The snow and cold helps, but the answer is poorly. It hasn't been mentioned directly yet, but is the reason why she is a 'late riser' because she is sleeping in fits and her insomnia as she said she was just going to go flying during the night and leave Mance to sleep with Tormund.
Might there also be issues with where she gets her (new) spells from?
I'm assuming that even though she's a sorcerer, not a wizard, she's got a certain knowledge of magic, in theory and practice, acquired over her lifespan. But, can that translate into new spells she can use? Also, if the local magic is different, does she have to account for that when wrestling new spells into her castable selection?
Most refs I've seen/played with like to role-play new magic acquisition, at least a bit. So, for while before they get new magic, a character's been 'working on it', 'studying', maybe 'experimenting'. How does this fit with people (in ASoIaF) apparently suddenly finding they've been 'ambushed by magic', and have spells and/or abilities?
---
Not sure if I've said this before, but excellent story!
There are a lot. She casts like a sorcerer, but as a dragon she doesn't have an actual class. The only way she knows to get stronger is to literally just live past another age category. At 973 years old, she is 27 years from jumping from "level" 15 to 17 and unlocking both 8th and 9th levels spells at once. She has a very good grasp on how magic works, both from experience and from being a magical creature herself. She will have no more than the usual trouble in figuring out her own spells.
This will be less than helpful when it comes to helping others, as they are the ones with magic that work by slightly different rules. Her knowledge will help greatly with the basics and the foundations, and she does have Arcane Sight, Greater and will naturally be much better at it. Most of the people in ASoIaF will have innate magic. If it is learned, they will have a tutor, for example Ned Stark as a Witch is intelligence based Arcane and has a pact patron. Arthur Dayne is an arcane Magus and has Dawn to help. Cersei Lannister is a [ ] Rogue and has Lann the Clever.
Rhaegar is a spontaneous caster as a bard so he doesn't have help, but Terendelev can help there as she is also a spontaneous caster. She is also going to be very good at identifying what 'class' the other characters are given a few clues.
This does nothing to help her if she does not know what she does not know.
For example, 'blood magic' in the Pathfinder setting is incredibly simplistic and uncomplicated compared to what could be found in Westeros where it could power spells and effects directly.
And she just left a n ice spear covered in her own blood behind. Thanks for the compliment!
A <i>brilliant energy </i>weapon has its significant portion transformed into light, although this does not modify the item’s weight. It always gives off light as a torch (20- foot radius). A <i>brilliant energy </i>weapon ignores nonliving matter. Armor and shield bonuses to AC (including any...
www.aonprd.com
Like that?
Because Natural Armor should still apply.
If it's like a Kineticist Weapon that works against touch-AC, though Shimmering Scales could solve that problem.
Doesn't the energy-version of Kineticist-blast have to deal with SR though?
Natural Armor doesn't apply to anything that attacks Touch AC only, because the only thing they have to do is touch it. It is like the kineticist weapon and usually it does have to overcome SR first. To be honest 'bypasses spell resistance' is a common effect and the White Walkers under Implements of Ice use varying magical kinds of Ice rather than just the plain element like a kineticist does.
There are a lot. She casts like a sorcerer, but as a dragon she doesn't have an actual class. The only way she knows to get stronger is to literally just live past another age category. At 973 years old, she is 27 years from jumping from "level" 15 to 17 and unlocking both 8th and 9th levels spells at once.
I'm not familiar with the specifics of Pathfinder, except that it's base is DnD3rd/SRD/OGL - I'm familiar with DnD except 4thEd.
People have done... some interesting things with dragons, over the years. I thought the dragon+companion pairs, typically using (very) young dragons with a human, probably one of the more fun ideas. Dragon socialising - rule one: Don't Eat Your Companion. Whether the sponsors of these pairings are dragons... Mostly this was for magic-using dragons, and an enchanted bracelet/collar allowed them to take animal/lizardman/human(oid) form - some dragons learned to become Wizards (so they acquired a Class).
Variant rules allowed magic-using red dragons to take human form, at will - you might suspect the red-robed wizard is... unconventional when they get so annoyed they start trying to bite things... while still in human form.
(OK, yeah. The gold dragons were the most annoying. )
Why mention this? Well, I expect Westeros dragons will turn up, sooner or later, and they're... a bit conspicuous. Human(oid) shape may not fit them, but a collar enchanted with Polymorph to (War)Horse might be an attractive idea.
I'm not familiar with the specifics of Pathfinder, except that it's base is DnD3rd/SRD/OGL - I'm familiar with DnD except 4thEd.
People have done... some interesting things with dragons, over the years. I thought the dragon+companion pairs, typically using (very) young dragons with a human, probably one of the more fun ideas. Dragon socialising - rule one: Don't Eat Your Companion. Whether the sponsors of these pairings are dragons... Mostly this was for magic-using dragons, and an enchanted bracelet/collar allowed them to take animal/lizardman/human(oid) form - some dragons learned to become Wizards (so they acquired a Class).
Variant rules allowed magic-using red dragons to take human form, at will - you might suspect the red-robed wizard is... unconventional when they get so annoyed they start trying to bite things... while still in human form.
(OK, yeah. The gold dragons were the most annoying. )
Why mention this? Well, I expect Westeros dragons will turn up, sooner or later, and they're... a bit conspicuous. Human(oid) shape may not fit them, but a collar enchanted with Polymorph to (War)Horse might be an attractive idea.
And yeah Pathfinder 1e was basically lifted word for word from DnD 3.5 into a different setting. Pathfinder dragons are WILDLY different from each other, unlike DnD where it's basically different flavors of the same thing within subtypes. A Pathfinder Brass dragon will crossbreed if they manage to fall in love, a Blue dragon will crossbreed for proxies and lieutenants they can trust, a Silver might crossbreed for the benefits of having a mate that doesn't trigger their 'Stay away from my shit!' instincts if you can get through their pride.
Terendelev probably can learn how to be a Wizard. She's just too much of a meathead right now and a tiny bit stuck in her ways. Westeros dragons are Drakes, not True Dragons. However, Pathfinder Drakes are capable of talking, reasoning and making deals with people and in-universe they are noted to be smarter than most animals and understanding speech. Not so sure about the polymorphing though, anyone that managed to hatch a dragon would want it to be as conspicuous as possible!
If you're using the published Silver Dragon Ancient and Wyrm statblocks, at Wyrm and CL 17 they only have access to 8th level spells. And if they would have access to 9th level spells at CL 17, wouldn't they have access to 8th level spells at CL 15?
If you're using the published Silver Dragon Ancient and Wyrm statblocks, at Wyrm and CL 17 they only have access to 8th level spells. And if they would have access to 9th level spells at CL 17, wouldn't they have access to 8th level spells at CL 15?
And yeah, that was my mistake. Normal sorcerers would get one 8th at 15 and one 9th at 17, but that's not how dragons work apparently. Probably the whole 'not actually a real class' thing.
And yeah, that was my mistake. Normal sorcerers would get one 8th at 15 and one 9th at 17, but that's not how dragons work apparently. Probably the whole 'not actually a real class' thing.
Actually, no. A normal sorcerer gets access 8th level spells level 16, and 9th level spells at level 18. Remember, sorcerer spells are offset from wizard spells by one level. That's why wyrm at caster level 17 only gets 8th level.
Actually, no. A normal sorcerer gets access 8th level spells level 16, and 9th level spells at level 18. Remember, sorcerer spells are offset from wizard spells by one level. That's why wyrm at caster level 17 only gets 8th level.
But yeah, point being, she's OP now, but isn't getting strong until she hits another age category. Everyone else is weaker right now, but can get stronger and adapt a lot more easily.
But yeah, point being, she's OP now, but isn't getting strong until she hits another age category. Everyone else is weaker right now, but can get stronger and adapt a lot more easily.
That's... sounding unfortunately like the Master Villain in a lot of stories...
At story start, the heroes are comparatively pitifully weak, and their ultimate enemy impossibly more powerful. Only way the 'bad guy' tends to survive (as present in the story) is they have a (personal) revelation, and become significantly different.
'Dragon Ball' is done a little differently, of course.
I'd like to think this dragon isn't (just) a Master Villain.
(Why Polymorph a Westeros dragon? So you can engage in the time-honored art of dragon smuggling. )
Desmond: I just want you to know that this campaign is bullshit. Fucking Others? Fucking Bloodraven?
Ned: He's dead.
Desmond: And he can stay dead! It's the principle of the matter!
Rhaegar: I want to roll to seduce the dragon.
DM: Fucking bards...you know I am going to punt that DC into the stratosphere, right?
Rhaegar: Fear not, for I have the power of God and - * rolls a Nat 20 * - a silver stringed harp on my side!
DM: You son of a bitch.
Also DM: I will allow it! Your relationship status has been upgraded to Courting.
Terendelev: What? You cannot just - can we talk about this?
DM: You took a - 40 on all Socials regarding Owning Silver the minute you picked Silver dragon.
Terendelev: I demand a counter roll!
DM: The DC was 61. That was your counter roll. As someone recently reminded me, turnabout is fair play.
Winterfell
"You are accompanying me,"the dragon said slowly.
Her silver eyes peered blearily out from the newly rebuilt central keep of the Nightfort, gleaming in the darkness like twin full moons. Even knowing how the beast was did not keep him from remembering what she could be. Even though he was seeing a dragon woken far earlier than it would like, resembling one of his brothers sleeping off some heavy drink, the shiver still ran down Mance's spine when he saw her pupils narrow into fine vertical slits.
The primal reaction to coming face to face with a large predator in its lair.
"To Winterfell?"
"Yes," the southern prince nodded agreeably. "I intend a royal progress starting with the North. If I am to be king, it would be best for my lords to know me."
The silver eyes slowly dragged themselves towards him next. First Ranger Brenn Flint stepped forwards as he brandished his own leather satchel and what he fucking hoped was not the legendary Horn of Winter within it, "Lord Commander thought it best that we avail of Winterfell's library and knowledge as well. Three heads can't be fooled as easily as one, aye?"
The dragon's gaze fell on the young heir to Driftmark, Monford Velaryon last. The boy was bundled in so many layers of clothing that if he climbed up and then fell off the Wall right now, Mance wasn't sure he would even feel it when he hit the ground.
Two woolen hats underneath the black cloak hood, outer furs, two coats, two pairs of under breeches, two pairs of socks, the only part of the boy's face even visible were his lilac eyes and pale blond brows. He was pressed against who the Watch had taken to calling the Bonfire Prince, staring up at the dragon looking like he was seconds away from either screaming in joy or pissing himself.
"C-c-cannot sail my b-boat by mys-s-s-elf."
"Understandable." The beast nodded sagely. "I am not carrying anyone, however."
