounces!"
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 to
me, but I gave as good as I got, har!"
"Was to be," Terendelev says faintly. "The appointed year came. The month. The day. The
hour."
"Call me Tormund
Dragonsfoe!"
"Then Aroden
died."
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 simply
failed to come to pass.
Fate itself had broken.
She would be entirely unsurprised to discover that it had affected more than just her 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. An equilibrium was regained, eventually, full of lost hope, violence, bitter dreams, abandoned faith and a long trail of shattered promises. Aroden's herald, Iomedae 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.
'You died.'
'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, for
pontificating.
There was a charming saying 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? No matter the titles, names or roles others wished of her, she is, above
all else, a
Silver dragon.
She was made to be glorious.