It disappeared back into its lair.
There was a moment of awkward silence before Flint snorted.
"What was that?" The Morning Sword demanded of his prince. Mance shared a bewildered look with Flint. He thought southerners had made a sport out of kissing noble ass. "You had an entire speech memorized about asking it to come with us!"
The Batguard sighed loudly. "Where you got the impression our prince can think straight around the creature is anyone's guess."
"I am thinking straight!" The southern prince looked hunted. "I…can always broach the subject at a later date. When we have not interrupted her rest?"
"You turned tail!" Morning Sword said with glee. "I thought you said the lessons went well!"
"I ended up talking about my markings!" The prince cried in frustration. "A full hour of her attention and I babbled like a half-wit about my pathetic attempts at inventing a musical language - " He crushed the palm of his hand into his face in embarrassment. "It went well as I am now certain she has no wish to murder me."
The Morning Sword stared incredulously. He raised a finger. "There is something to be said about you not knowing that for true before - "
Flint cleared his throat.
"Well, you could always trip into fortune, like Mance here - "
Mance loudly cleared his throat. "Trip into fortune? I did not forget you dared me to swindle a scale - "
"Pah!" Flint waved a hand in front of his face like he was blowing away a pungent smell. "It turned out well, didn't it?"
"I was thrown off the Wall."
"You got better, didn't you?" Flint asked with a shit eating grin. "And look at you now, first dragonrider in a century - "
The southern prince's head snapped in his direction. "She flew you?"
"It was a recompense for almost getting me killed," Mance replied sharply. Then he had an evil thought he only felt a small amount of guilt for giving voice to. "If you want my advice for getting favor with it, all you really have to do is acquaint the beast's face with your fist - "
"Don't!" The Morning Sword barked and the prince froze, hand in his travel bag. "You were about to reach for your scrolls on dragon lore, weren't you?"
"No!"
"Y-yes." Velaryon threw the prince under the apple cart without an ounce of hesitation, making Flint bark with laughter.
"...if you think up some mating dance from your texts I will…" The Riverlander pursed his lips when his fellow Kingsguard turned to him with expectant raised eyebrows. "...I will challenge you to a bout in the yard so I can legally wound you."
"Disappointing," his compatriot commented lightly. "But I will accept it."
"Please stop encouraging my companions to strike me," the prince sighed. "I am well educated, perfectly capable and put a great deal of thought into my decisions." The Driftmark heir chose that moment to flick his ear. The prince ducked away, hand clapped to the side of his head. "Monford! What was that for?"
"Lying."
"My prince, you were not certain the dragon was disinclined to kill you?" The Batguard mocked.
"You can always ask me for assistance?" The Dornish Kingsguard offered loudly to rescue his liege lord.
"Y-you know how to talk to dragons?" Velaryon shivered through his dryly spoken question and then belched an acrid smelling cloud of yellow smoke before shivering harder.
"He means to ask the Dornishman for help with women," the other royal guard scoffed. "Because that can never go wrong, is your trail of broken hearts only women or are there men too?"
The prince gasped theatrically, hand over heart.
The Morning Sword stiffened. "And what? All Dornish swing with both sides of the blade? That is slander, ser. I won't stand for it!"
The two Kingsguard stared at each in a tense standoff, eyes narrowed and jaws stubbornly set.
And then the whole lot of them broke into raucous laughter.
'What the fuck?" Mance mouthed to Flint, who shrugged and gave him the long face of long-suffering before rolling his eyes.
Southerners.
"Hold a moment," was all he heard before the dragon snagged the back of his armor on a tooth and dragged him yelling back into the dark lair like an evil monster from a milk babe's tale. He was tossed into a far corner. Only the sudden puff of white feathers kept him from hurting anything when he fell in a heap. The dragon rumbled the start of a word, coughed and then there was a brilliant flash of silver light as he bounded to his feet.
"What in the Seven Hells - " The dragon shushed him frantically, casting an almost frightened glance back towards the opening.
"I - my apologies. I get impulsive when I am tired." She rubbed her face, clad in her guise wearing a dress of blue, red and gold. " I would beg your assistance with an important matter and would ask you to let me finish explaining before you respond."
What the -
Mance studied the beast's usual patient and polite expression, then asked in a low voice, "What did you do?"
The dragon blanched.
"Wha - how do you know - rusting Light!" She raised her hands, fingers curled like claws and shook the air as if acting out strangling a neck. "You and Braganon were born from the same soul, I swear - " She cut herself off by snatching him again, shoving him into an icy chair at the long ice table at the back of the hall. "Sit." She turned away and then as an afterthought turned back just long enough for, "Stay."
"I'm not a hound - "
Mance's words caught in his throat when the dragon near reverently placed a beautiful, masterfully crafted high harp on the table before him. It was carved from a near black wood, three snarling dragon heads reared from the frame, sparkling clear diamonds as their eyes. There was a well worn patch where it was meant to be held, betraying it for a well loved piece. He almost reached for it, but the sudden subtle tension in the dragon's frame when he leaned forward warned him off.
"Where'd you find this?"
The dragon hesitated.
"You were at the Shadow Tower for the late meal and so are not aware." Her lips twisted into a pained grimace. "It is the prince's courting gift."
Oh.
Mance palmed his face. "Let me guess," he said sympathetically, muffled by his hand. "The silver strings?"
"I cannot help it!" She hissed back. "I need - do you know how hard it is sleeping without a coin bed? I spent far too long setting up a spell loop to play this - " She plucked a note and the harp chimed as soft and sweet as he had imagined it would. "Through the night as a substitute!"
He was unable to explain why sounding like she came from the nonsense tales you'd hear from a tavern's minstrel after a few too many beers was getting him.
"You sleep on a coin bed," Mance said numbly.
She waved a hand at the shallow pit by the cold hearths lined with a paltry number of silver moons, stags and a few lost scales. "Not anymore!"
He started to laugh.
The dragon rolled her eyes. "Your sympathy in this matter is much appreciated."
"Well, if you don't want the harp, can I marry the prince?"
"Mance."
He waved the bristling dragon down, still chuckling, "Do you at least like the man?"
She wearily closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. "...he is not unintelligent," she admitted begrudgingly. "I like his hair color." Of course she did. "I have no intention of going through with this courtship, but I do have the urge to lick him."
Mance choked. "Licking - "
"Extra sensory glands in the tongue and mouth," she said quickly with a cool affronted look. "He has some kind of magic I cannot even begin to identify. That is troublesome and it has gone on long enough that it is beginning to upset me."
He snorted loudly.
"I assume you are not going to give the harp back." That suggestion seemed to physically wound the beast. She picked the harp up from the table and held it close as if to protect it from repossession. "You are fortunate a courtship is not a betrothal! Tell me that you didn't give him anything in return - oh," he said, laughter withering at the beast's flinch.
"Not yet," she said painfully. "I am unfamiliar with your customs. I am assuming giving Dark Sister to him is a declaration I do not wish to make, but I cannot keep the blade."
"Why not?" He said sharply, an envious pinch in his belly. "That harp would beggar lesser lords and then you give him Valyrian steel?"
"Not yet," she repeated.
"But you will."
"It is not mine," the dragon said quietly. "It is an ancestral sword of House Targaryen. Brynden Rivers had no right to suggest that I take ownership of it. The House has living members and I am not a thief."
Mance pressed his lips together tightly. Then sighed. "You and your queer notions of honor."
The chivalrous knight of tales and songs would never avail themselves of another family's sword, no matter what he had to go through to get it, so the dragon wouldn't either. Quick to offer aid and held fast to oaths. She had a cruel sense of humor and he wondered at the effort it took to keep it from becoming a malicious one. He dismissed the thought of suggesting a mummer's farce solely for the gifts. The dragon would keep her own counsel, but never had the thought to lie. A true knight would never play a man false.
A pity knights like those could only be found in tales and songs.
"You might be the only being in the Seven Kingdoms that would just return a prize like that."
"I doubt that is true," she replied with a weak smile. "I cannot keep it."
"Very well," he muttered, thinking. "Give it to Rhaella Targaryen, the queen," he offered. "She is Targaryen by birth as well. It's said Dark Sister was made for a woman's hand, anyhow."
Her face flooded with relief. "I did not realize she did not take her husband's name?" Mance winced. Rhaella and her husband Aerys were siblings. The dragon winced then too. "...that would be acceptable. I would have to sit on the blade longer than I would like, but it is preferable to reciprocating in truth - "
"Would it be so bad?" She blinked as he gave a small, little shrug of resignation. "Any other woman would kill to be in your position."
"Dragon, not woman," she said simply. "I am superior to every mortal being you know to exist and I have no desire to debase myself."
It still stung to hear it from her own lips, even when he already suspected that was the case. It took her curse acting up for the beast to acknowledge the beauty of her guise, rather than her customary polite dismissal and feigned ignorance.
Even had it been otherwise, he was a brother of the Night's Watch. He made his peace with that.
Mostly.
The prince was earnest, at least. That harp was well cared for.
"That's it then?" He asked. "Your objection is that you are just better than him?"
The great beast's eyes widened slightly. "I - yes?" She replied helplessly. "I acknowledge your worth, but a half-dragon with one of a lesser race is - " She looked as if she was about to become ill. "An embarrassment," she finished firmly. "A scandal even. It might be understood given certain circumstances, but never justified."
"So you never thought about it," he concluded. "Not even once."
"No," was the immediate response. "Unfortunately for the prince," her smile was wry. "I used up my allotment of poor decision making centuries ago on my Red dragon of a mate. My first mate, that is."
"First?" He said dumbly, stunned at how it never occurred to him that her long years meant she was likely a widow. "My condolences."
"Spare them. I was the one who killed him." Her smile sharpened to show teeth. "There were irreconcilable differences between us." Her head tilted like a bird. "I forgave him the murder of two of his other mates as they were awful, but he knew Halaseliax was to be left unmolested."
Mance's mouth worked. His mind hitched through every part of what she just said. The self-inflicted widowhood. Wife murder. Multiple wives. She did not see anything wrong with the wife killing.
"...I see," he managed weakly.
She inclined her head. "There are a few races we consider equals and they all can change shape naturally, just as I can. It is still uncommon, but the progeny will be strong and will still be considered dragons." She averted her gaze. "That is all that matters."
"Have to keep the 'blood of the dragon' pure, aye?" He muttered. The beast's face scrunched when she understood his reference to the Valyrian practice of incest. It was why the prince's grandparents had been siblings and so were his parents.
"The Valyrians were disgusting," the dragon said bluntly.
"Might be something to it," he said, just to be contrary. "House Targaryen has this thing with those dead half-dragon babes sometimes - "
Mance jumped when the dragon's eyes snapped to him with the sharp intensity reserved for prey before a meal.
"What did you say? No," she cut him off with a raise of her hand, the other clutching the harp to her chest. "Do not tell me - he does stink like a Red," she interrupted herself thoughtfully. "Aemon as well. Is it a separate scent from his magic? It cannot be. Can it?" She made an aggrieved noise. "Licking him to find out will give the wrong impression."
"You like red dragons and you like his hair," he pointed out. "You are courting."
She looked at him, aghast. "Yes, but - "
"I am certain he would not mind!" He grinned widely as the dragon's eyes narrowed.
"I would mind."
"How else would you find out?"
"I can live without knowing. I do not just lick things - I have more self control than that!"
"Lord Stark. There is a dragon licking the walls outside."
Rickard Stark, Lord Paramount and Warden of the North slowly raised his eyebrows as he just as slowly put the letter back down on his desk. He looked around his solar placidly, taking in the dark wood furnishings, the fire crackling merrily in the hearth and old tapestries of his family's glory hanging from the stone walls. Those were the days, he thought fondly. Just ruling the North, preparing for winter…
Killing some Andals.
Then he turned back to Rodrick Cassel. "Come again?"
"Dragon," the man said in a strangled tone of voice. "Licking the walls."
"...it is going to be one of those days, I see."
"Hail, Lord Stark!"Terendelev booms from the other side of the Kingsroad Gate. "And well met."
The yellow haired man in robes by the lord squeaks. "It talks!"
She is determined to ignore that, but her eyes narrow slightly in spite of herself and she cannot quite muster up the regret for his hasty steps backwards.
Lord Stark mutely stares up at her with solemn gray eyes. The man is nearly bare chested in the winter chill in just an unlaced tunic, breeches and boots while everyone around him were wearing layers and furs. His gaze passes over her closed maw and her hardened, tough silver scales. She tries not to fidget. The guardsmen attempting to hide without looking like they were hiding before the walls and large wooden gate doors kept drawing her attention. There is a 'thwip' sound. Her and the lord watch wordlessly as the stray arrow pinwheels in the air passed her.
It is then that she remembers where she is.
She ducks her head. "I come in peace?"
"...I have been told you were tasting Winterfell," the lord drawls calmly.
Oh for the love of -
She draws herself up in affront. "It was only once!"And she had not thought anyone had been watching. That was the only reason why she gave in to the temptation in the first place! "You have interesting magical wards on your home,"she attempts to explain. "Very complex and old and …"it did not like her. At all.
She is disappointed, but unsurprised. If Winterfell had been constructed by the same people who built the Wall, then it only stood to reason.
"And how did it taste?" Stark asks mildly.
"Sour,"she admits in a rumble. "A hint of spice tells of worn patches and holes, but nothing to be concerned about yet."She would like nothing more than to put this entire conversation behind her, but she is the picture of chivalry and courteousness - as always. "It tastes fine?"
Stark turns to the robed man. "I do not suppose that could be considered an offered guest right," he says with an undercurrent of humor. The maester just gapes at him. The lord's expression retreats back into a quiet dignity as he faces her again. "Are you willing to stomach bread and salt?"
"Yes, of course." She shifts on her hindlegs and shuffles her wings in embarrassment. She was no longer on Golarion. She cannot just fly to a random castle and expect the people to know what to do with her. The black brothers of the Wall taking her mostly in stride had given her a false sense of security. The fact that 'mostly in stride' included two separate poisoning attempts, one attempted stabbing and the accusation of being a demon…
Her earlier bravado finishes dissipating - this is not Golarion. These walls hold an entirely new, unfamiliar population and she feels her scales itch with their stares. A building pressure to flee back to the Nightfort wells in her chest as Stark tosses the bread encrusted with salt crystals at her. She snaps it out of the air.
The smell of urine immediately assaults her nostrils from one of the guards.
"The prince is coming to Winterfell," she blurts out. She towers over them all. If she were so inclined, she can peer right over the outer wall and would just about be even in height with the second inner wall and yet.
She feels so inexplicably small and lonely standing there before them.
She does not know these people.
"What?" Stark blinks. "What?" He barks. "When?"
"In two days?" She guesses. She does not know how long it takes to travel from the Wall to Winterfell. Was it a week? A couple of weeks? A month? She always has trouble with land travel estimates. She can speed things up, her spells are versatile. "In one day,"she decides. "I will return then."
She spreads her wings and flees.
She flies back over the foreign snowy land towards the Wall. She had ignored the strangeness of it all on the way down, consumed with making meticulous lists and plans of action. Now she is left with herself and the final realization that she is in another world. Not just a foreign nation. Not a far off corner in an unexplored continent. Not another plane where a simple Gate spell could see Halaseliax or Braganon coming to get her.
If they even knew she was alive.
Her teeth grit as she acknowledges the one advantage her humanoid guise has over her natural form.
Humans could cry.
Her sharp vision spots their camp long before they see her in the sky. She lands heavily and coils within herself, retaking the form that has just begun to not feel as constricting as before. She could be a dragon with them - but will it hurt more later?
It is an unhealthy form of compartmentalization. She is still a dragon, no matter her guise.
It does not feel that way.
Mance takes one look at her face and points her in Rhaegar's direction.
"I do not - " she starts to protest, because he knows the last thing she wants to do is encourage the young man. In her eyes, he was little more than a child clinging to myths and legends as a reason to even be alive.
All she can feel for him is pity.
"I know," Mance says under his breath as he steers her towards their main camp fire. "Consider this, I am a black brother of the Watch." Before she can respond that she is well aware, he continues, "After Winterfell, my duty takes me back to the Wall. I cannot go south with you."
Her words die in her throat.
She could not even say that she had hoped otherwise. She had not thought of it at all. It did not matter. Her lair was at the Wall. She will always return to it. The thought of preparing the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros for the Others by her lonesome was suddenly a crushing responsibility. The Mendevian Crusades against the demonic hordes hardly worked that way - I need more allies.
She will have to seek new ones out. Purposefully. With intention. With people she knows nothing about, not ones who have been in the peripherals of her small social circle for years to decades on end. She volunteered for this. Westeros is a nation that covers an entire continent. Not even the crusades reached that far.
She is frightened.
"How can I assist?" It is both relieving and concerning that Rhaegar does not ask what the problem is as he dumps his armload of scavenged branches onto the ground by the fire. "Terendelev?"
It is concerning for herself. Her maudlin state flickered her mind back to Elethiel, the stoic Iophanite angel that had been her right hand to Braganon's left. It is not a comparison she wants to make with anyone else.
Angels are equals. Their hatchlings would have been dragons.
"I - " she chokes.
"Play a tune on that harp," Mance orders, belatedly adding, "Please, your grace."
His dark purple eyes seek hers out. She swallows the lump in her throat and looks away, managing the barest of nods.
"It would be my pleasure," the prince says warmly.
She grabs two handfuls of snow on a whim as she sits by the fire, crushing it into a solid ball of ice in her hands. She then absently bats the ball around between her hands as the men continue to set up their camp. The one with the bat shaped helm sees her and lets out a sound of abject disgust.
"Cat." He declares and she stifles a groan.
"Are those your house colors, your grace?" The mage with the white sword asks with excessive politeness.
She glances down at her dress. It is what she wore at the last ball she attended, albeit she spent most of it discussing the kingdom with Galfrey's Aasimar royal advisor, Opaline. The dress was the royal Mendevian blue, breaking into the diamond checkered patterns of the blue and crimson like the kingdom's heraldry on the sleeves. Her false armor bodice is silver, lined with blue linen. A golden sword with a blazing sun behind the crossguard pointed tip down is emblazoned across the front.
"Yes," she says simply. She remembers too late that she already told Mance it was a royal house. She turns to him quickly, only to be met with a mocking smile and wink as he mimes sewing his lips shut.
She is inexplicably not reassured by this.
"Are there words?" Monford Velaryon is almost crawling into the campfire, absently patting out the embers that fall upon him. Unlike the prince, the heir to Driftmark has the briny, acrid stench of a Black dragon. She does not know what it means.
She stares into the fire as she softly says, "Valor is all."
"Good words," the Sword of the Morning admits, a chagrined expression of reluctant admiration on his face.
"The dragon belongs to a noble house," the Kingsguard she never caught the name of says into the air, as if expecting a god to come down from the stars to explain themselves.
"The legalities are complicated," she says dryly and there are snorts.
"Here we are," Rhaegar says as he sits beside her with her wrapped harp as he did during their first lesson on how to play the damn thing. "Do you have a preference?"
"The Dornishman's wife!" The Sword of the Morning jeers.
The prince balks, head whipping around. "No, I am not singing - " She watches his entire face turn purple. "I was not even asking you!"
The other men all boo at him and she chuckles. "Let me hear it then."
The purple turns white with a speed that is amusing.
The Sword of the Morning, Ser Dayne loudly clears his throat and holds up his hands. She can hear Rhaegar's teeth grind as he readies the harp just in time for his guard to belt out in a lovely voice,
"The Dornishman's wife was as fair as the sun,
and her kisses were warmer than spring.
But the Dornishman's blade was made of black steel,
and its kiss was a terrible thing.
The Dornishman's wife would sing as she bathed,
in a voice that was sweet as a peach,
But the Dornishman's blade had a song of its own,
and a bite sharp and cold as a leech."
Within the first stanza, she knows what kind of song it is. A few words is all it takes for the rest to join in, making it clear that it is a popular song. There is a circle of smiles around the fire, save for Rhaegar who is almost rage playing, but even his foot is tapping with the jaunty tune.
The pang of nostalgia for crusaders drunkenly bellowing at the top of their lungs any and every bawdy song they could think of to celebrate staying alive, knowing the melody optional, nearly overwhelms her.
It still hurts. She suspects it always will.
But her squad of crusaders, her people, died a decade ago in that demon ambush. Desna, the Lady Luck herself, had recalled her azata, Braganon to Elysium some few years ago. Elethiel had volunteered for a secret mission over seven decades ago and she had not seen a feather of him since.
No one could replace them.
However, she could learn to like these people.
"As he lay on the ground with the darkness around,
and the taste of his blood on his tongue,
His brothers knelt by him and prayed him a prayer,
and he smiled and he laughed and he sung,
Brothers, oh brothers, my days here are done,
the Dornishman's taken my life,
But what does it matter, for all men must die,
and I've tasted the Dornishman's wife!"
Rhaegar's fingers strum in a complicated pattern and the campfire roars.
The bat-helmed knight falls over, Velaryon falls backwards, the Sword of the Morning leaps to his feet as Brenn Flint lets out a shout. At one moment, there were towering thirty foot flames and in the next it all gutters out, leaving just smoking embers and smoke. Mance is left clutching at his chest as the prince stares blankly at the coals, frozen in place.
"Ah." Terendelev lets out a resigned sigh into the silence. "You are a bard. It all makes sense now."
She does not understand the incredulous looks she receives.
"...bards are not magic," Flint says.
"Of course they are," she says, bewildered. "It is the same as skinchangers and elementalists. You cannot tell me you have never heard of people with the ability to use songs to direct their abilities?"
"We can tell you that," Mance tells her quietly, exchanging looks with the First Ranger. "The septon, my horn, the Others. None of this existed before you did."
Her mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.
"Wait - what's this about a septon?" The bat knight yelps.
"Oh." Rhaegar croaks suddenly. "I was missing the music."
He moves to stand and then topples over in a dead faint. She saves him from diving headfirst into the remains of the campfire. His heat is distracting, prompting her to quickly sit him up against one of the tent poles.
"That was not an accusation," Mance says.
"Should it be?" Flint is looking at her, the boisterous, jolly man replaced by a stern Ranger. "She appeared the night the Stars Fell."
"I did not cause that," she says sharply. The others are staring as well and she can feel the fledgling bonds of comradery between her and them dissipate. "I know no more than what I have told. I do not know how I came to be in this land either."
It still hurts.
"I died."
"Baratheon has been holding out on us," Rickard Stark murmured to his cousin, Brenn Flint.
"Eh, wha?" The big mountain Flint squinted down from the high table. "Whazzat?"
He did not hold the uncouth speech against him. The prince's entire party had a long night, that was plain to see from their bloodshot eyes and unsteady stances as if they all had tossed and turned the whole night. None but the prince seemed as if he had actually slept.
"Baratheon," he said again. "Last I heard, the king had commanded him to Essos to find a Valyrian bride for his son, only a moon hence." He tilted his head in the direction of where the crown prince of the Seven Kingdoms met a silver haired woman he did not recognize at the low tables. The prince in black and her in blue with both wearing patterns a matching color of red. "He found a girl that quickly? And there has been no betrothal announcement."
"Not betrothed," Brenn grunted before he rubbed a miserable hand into his face. "Courting."
Rickard made a silent 'ah' as he held his mug out to be refilled with strong Northern ale. "What of our future queen then? What house is she from?"
He then had the thought.
"Is the dragon hers?"
"Aye, in a manner of speaking." Brenn's face broke into a wide, twisted grin that concerned him slightly. "That is the dragon."
Rickard took a few languid sips of his drink, savoring the malt taste and burn of alcohol before chewing on a sweetmeat as his kinsman waited patiently. He swallowed.
"Come again?"
"The dragon," the black brother said, leaning in close. "Can bloody turn into a woman. It's a magical dragon."
Rickard mutely stared for a long moment.
Brenn stared back, utterly serious.
He glanced down at the tables again where two silver gilt heads were bent over a high harp. "The prince is courting a dragon."
"Aye."
"A flying, fire breathing dragon."
"Ice breathing," the First Ranger corrected him. "But aye."
"...I see. Not what I would have done," he admitted as he brought his mug to his lips again, muttering into the cup. "But I must respect the balls it takes to make that decision!"
Zaldrīzes buzdari iksos daor. "A dragon is no slave." - Daenerys Stormborn to Kraznys mo Naklos, A Storm of Swords, Chapter 27, Daenerys III
"What fools we were, who thought ourselves so wise! The error crept in from the translation. Dragons are neither male nor female, Barth saw the truth of that, but now one and now the other, as changeable as flame. The language misled us all for a thousand years. Daenerys is the one, born amidst salt and smoke. The dragons prove it." - Maester Aemon to Samwell Tarly, A Feast for Crows, Ch 35, Samwell IV
Of Lost History
The legends of the Empire of the Dawn are seen as nothing less than the truth in the Golden Empire of Yi Ti.
Some there say that it was the Pearl Emperor, son of the God-on-Earth, who was the ruler that built the Five Forts along the northeastern boundaries of the Golden Empire between the Bleeding Sea and the Mountains of the Morn. The fused black stone of these Forts bear great similarity to the construction of architecture from Old Valyria, though they precede the Valyrian Freehold by over eight thousand years. The Black Walls of Volantis and the foundation of the High Tower of House Hightower bear the same look and there are none who live who know how it had been made.
It is from this lineage, from the only son of the Lion of Night and Maiden-Made-of-Light, the God-on-Earth who ruled for ten thousand years before ascending to the heavens, that the emperors of the Golden Empire claim legitimacy.
Even if by their own accounts, that line had been broken.
The Blood Betrayal as it is called. On a dark, cold day, Amethyst Empress was slain by the general of her armies, her right hand, her own brother for the throne. A vile act of kinslaying that caused the goddess, the Maiden-Made-of-Light to spurn mankind and leave for the stars. The bitter war that followed drove the Lion of Night into a maddened rage, raising demons to snuff out what remained of the living in what is known as an age of darkness.
It is almost an afterthought that the new Bloodstone Emperor built his court around a large black stone that had fallen from the sky, searching endlessly for more fragments of his new god. Some will remember the tale of how the Church of Starry Wisdom came to be, that this emperor had married a tiger woman, a star worshiping half-animal from the barbaric tribes he had once warred against in his sister's name. This union was fruitful, but there are no given names or histories. Most will regale you with the hair-raising accounts of cannibalism and necromancy.
Some say that the Lion of Night's forces are what the Five Forts were meant to defend against in truth, instead of petty raiders from the Grey Wastes. The Pearl Emperor was long before the Blood Betrayal however, suggesting that the Lion of Night had always been an antagonistic force.
Or perhaps, it ceased to be so upon the Amethyst Empress' ascension to the throne, only to turn again when she fell.
Of course, you cannot leave that mystical tale unfinished without hearing about the legendary hero who proved our worth. He who rose to lead the virtuous into battle against the Lion of Night, burning blade in hand. The world was restored, but the empire remained broken. The scars persisted in long winters, illness and famine. War, lust and murder would endure forever more.
What of the Bloodstone Emperor in this conflict, however, is never said.
There is a similarity between this tale and that of the North in Westeros, where a last hero received the aid of mythical beings known as Children of the Forest to drive back the Long Night and an unending winter. A likeness in the immense wall of ice in the far north that now defends against savage, primitive tribes of raiders.
A similarity that is better off noted, but discarded, some say. Not so! Says I. There is something there in the ancestral sword of Ice predating the Valyrian steel the current one is made of. Something in the myth of the horn of winter, although I will admit to struggling to find where the pattern fits.
By our maps of the known world, the Wall of the North draws a line that ends over a thousand leagues north of the Five Forts. Not even on land, but in the middle of the Shivering Sea. The Lands of Always Winter extend an unknown distance to the northwest past the Frostfang Mountains, while the Five Forts guard against the northeast.
In what should be a warmer climate. One on even footing with the barren Red Wastes and the Arm of Dorne is the Grey Wastes. A frozen desert that grows colder the further east you travel. The temperature drops sharply, but there is no snow. Just ashen sand. The cold winds are stymied and banked by the mountains, seemingly caused by nothing at all.
The less said about the 'secret song' of the Rhoynar bringing back the day from a darkness that froze the River Rhoyne, the better. An embellishment of an unwise civil war in the middle of a bad winter.
No, this thread weaves not west, across the Narrow Sea to Westeros just yet, but south. Down across the Mountains of Morn into the Shadow Lands, where the great port of Asshai stands on the bank of the Ash River and the shore of the Jade Sea.
Where the corpse city of Stygai lies in wait in the mountains upriver.
For unnatural reasons, this land is perpetually gloomy and overcast with heavy dark clouds that rain poison. Stygai is said to only see the noonday sun for a brief period of time and Asshai is little better with a scant four hours of daylight, winter or summer.
Little is known about this haunted city where demons and dragons are said to still dwell. Even the famed scholar and explorer, Lomas Longstrider had not visited Asshai, much less the City of Night few venture to and fewer return alive. Even the twisted practitioners of shadowbinding dare not pass the gates. Both cities are made of an oily, greasy black stone that appears to eat the light. The shadows are deep and move without light. The water of the Ash passing beneath it glistens black in the light and glows green in the dark. The fish are blind and deformed. All food and water in Asshai is imported. Any livestock brought in soon dies.
There are no children in Asshai-By-the-Shadow.
It is here that great repositories of dragonlore, high magic and ancient foretellings can be found. Including the great prophecy of Azor Ahai. A reborn champion of R'hllor that would return to face an unnamed darkness, burning blade Lightbringer in hand and if they fall, the world falls with them. How curious is it that we would find such a familiar tale here at the edge of the known world before the freezing desert of nothing?
On the opposite end of the continent, far, far south from the Five Forts.
The thread has twisted and knotted. All my leads have dried up. This corpse city cannot be the remains of the Great Empire of the Dawn's capital, still smoldering with the unnatural events. It is in the wrong location. The sinister cult of Starry Wisdom keep their secrets well and sing to the evening stars in an unknown tongue. How can the Emperors of Yi Ti claim lineage from a line that ended? To ask within earshot inside the grand walls of Yin would have been a death sentence.
But I have yet more questions!
The Valyrians claimed to have risen from humble shepherds who found dragons within the Fourteen Flames so very far to the west and bound them to their will by horn. A simple shepherd with a toot in any other tale would have been a food. They must have been taught. For their fused black stones are found in locations that predate them. Dragon bones have been excavated as far north as Ib and as far south as the jungles of Sothoryos. The Valyrian language is written in glyphs, not letters. Better suited for the brush and scrolls of Yi Tish make than parchments, with passing similarity. They learned the vile blood price of slavery from clashes with the Old Ghiscari Empire. I have the theory that the prevalence of blood magic in the Valyrian Freehold was adopted from the water mages of the Rhoynar.
What strange old-yet-young peoples the Valyrians make!
Those in Asshai claim dragons first emerged from the Shadow. The warlocks and shadowbinders say an unnamed peoples shared their knowledge of magic with others. I am inclined to believe them for they have shown me many great and terrible things. Their city is where dragonlore can be found. I have seen the scrolls.
The prophecy of Azor Ahai in translation identifies the hero as a prince. This is only in the translation for the oldest, readable copy of the scrolls is in High Valyrian and the term used is gender neutral. My esteemed, but less educated colleagues make the assumption that the Valyrians simply exchanged the word for another, running into the same problem of translating an even older language with dubious gendered terms. Why, Zhea the Cruel, the most famous war-leader of Jogos Nhai that smashed the armies of the Yi Ti was himself born female and the Summer Islands have sixteen genders in their tongue!
I have had the great fortune to track down three pages of the Signs and Portents, records of the prophecies and visions written by Daenys Targaryen. Confirmed and authenticated by myself, an archmaester of the Citadel of Oldtown. Dragon dreams were ill trusted, but not unknown.
I see no reason to make the assumption the gender neutrality of R'hllor's champion was a translation error. High Valyrian is a gendered language. Valonqar is 'younger brother' not the younger sibling. If they meant 'prince' as we knew it, an archon or patriarch would have been the better fit.
What interest did the Valyrians of the Smoking Sea have in a prophecy made thousands of years ago in far off Asshai? Of what predates the Freehold, the Seastone Chair of the Iron Islands is made of an oily, greasy black stone. The High Tower of Hightower has an unadorned foundation of fused black stone of the Five Forts. Westeros has legends of local dragons and the mythical Horn of Winter is said to wake giants from the earth. House Dayne claims ancestors that tracked a falling star to the mouth of the Torrentine River at the dawn of days and found a stone of magical powers.
Was it black?
The thread is there. For all those who seek wisdom and knowledge, here is the compilation of my findings and my travels. The complete listing of tales and legends and myths lost to history and the theories and truths behind them. Perhaps one day, another author will append this work with more lines to the riddle and another after that until we have the truth.
The word the Valyrians chose for the coming Azor Ahai, reborn hero of the Great Empire of the Dawn, was zaldrīzes.
For the Freehold was ruled by a council of two score archons. They had no kings or princes.
They had dragons.
- Foreword of The Book of Lost Books by Archmaester Marwyn
So, Terendelev is probably Azor Ahai, and if I'm guessing right the Lion of Night, who may be the threat behind the Five Forts, is Planetos Hourah Loux.
I'm fascinated by the idea of his stat block.
great chapter, but i wonder how the return of magic will affect the greater settings, will the giants who built the maze of Lorth return from the surface, will the Qathi rise again and the red waste once again become verdant, what of the Grey king and his brother Garth greenhand, the stone lord, or the pale child bakalon? so many questions!
Most of all i look forward to the Orphans of the greenblood be reunited with Mother Rhoyne.
wonderful fic i look forward to more!
Edit: thinking about the reach and the tyrells, Garth has many children and descendant who founded houses, even the tyrells; up-jumped stewards they are have a gardner and thus Garth's blood, well at the very least all the Reach houses are the blood of his blood at minimum meaning he might not pick a favorite house since they are all his descendants, but i do see his children and grandchildren if they come back in ghost form support their houses.
His powers and abilities also don't seem as flashy as blood or dragon magic but being long lived, fecund, and stronger is useful all the same.
Rickard: I just got here and there was a dragon licking my castle.
Terendelev: It was the one time!
Mance: ....I missed one session! What the fuck kind of campaign is this?
DM: Blame the bard.
Mance: Who let him roll?
DM: And this campaign is a work of art.
Mance: You fucked up a perfectly good dragon is what you did. Look at her, she has anxiety!
Winterfell II
The solar of the Great Keep of Winterfell is cozy, built for function over ceremony. The throne room was the same, she recalls. A simple long hall with a simple tall chair, the only nod to decoration the snarling direwolves carved as armrests.
There is room enough for three chairs to sit without feeling hemmed in before the large desk. The back wall is full of old tapestries, faded with age but recognizable. The desk itself is a dark wood craft, wide set with a small stack of books and parchment on one end and the table legs had been carved to resemble the legs of a wolf. The fur is painstakingly detailed and the legs end in paws tipped with wooden claws lacquered black. A large hearth burns with a low fire making the temperature edge upon humid.
The entire keep is far warmer and far less drafty than she had anticipated, wrongly assuming the works of the Shadow Tower and Castle Black were the standard.
Magic thrums through these walls.
"Please, be seated," their host tells them.
She allows the prince to sit first before choosing her seat on the right by the fire. She is present only as support for now. When she suggested she could wait, she received aghast responses. Rhaegar in particular resembled a kicked puppy. It was apparent courtships held far more meaning than she thought.
The prince's guard takes up a guard position on the left, angled to keep an eye on both the lord and the door. It is what she trained her own guardsmen to do.
"Allow me to apologize for my visit's lack of announcement, my lord," Rhaegar begins with a bowed head. "I require no feasts or entertainment. Let me do what I can to not impose on you more than necessary."
Terendelev has noticed that the prince holds an odd form of humility. He is willing to eat crow. He seems to hold no resentment for doing so either. He offers to make amends with thoughtfulness, sincerity and with absolutely no hesitation, which she could not help but to approve of.
That his consideration meant he was aware that his actions would require reparations, yet did them anyway baffle her completely.
Lord Rickard Stark raises a dark eyebrow. "I am wondering how you managed the secrecy. A prince traveling by Kingsroad is hardly inconspicuous."
His gray eyed gaze flickers to her for a brief moment and she suppresses the urge to cringe.
'The dragon is not subtle.'
"Under the usual circumstances, you are correct." Rhaegar nods easily. "I have just come from visiting my kinsman, Maester Aemon at Castle Black and the decision to travel back by way of Winterfell was sudden."
She frowns slightly.
That is not a falsehood.
She can think of many reasons why one might want to obfuscate the fact that Lord Stark had not known about the dragon in his backyard. Those reasons do not matter. It is not a falsehood. It is also not the truth and the omission grates her scales.
"Maester Aemon extended the offer of protection with Lord Commander Qorgyle when I found myself north of the Wall," she says, turning away from the fire that burns merrily in the solar's hearth at the right side of the room. "He invited the prince to entreat with me."
Stark glances between her and the prince before smiling wryly. "He must have made quite the impression."
She cannot help glancing at Rhaegar as he blanches. She fights to keep the smile from forming. She has forgiven him, of course, but she has certainly not forgotten.
"He was curious as to how true my current guise is and was rather…" She searches for the word as the prince sinks low in his seat, shoulders hiked up to his reddening ears. "Indelicate in the questioning."
"Indelicate," Lord Stark echoes with some amusement and she allows herself to appreciate the silvery steel color of his eyes, of a brightness she associates with Aasimars. Curious. "...did he ask if he could personally test his assumption?"
The laugh bursts out of her. "As good as!"
Rhaegar palms his face and groans. "I apologized for that," he mumbles into his hands, muffled such that she doubts Stark can hear him clearly. She squashes the urge to pat him on the shoulder. Tactile responses between sentients that are not close are not done here. She does not care if she will be 'allowed' because of the courtship.
The courtship is reason enough to avoid it.
"You will find it difficult to offend me, Lord Stark." It is as much advice as it is a warning. Difficult did not mean impossible. "If any of your household must ask me a stupid question, as long as they are honest about it, I will not mind."
"Honest about asking?" Stark tests her immediately.
"About being stupid," she replies.
The Kingsguard, Arthur Dayne barks a guffaw and then glares at her as he smothers it, as if his sense of humor is somehow her fault.
"In my defense, Lord Stark," Rhaegar speaks up, cheeks red and a hand raised pleadingly. "I come by my stupidity honestly."
She curses her light laugh even as it comes out - and then he does things such as that.
She had not known it was possible to be concerned, wary, frequently exasperated and just as frequently charmed by the same person at the same time.
What was wrong with him?
"Apology accepted." Stark huffs. "Now then," he says as he settles back into his own chair in a relaxed posture, leaning on his left armrest. "A matter of courtesy." Stark turns to her. "You are a guest in my home and have yet to introduce yourself."
She blinks. She has not? She thinks back - I must have forgotten!
The oversight galls her.
She knows Silvers that would shun her for decades if they had witnessed this.
Half of her annoyance is her appalling lack of manners in running away and half of it is that she now cannot avoid the title even death could not rid her of.
"You are right, of course. My apologies." He is a lord asking in a formal setting and she responds in kind. "I am Terendelev of Mendev, Lord Protector of Kenabres and heir to Queen Galfrey of Mendev."
Rickard Stark's eyebrows fly up into his hairline as Rhaegar's head snaps around to stare.
Arthur Dayne gurgles. "You are a princess?"
"The legalities." She sighs. "Are complicated."
"Of that I am certain," Stark muses out loud with some humor. "I have not heard of these places. Do you speak of cities?"
"A kingdom like your own, my lord. Nerosyan serves as the capital of Mendev, from which the queen rules. My city guards our border from a magical disaster we call 'the Worldwound.'" Her throat constricts and she falls silent.
Guarded the border.
She knows not what became of it in the event of her death. Did the city still stand? Did its defenders?
"I am not here as a representative." She manages to keep her voice even. "Feel free to address me by name and not by title."
"I cannot be overly familiar." Lord Stark rejects her suggestion out of hand. She quells the disquiet. Another land. Different rules. "Although, I will admit 'Princess Terendelev' is a bit unwieldy."
She is unsurprised. The lesser races usually find dragon names such. However, hearing 'Princess' before it again after a full decade and a half of that nonsense finally dying out in Kenabres makes her scales itch.
"I will answer to any variation of Lady Teren Mendev." It is the name her guise is known in the neighboring nations of Ustalav and Brevoy. Her nose wrinkles. "And by your customs, 'your grace' is appropriate if you must."
"Well met, Lady Teren." Stark nods to her and then returns his attention back to the prince. "I assume this is not just to give apologies or to ask for the hand of a daughter of Stark."
"Beg pardon?" Rhaegar's eyes grow wide and then dart around the room as if looking for an escape. "I - I am not looking for - " He waves a hand in her direction weakly as he flounders, wrong-footed. "I am certain your daughter is lovely?"
"She's a ten year old hellion that broke her fast confined to her rooms for bringing home a shadowcat to ride like a horse," Stark says dryly.
Rhaegar's mouth opens. Then it closes without a word.
The lord snorts and gives her a pitying look that she returns. She takes a leap of faith on Stark's disposition and adds, "The boy needs help."
Stark snorts again. "I can see that. I fail to understand what aid the North can provide. We are far away and rarely thought of down south in King's Landing."
"It has been too long since there has been a royal progress," Rhaegar says, eyeing the man warily as if expecting to get slapped in the face with a betrothal. "It is as you said, the North appears to stand alone. I mean to give you the means to judge me by my merits and for me to familiarize myself with the Seven Kingdoms."
The prince's mouth twists slightly.
"Not just through what I have been told."
"Hm. You mean to have my support," the lord deduces wisely, steepling his hands before his face. "If not my support, then my neutrality. I would ask what for."
She feels as though the fire beside her had blown out - what for, indeed.
Rhaegar straightens almost to straining in his seat. He crosses his arms, uncrosses them, knuckles his silver stubbled chin and then miserably, painfully chokes out, "My father just burned a man alive!"
Gray eyes flick from him to her grim mein and then to Arthur Dayne's solemn face.
"Burned alive," the lord says.
"I received the news on Dragonstone." Rhaegar's voice shakes. "A petty thief, barely a man grown who nicked a buttered roll of bread and was caught. Executed as an assassin by fire."
Rickard Stark stares at him mutely.
"Burned…alive," he repeats slowly, before his right hand finds his forehead as the Lord Paramount of the North sags in his seat.
"I did not want to believe," Rhaegar admits quietly and her heart aches in sympathy. "Then Ser Oswell Whent of Harrenhal was assigned to guard me and he had witnessed it in person, by the king's side."
"The other Kingsguard you brought?" The lord looks up. At Rhaegar's nod, the man runs his hand down his face and lightly tugs at his dark beard. "Send for him." It is said in a tone that brooks no argument. "I would hear his testimony."
She is prepared to be disappointed when Ser Whent steps into the room, brown eyes searching. She does not begrudge the man his wariness of her. It is the notion of honor in this land that is twisted and broken. She will respect that he tries to keep righteousness the only way he knows how.
She expects to be disappointed with a perfunctory response that says nothing incriminating.
Ser Whent looks at the misery on his prince's face and his shoulders slump under his proud white cloak. "This is about the burning, then?"
Ser Dayne straightens so suddenly, he almost falls over. His violet eyes wide with shock.
"Aye," Stark says grimly. The Bat Knight holds firm. He raises his chin in a mixture of defiance and shame. "What do you know, ser?"
"A servant of the Red Keep was tried and found guilty of one count of petty thievery of a buttered loaf. It was decided -" The man's mouth briefly twists into a sickening version of his dark, mocking grin. "That the theft was a front to distract from a poisoning attempt. He was put to the question until he confessed and was then burned at the stake alive in the throne room."
His words hang heavy in the air. Rhaegar's eyes fall to the floor as if it is the most interesting sight in the world. She clenches a fist.
She could simply…take care of the problem.
She forces herself to relax her hands and puts the thought out of her mind as unworthy of the color of her scales for what must be the third time. She will not act on it. That will have to be enough.
Lord Stark's eyes close as he leans back in his seat. "Was there a poisoning attempt?"
"Prince Viserys had a case of the sniffles and slight cough," is the Kingsguard's bland response. "He made a complete recovery within two days."
Just a cruel paranoia.
"I see." The lord opens his eyes halfway and the color in them has darkened from silver to the blue-gray of freshly forged steel. "Are the Kingsguard not sworn to keep the king's secrets?"
Her lips curl into a sneer.
Twisted, broken, perverted honor. There was nothing just in the defense of a tyrant.
Ser Whent smiled the sick smile again. "It was the king's wish that all may know what becomes of those who would dare strike at a dragon."
Stark breathes heavily through his nose. "With Fire and Blood, I reckon."
There is a tantalizing pulse of rage in her chest. All should know what becomes of those that dare to strike at a dragon.
But not like that.
She looks away and focuses on simply breathing. The flames of her corruption are searing, welling up, begging to be set free. She denies it with a heavy force of sheer will. She will not assassinate the king. She will feed his presumptuous delusions down his very throat until he chokes on it.
The hatred cools, satisfied.
"Thank you, ser." Ser Whent bows hastily and nearly stumbles on his way out the door, face drawn and pale. "A royal progress," Stark manages evenly. "Bold move, but the right one, I think. It is to be another Grand Council, then?"
"There is precedent. Aerion called Brightflame was attainted for… madness."
"Posthumously for he died drinking wildfire," Stark rejoins. "It was his son that was passed over for his madness."
"I hope to acquit myself adequately," Rhaegar says in a hopeful, but small voice. "Hence the royal progress."
"Hence the progress," Stark intones. The man visibly thinks it over, drumming thick fingers on his desk. "I will admit that in the usual circumstances, I would weigh Steffon Baratheon as an experienced lord with three heirs over you."
Rhaegar nods as if that is to be expected and she cannot keep silent any longer.
"Elevating a lawful heir in place of his tyrant father has conditions in this land?" She asks tightly, flattening the snarl from her voice.
Rickard Stark smiles, but there is no joy in it.
"The grandfather of this current king was chosen by the very Grand Council we speak of. Consider how it seems." His eyes hold a dire look. "Aerion Brightflame's line attainted for madness. Aegon called Unlikely calls his family and pyromancers to him and then most die in an unexplained conflagration at Summerhall." Rhaegar flinches, but the man is not done. "Jaehaerys II is weak and sickly, holding the throne for a mere three years. Aerys II burns men alive."
His head inclines.
"Four generations, three kings were mad enough to remove themselves or are better to be removed."
Rhaegar slumps in place, turning a plain gold band on his fingers.
Lord Stark regards him pitilessly. "We are not so far removed that we do not still suffer unfit Targaryen kings, the Ninepenny Wars but the last gasp of Aegon called Unworthy's rule."
The fire sparks within her again, this time of frustration and impatience. She is agitated enough that she forgets herself, snapping at the air. "The Others are on your doorstep! We do not have the time to prevaricate over this - "
"Hold!" Stark booms the command.
She does.
"The Others?"
Oh.
Rhaegar is staring at her with wide eyes in complete bewilderment matched by Arthur Dayne's flabbergasted face.
She sighs, dropping her face into one of her hands.
It is a natural inclination to be…gentle. To ease the lesser races into their responsibilities. A Silver's wont is to observe, to advise and guide, prepared to step back and away as soon as the children find their footing. The evils that the fragile, mortal peoples could not handle would find a shining Silver standing in their defense. They are the vanguard. They protect so others do not have to. They inspire only if and when that fails.
She does not remember telling the future king of the Seven Kingdoms that there was an existential threat on the horizon.
"The cold terrors in the far north your legends tell of," she murmurs. "They are real."
She let her failure to protect her city hinder her confidence. She let her avoidant nature cripple her. She is too rusting old to be getting this flustered over the impulsive decision to accept the silver stringed harp.
Xsio.
Did she not realize that she cannot do this alone - this is not working. Standing beside cannot work. She must stand in front. This is the formation of a crusade against a coming darkness. Distant support will not be enough. She knew that.
It was why she traveled to Mendev when the Worldwound opened in the first place.
She reaches out and gently takes Rhaegar's hand. "I am sorry," she apologizes. "I have done you a great disservice in being overly secretive and disregarding your opinion."
"Forgiven?" He whispers, staring. She squeezes his hand and then lets go.
This land is barbaric in new and foreign ways.
There is an entire continent rife with open slavery without the technology scavenged from a ship that fell from the stars like Numeria protecting them. The world has yet to even be fully mapped with entire landmasses known only by its horrors. No one knows what is west of Westeros. Honor has rusted away to a dull pitted rot. The black brothers on the Wall even now are more comfortable with the power she holds than with her kindness.
By Rickard Stark's words, this is a nation on the edge of breaking apart.
This is what she has to work with. If they are not enough, it is her duty to make them enough.
They have to be.
"I will start from the beginning." She allows her eyes to glow with her silver light and sets all discomfort aside. She is not ashamed of what she is. "I am Terendelev of Mendev, Lord Protector of Kenabres, heir to Queen Galfrey of Mendev and godling descendant of Apsu, the Dragon God of All."
"Dragon god." Rickard Stark stares at her mutely for a long moment. She watches him look around the room lazily as if cataloging that every item was in place and had not up and walked out from right under his nose.
Then he raises his hands to his temples.
She smiles wryly.
"You will support Prince Rhaegar because I chose him. Your gods told me Winter is Coming, Lord Stark. I will see that Westeros is prepared to face it."
She wonders for a moment on the nature of tyrants, but only for a moment. If she does good, it will not matter. Her Father answered her prayer with warm sunlight shining off mirror polished silver scales. He does not ask much of her.
Only to be glorious.
"Ser Dayne." The dragon smiled with a quick flash of teeth. "I will be with you in a moment."
Arthur bowed his head and stood guard.
The courtyard was bustling with far more people than he would have thought for the middle of winter in the North. These people had been bred to withstand the cold with far fewer layers of cloth and furs than he thought reasonable. Dawn was almost dizzy with excitement and it did well to push the worst of his own anxieties away.
"I will not presume to go myself," the dragon spoke modestly. "However, there is a great deal of odd magic in those crypts that I would recommend investigating."
The steward of Winterfell, Vayon Poole, marked it down in shaking hand. "Messengers have been sent to Wintertown for craftsmen to arrive on the morrow, my - my lady." Sweat beaded the poor man's forehead, his face slightly sallow when the dragon returned her hungry gaze to him. "Maester Walys wishes to make his protests known. The North's fields are too precious for untested solutions."
The dragon's eyes narrowed and the man trembled. "Who is the boy in gray and ten white wolf head livery?"
"...Jory Cassel, son of Martyn Cassel," the man answered like he was naming a potential hostage. Arthur bit the inside of his cheek.
It was not funny. It was not as if they knew the dragon caved like a gold breastplate before a child's tears. A few pointers from Monford Velaryon and the boy would rule the roost.
The dragon nodded imperiously. "Assign me one field for testing, then. Proceed as usual with the other fields and I will see that Jory Cassel will be able to offset the maester's deficiency."
Arthur bit his cheek again.
The 'moment' stretched into several as the steward, mayhaps emboldened by the Sword of the Morning's presence, took the time to take care of the rest of his list of responsibilities. He listened silently as plans were made for the dragon and some Northern knights to seek out a star that fell in the Wolfswood and investigate strange animal behavior, some form of organized sorting of magical individuals and the rebuilding of the partially collapsed First Keep, struck by lightning a century ago it seems.
An event the dragon seemed to believe should not have happened because Winterfell had protective magic woven into every gray stone.
"That will be all for now, thank you." Arthur watched Poole escape. The dragon had an exasperated half-smile on its face. "It is as if he believes I will become peckish at any moment and just eat him."
Arthur snorted.
"You were eyeing him like a snake eyes a plump rat."
The dragon made a thoughtful sound as it held out a hand. Its quartered blue and red cloak emblazoned with the gold sword lifted itself from a barrel into its grip. "Is it my fault that he stinks of fear?"
"Do you want an answer to that question?" Arthur considered the creature as it snorted, wrapping the cloak around itself and the blue and gold dress it was wearing.
"Rickard Stark is considerably more poised."
"Rickard Stark has ice in his veins."
The dragon turned to him with a gentle smile. "Are you afraid of me, Ser Dayne?"
I would be a fucking fool if I wasn't.
He did not need Dawn to tell him that.
It was no longer about the dragon being a big scaly flying beast that breathed ice. It was demonstrative with the powers it possessed even in its guise. It readily confessed to detecting the magic around it and in others. Of healing injuries that would shortly and surely kill a man. The beast had simply conjured the mid meal out of thin air so as to not interrupt the research and bother the kitchen staff.
It called itself a godling.
"I fear you with that harp in your hands."
Its startled laugh drew curious gazes. "I am improving, surely?"
"Surely," he said dutifully and it shook its head. The dragon did not look any differently from before. The same silver spun long hair and fair face. It still stood nearly as tall as a man in its guise and still moved with a predator's grace.
There was a new bite of ice in the air as he moved to a guarding position behind its left shoulder as it headed for the entrance to Winterfell's godswood, expecting him to follow. It did not have to say anything to be noticed by all it passed.
That was the difference.
At some point between their first meeting and the second, the dragon's commanding presence had diminished. Dimmed. It had left to go to the far north as a beast that did not think twice of ignoring or admonishing a prince and returned hesitant.
Shaken.
He had not noticed until whatever pall that had ailed it had lifted, leaving it as it was again.
He closed his eyes briefly.
Fuck, shit, damn -
The beast had encountered the fucking Others in the far north. Twice, by its account and both occasions could have ended in its death.
'Winter is Coming, Lord Stark.'
The creature could braid castle forged steel with its fingers as if it were rope.
Seven preserve us.
"I did wish to speak to you, Ser Dayne, but you seem to be doing more than waiting for conversation."
"I have been assigned to guard you, your grace," Arthur answered politely as he stepped around a patch of ice. "As Ser Whent guards the prince."
The dragon slowed her sure steps and turned to him, vague, gentle amusement on its face. "Should I take that to mean Rhaegar feels optimistic about this courtship, then?"
Who the fuck knows what his prince was thinking anymore. After the shock wore off, he had been nearly giddy with 'I was in the right!' and then after that wore off was overcome with the dread of 'I was in the right.'
He responded to the news the same way he always had, by burying his head in books.
"Does he have reason to be?" Arthur asked instead. "You have begun to treat him more fondly."
"That assumption is why I was distant," the dragon said, but not unkindly. "This is not fair to either of us. He has done nothing objectionable." It averted its gaze for a short moment. "I accepted his gift in good faith. I will act as I wish and if it does go well, I will accept that outcome."
He was…
No longer as against the notion as he once was.
Mostly because he was half-convinced that if Rhaegar hadn't been courting the dragon, after today, Rickard Stark might have given a dragon Lady Stark due consideration. He did not want to think about how much more likely others were to consider it knowing that the crown prince of the Seven Kingdoms already had.
Rhaegar's stupid idea was quickly turning into a nightmare.
"...dare I ask the children question?" Arthur said, resigned.
"I can," it admitted, grimacing mightily. "I would greatly prefer he find a second wife for that."
His mind ground and stuttered to a complete halt. "...I beg your pardon."
The creature sighed. "Dragon?"
What in the Seven Fucking Hells kind of answer is -
Arthur spent the rest of the walk into the godswood in blank silence as Dawn laughed at him.
The dragon's destination appeared to be a Weirwood grove. It was a quiet, idyllic location with chestnut, ash and oak trees forming a thick, snow covered canopy above them. Three still pools were in the distance beneath the windows of the Great Keep and in the center was an ancient gnarled Weirwood. It was carved with a craggy frowning face and as he watched, the pitted eyes began to weep blood red sap. In the far distance in the other direction from the pools was a reflective glint experience watching for assassins trained him to concentrate on.
Was that glass?
Surrounded by tall pines and oaks of the godswood of Winterfell, was a glimpse of a house with both walls and roof of yellow and green panes of glass against the backdrop of the hundred foot high inner wall of the keep. His mind boggled at the cost. He had never thought House Stark in the North of all places had the coin to build something so fanciful.
The dragon made its eerie considering hissing hum as it surveyed the area, a critical eye on the Weirwood. "You do not like me, is that correct, ser?"
Arthur froze in place.
It turned to him, a wry smile on its face. "Do not be concerned. I am not offended by mere dislike."
He forced his hands still, leaving Dawn in her sheath. "I am wary of you," he managed. The beast presented itself as a civilized creature with proper patterns of speech and knowledge of etiquette. It seemed kind, but he found it hard to trust that kindness as true benevolence.
Over patronizing whims.
Aerys II Targaryen had been Arthur Dayne's object lesson in what could become of the latter.
"Do you dislike me personally or of what I represent?"
He felt as if his spine was about to shake out of his boiled leathers and furs. "I do not know you personally."
"You have a fair notion of how I am," the beast said gently. "But it is difficult to separate it from the rest, I understand."
"I apologize for my inability to do so, your grace." Its face fell into something resembling misery and Arthur shuffled uncomfortably. "I keep to my oaths, your grace. Regardless of my personal failings, I take my duty seriously and will guard you as best I can."
"We had an exchange about the worth of your oaths," it said softly.
Arthur's mouth went as dry as the Dornish desert.
He had cornered Oswell Whent about his testimony. The Riverlander had smiled his darkly mocking smile.
'I remembered why I became a knight.'
"You - " He gasped out, feeling like he was drowning. "You do not understand - " He could not find the words and fell into the comfort Dawn fearfully offered.
"You are correct," the dragon unexpectedly said. "I did not understand and for that, I must apologize. This is what you know honor to be and you adhere to it as best as you are able." Its lips quivered into a miserable smile. "You raised your sword against me at our first meeting, in defense of the prince. I trust you will readily do it again?"
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
"And you are trying to protect Rhaegar from himself currently."
Arthur's jaw clenched. He would give no response.
"You are aware your blade has a mind of its own."
It was not a question.
Arthur rocked back on his heels, reflexively dropping into a stance, stalling at the last moment at drawing the frantic Dawn because of his oaths. "I will guard you, your grace, but you will not touch her!"
The dragon smiled. An uplifting, joyful, almost relieved expression as a flash of silver light entered and left its eyes.
"A true Kingsguard. A man who will break and die before he bends. That is very good. I am in need of allies like that."
Shit, fucking hells -
It was ominous praise.
"You will do."
This dragon was going to be the end of him.
Rickard Stark could do naught but stare as the great beast landed heavily before the Kingsroad Gate and with a gentleness belying its form, set his son and heir Brandon down on his feet. The boy stood there like a stump, clutching his travel bag and a sword he did not recognize in a white knuckled grip. He was still in his riding leathers, no doubt expecting to take a horse home and he looked around with gray eyes so wide, Rickard was afeared they'd fall right out of his skull. His face was white as snow and his father did not blame him one bit.
"...please tell me you did not ask after my son looking like that."
The dragon shrugged. "I do not know what you were concerned about! Lord Dustin was very accommodating."
Oh, he knew there was a snowball's chance in Dorne that Dustin wouldn't toss his son and heir at the first dragon that came knocking. That was not the problem. When Terendelev said she would escort his son home when she came back from the Wall, she did not say that she would be flying with him in her mouth, carried like an unruly pup by the scruff of his neck.
Brandon took a shaking step forwards and his legs near gave out on him. Rickard crossed the snow covered road and hauled the boy up by his shoulders.
"Father," he whispered. "Dragon." The boy of five and ten looked at him as if he didn't know what to make of the world anymore, helpless and wide eyed like a babe in the woods. "I - dragon. Teeth." He gestured wildly towards the beast. "Lots of teeth. Big dragon. It said - I - it talks. I don't - Father." Brandon clutched at his tunic desperately. "Dragon."
"I am aware," Rickard said dryly and peeled his son off him.
There was a brilliant flash of silver light. The dragon prowled forward as a Valyrian woman in shining steel plate armor and cloth of gold and Brandon's words abandoned him altogether, eyes somehow widening even further.
"You are well? I do have the means to heal you." The dragon swept her purple eyes up and down the mute boy for injury. "You seem to have weathered the flight unharmed?" Brandon nodded, struck dumb. He then stretched out a trembling arm and hand with the new sword in his grip. "Thank you, Lord Brandon."
She was polite enough not to bring attention to her having to pry his cold fingers off the scabbard first. His son's mouth opened and closed wordlessly.
The dragon nodded as if he had managed the necessary courtesies. "Shall we, Lord Stark."
He hooked an arm about Brandon's shoulders to help the boy stop shaking like a leaf. "We shall."
He'd barely gotten through the inner wall of Winterfell when his daughter, Lyanna bounded up having escaped her minders. No doubt thanks to the shadowcat cub trailing on her heels like an orphaned duckling. On one hand, he had a hard time naming a man alive that wouldn't hesitate to lay hands on the girl with a cat as big as a goat and growing. She had no need of a sworn shield.
On the other hand, asking anyone at all to keep her inside when they had a reasonable fear of losing a hand to her pet if it insisted otherwise was proving impossible.
"They said there was a dragon!" His daughter burst out. "A living one! Why can't I see it, is it gone, will it come back, was there a rider, was it the prince - "
"Lyanna," Rickard said. "Breathe."
The girl glared at him before sucking in a loud inhale. Then she hiccuped, surprise plain on her face before letting it out in a wet burp. His daughter grinned up at him sheepishly.
He sighed.
"If I may," Terendelev stepped forward and the shadowcat cub dropped to the ground in submission, exposing its belly. "The dragon you seek is before you."
"Oh," the girl said with a disappointed squint. "I thought there was a real dragon, not a Targaryen."
Rickard pinched the bridge of his nose as Brandon's head swiveled between his little sister and the dragon, horror stamped and sealed on his face.
"You're in armor." Lyanna's attention drifted as it was wont to do. "Are you the queen?"
"I am a Mendev, not a Targaryen," the dragon replied with more patience than he thought it had. "And I assure you, I am quite real."
"Then where's your wings?" Lyanna challenged. "And your scales and fire breath!"
"Do you wish for me to show you?" The dragon raised an eyebrow and her eyes glowed silver.
(!!!)
Rickard tensed.
She flung out a hand. "Shall I retake my true form and bathe this entire courtyard with my ice breath to win your trust?"
His girl shrunk back.
"...no." She said quietly, staring.
The woman broke into a throaty chuckle. "I did not think so. I am as tall as that wall." She nodded towards the hundred foot inner wall of Winterfell. "I think if I walked everywhere as big as that, lots of people would have a great deal of trouble getting around, hm?"
"That's fair. Thank you for your consideration." Lyanna bounced right back, choosing now to remember her manners. "You're an ice dragon? Is that why we think you're all gone, can all of you change into people!?"
"Right." Rickard stepped forward and swept his daughter underneath his other arm. "That is enough of that. Lady Teren will be at late meal and you can ask your questions then."
"Your name is Taeren?" Lyana wriggled around in his grip to keep the dragon in her line of sight. "Are you going to marry the prince?"
The dragon laughed again. "He sure hopes so."
His daughter opened her mouth. He covered it with a hand and ignored her licking his palm as he passed the child to her older brother. "Late meal. Keep asking and you will have your meal in your rooms." He sighed again at her pouting. "This one should be in her lessons. Take her there, that's a good lad. Clean up and meet me in my solar."
Brandon gave him an unreadable look, but at least his steps were steady as he headed for the keep, Lyanna in hand with her cat behind them.
"Prepare to have your patience sorely tested."
The dragon scoffed. "It will be no trouble at all."
She raised the sword she held and beheld it with a skeptical eye. It was old and worn with cracking leather and tarnished bronze for its crossguard with dirt on the surface of the smooth dragon's eye ruby. He would bet his left leg the blade itself was Valyrian steel.
"Might I request permission to speak to your maester directly about your agricultural practices and food preservation methods?"
Rickard blinked.
"He is being difficult," she said blandly.
He had given her somewhat of a free reign pending his approval. He did not expect the dragon would choose to use it to help with farming.
It was a matter of importance for truth. The Others (!!!) wouldn't have to lift a finger if they all simply starved to death before the fighting ever happened. The tales said the long night lasted for an entire generation.
"Granted. Our main source during winter is a house of glass, however." He expected the dragon to be singularly impressed with the sheer expense of such. It was a major house's entire treasury worth of funds.
Instead, she nodded slowly. "Just the one?"
Rickard stopped in his tracks. He turned to her, narrowing his eyes. "Aye," he said slowly. "Just the one."
The dragon princess smiled sharply. "Then I will start there. Glass was a simple invention in the end."
(!?)
"You know how to make glass."
"Yes," the dragon said simply, as if the Myrish glassmakers wouldn't hire assassins on the spot if they overheard. "I will need assistance identifying your names for ingredients, but it is not difficult. In fact," she tilted her head, eyeing him like a wolf eyes a cornered injured doe. "If you are agreeable, I am willing to make two houses of ice today in a gesture of good faith."
"Two houses of ice," Rickard echoed. "Today."
The dragon held up a hand, scratched out a rough square with the toe of her armored boot and then breathed.
When the mist settled, there was a clear sheet of thick ice on the ground roughly conforming to the square shape.
"I will need frames of wood to form the sheets," the dragon said, a hiss of vapor glittering with ice shards escaping her lips as he stared. "It is no stronger than normal ice, but mine will not melt if I do not wish it so. Get me the plans for the house you have and I will construct you two more."
"I will see if we have those plans," he said calmly.
He had just come from hashing out the draft of a trading contract with the heir to Driftmark, Monford Velaryon's personal trading galleys to end his imposition on the Manderlys of White Harbour. With two more glass houses, Winterfell's reliance on imported grain from the Reach would vanish. The trading galleys would soon be trading for a surplus.
He was already drafting the letter to Olenna Tyrell through her son in his head, finally and unequivocally ending future shipments.
Good riddance.
Give that woman an inch and she would rob him of his small clothes if he let her.
"Thank you, your grace. It would be an immense boon."
The dragon inclined her head. "I accept your thanks, but I have no intention of stopping at just two houses of ice."
"No?" He asked mildly.
The dragon did not smile so much as bared teeth. "We are preparing for a long night, Lord Stark and Winterfell is not the entire North. I do not care about politics. You are the border frontier. There are methods I could teach, contraptions I could build. Your people will have what they need."
He marveled at the difference in demeanor from the dragon that licked his walls to the queen in all but name. "Bold claim."
"I am a - "
"Dragon!" Was shouted across the hall as soon as they entered. The Senior Ranger that came with his cousin was a slender man of average height with dark red-brown hair and was currently heavily laden with books. The dragon met him half-way, taking the entire stack from him with an enviable ease.
"Mance. I have finally ceased brooding."
"That explains nothing - Lord Stark." The black brother bowed and then shot the dragon a look that could melt steel.
He waved a hand at the Great Hall where a full score of people ushered to and fro from the library, ferrying parchment, scrolls, books and scraps of information to lay out as his desk was not large enough. Velaryon was pestering his steward with questions, talking with his hands as much as his mouth in a serene sea green doublet decorated with the silver seahorse. The prince had contributed the books and parchment he had brought with him to the cause, nattering away to an aggrieved Sword of the Morning who looked like he was having a splitting headache. Oswell Whent of Harrenhal stood guard, looking like a drowned rat for all the man was not wet, having removed his helm revealing a bird's nest of damp brown hair and his drawn face.
Brenn had drafted his youngest son Benjen under Maester Walys' pinched face. They looked to be sorting through the material, the boy on the big Flint's shoulders pointing at books. To his credit, his cousin seemed unfazed by the direwolf pup the boy got from somewhere and the ghostly cold lights that flickered in and out around his head.
"What did you do?"
"Informed Lord Stark and Prince Rhaegar of the stakes," the dragon said, seemingly oblivious to the man's ire.
"You agreed to follow the Lord Commander's lead on this."
Rickard made note of that.
"I will take full responsibility."
"We don't have the evidence."
The dragon's eyes flashed a brilliant silver. "I decided that I am the evidence." She looked towards him and nodded. "Lord Stark."
It was a dismissal of a Lord in his own seat, but he only felt bemused. That she was a dragon was no obstacle. He would call a pig in a dress 'your grace' if it had steel in its spine, a sense of honor and aided the North. If the prince didn't fuck this up, this woman was to be his queen in name as well.
He found he was looking forward to the day.
"Lady Mendev."
Brandon was waiting for him when he made it back to his solar. The boy looked up from where he had been sneaking looks at the correspondence on his desk, unashamed.
"Father." The boy waved his hands around. "Where the? Fuck? Did the? Fucking dragon come from!?"
"Well met, my firstborn son and heir," Rickard drawled. "I missed you as well. I am ending your fostering a little early. I have instructed Rodrick that you will be continuing your martial training as I will be instructing you on wielding Ice."
"I - what? Are you taking the Black?" His son's eyes blew wide open. "Are you dying?"
His heir was as a three week old pup at times. Put him in an unfamiliar room and within the hour he will convince himself the world is ending. He was going to have to consider how to break the news of the godsdamned Others to him carefully.
Best to leave him stuck on the dragon for a while.
"How was the flight? Did you piss yourself?"
Brandon gave him an incredulous look that turned ashamed. Then his grimace morphed into a familiar smirk. "And left an unbroken trail of yellow snow from Barrowtown to Winterfell as well!"
"That's my boy." He gave the young man a hearty clap on the back. "Take a seat. Much and more has happened and I would tell you of it - " His eyes caught on the Arryn seal on one of the letters. "Hold a moment, news of your brother."
He peeled off the wax already dreading the conversation when Eddard visited in the spring to find his home turned upside down. He read through the letter quickly.
(!?)
He read through it again.
"Father?"
Rickard Stark, Lord Paramount and Warden of the North had a new very large headache.
And its name was Eddard Stark.
"News from your brother," he said flatly. He cleared his throat and then in a falsely high voice said, "Well wishes, Father. I hope you are well. I am now blind -"
"What?" Brandon yelped.
His son snatched the parchment from him as Rickard collapsed into his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. Then he sat up straight as if stung, snatching the letter back again, this time reading between the lines and hissed through his teeth, "Why is my son writing this, Jon Arryn, you yellow bellied craven - "
"He doesn't feel cold," Brandon said, wondering. "The old gods speak to him?"
Rickard grunted. He was going to have to make a spectacle of Brandon receiving Ice early so no one got any clever ideas. "Part of what I wished to speak with you about. You've noticed Lya's cat and all of Benjen's nonsense, I trust?"
Brandon looked away. "I've got a snow eagle."
"Those are extinct," Rickard said blandly.
"Guess they're not." His shoulders hunched momentarily as if expecting a scolding, which he should because all his children liked to keep secrets from him, it seemed. Then Brandon straightened, lifting his chin. "Dragon out flew her, but she's on her way."
Eddard lost his sight, but his letter assured that he had gained the ability to pin Elbert Arryn's shadow to the ground and learned High Valyrian in a day with magic a possessed dire wolf was teaching him.
Lyanna did not seem to control her animals so much as instantly tame them. She knew somewhere in her head how to turn an ornery old horse, feral hound or wild shadowcat cub docile. He took breaks from his work more often just to make sure the girl hadn't disappeared into the Wolfswood looking for more "pets" to add to her menagerie.
Benjen's eyes began to burn like ice overnight. Cold lights formed around him and metal froze on his fingers. He had a young boy in his bed for nightmares for a fortnight straight after Old Nan thought it appropriate to tell him the tale of the Night's King.
(…)
He just realized that if the Others were real, he was going to have to look into that.
Brandon being a simple skinchanger bonded to a nearly extinct snow eagle was almost a relief.
"There have been strange happenings in Winterfell," he admitted. "Strange dreams and illnesses resolving into greenseers, skinchangers and who knows what else. Our blacksmith swears he can move steel with his thoughts, I personally feel stronger, yet have begun feeling overly burdened by my own armor - "
"Here too?"
Father and son stared at each other.
(...!!!)
Rickard dove for Eddard's letter for the third time. This time the words 'Robert Baratheon is recovering well from his illness' leapt out at him as damning.
"Brandon. What precisely do you mean by 'here too?'"
I'm curious, will our MC ever take offense to people using it/its pronouns? Or will people just stop on their own as they realize just how human she is compared to the dragons they know.
I'm curious, will our MC ever take offense to people using it/its pronouns? Or will people just stop on their own as they realize just how human she is compared to the dragons they know.
The pronoun use is mostly within their own PoVs rather than directly addressing her to her face as an it and she's not into thought policing. Atm it is basically just a showcase of each person's individual mindset at each point in the story.
Mance for example changed on his own, even if he won't address her by name, even in his head.
I may be wrong, but do the quotes need fixing here?
I'm... also unsure of the meaning of the above, in the story. Confusion due to pronouns?
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Fun episode. A few people finding reality... isn't working quite how they might hope it did. The Daughter of Stark is introduced, and questions a dragon! Further encounters between them are eagerly awaited!
I may be wrong, but do the quotes need fixing here?
I'm... also unsure of the meaning of the above, in the story. Confusion due to pronouns?
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Fun episode. A few people finding reality... isn't working quite how they might hope it did. The Daughter of Stark is introduced, and questions a dragon! Further encounters between them are eagerly awaited!
Is there a risk of confusing readers? Figuring out who/what 'it' refers to? I suspect that's what happened to me. Might throwing in a bit more context help?
Is there a risk of confusing readers? Figuring out who/what 'it' refers to? I suspect that's what happened to me. Might throwing in a bit more context help?
)
