It probably says something that her pureborn were universally more of a pain in the ass to raise than her incredibly improbable half Red crossbred clutch.
It'd be... good to know more of her half-Red offspring in this story. How they were when they grew older, whether they found human form useful, maybe whether they were... a bit saner (in human terms) than most dragons?
I guess a physical appearance is unlikely to fit, but, maybe a visit in dreams?
I could see Rhaegar finding a visit from one of her... children, commenting on 'Mother', an... interesting (terrifying) experience...
I would also like to say that I enjoyed the combat scene, it was fun and well threaded, and managed to sensibly portray a threat that could harm (though not majorly) the godling dragon without completely pulverizing the weak humans (Arthur was only half pulverized ). An esoteric attack like the crystal breath was a good choice in this regard, something weird and unexpected that could catch even a powerhouse offguard. Seeing the humans be this vulnerable adds a lot of stakes to all future combat encounters, especially since their fragility constrains our glorious dragon overlord from going all out, but at the same time we get to see that they are competent and do their best with the meek human bodies and abilities they have, perhaps giving us a small glimpse of their future heroic glory should they survive long enough. I liked it a lot!
Terendelev: I just got this Sword of the Morning and if anything happens to him, I will kill everyone in this room and then myself.
Rhaegar: *raises hand* I feel like I should be jealous?
Oswell: Because you're an idiot.
Arthur: No. Gods, no.
Terendelev: You are all very lucky I am only offended by terminal stupidity.
Brandon: I saw that look.
Terendelev: You were meant to.
King's Landing
"However, Elia would be queen." Rhaella Targaryen cursed her tongue as soon as the words came out of her mouth.
Why did she say that?
A cold winter breeze blew through the open balcony. A small tea table laden with biscuits, sweetmeats, cakes and two cups of tea in gray Yi Ti porcelain gilded along the delicate edges with gold leaf sat between the chaise lounge chairs.
"She would be queen then, yes," Cereza Nymeros-Martell, the Princess of Dorne replied neutrally.
Rhaella picked up her tea, plate and all and hid her grimace with a sip of the steaming beverage as her companion marked her place in her book. She kept her eyes forward, blinking away the steam that blew into her eyes.
'Do not look at them!' Her mother had told Rhaella. 'You are to be their queen, you command and they obey.'
And yet she still felt the craven.
She did not want to see pity.
The urban sprawl of King's Landing lay before her. The Hook cut a muddy brown path through the white snow covering Aegon's High Hill, from which the Red Keep rested. Down below, what she could see of the streets of Silk and Steel were dark lines overlooked by the snow covered roofs of various noble manses and estates. The marble walled Great Sept of Baelor crowned Visenya's Hill to the west with seven crystal towers defiantly standing against the gray clouds rolling in from the distance. The sky was as blue as a robin's egg with a pale sun glittering off the shores of ice lining the bay of the Blackwater Rush.
A few moons past, she would have been risking catching her death out in this chill wearing little more than her day dress, a flowing design of black with slashes of crimson within the ruffles of the skirt and bodice. Her kinswoman would have playfully refused to step outside at all and Rhaella would have allowed it. She remembered well that first moon Cereza spent in King's Landing being rife with a runny nose, lethargy, coughs and infections of the ear.
Sunspear rarely even glimpsed snow so matter how long the winter. Now, the cold bothered neither of the women sitting beneath the gentle flurry of snowflakes.
The last time she sat with Cereza like this, they had been princess and handmaiden. Now they were queen and princess, but so much had changed since then.
More than she had believed possible.
Cereza's eyes had once been black as coal.
They were now a startling blue, a color that shone sapphire in shadow but the slightest addition of light revealed the vivid flecks of violet. Silver-gold locks contrasted sharply with the remnant of the once all-black hair at her right temple. Refined cheekbones and chin reminiscent of the memories Rhaella had of her mother, Shaera Targaryen had reshaped Cereza's face. That she retained the olive skin, the two small moles on the side of her chin and by her left eye, the same straight hawkish nose, the same wide but full lips, the same…the same features that let her recognize a stranger on sight only contributed to the odd sensation of surreality.
Dorne's Princess had always been more striking than beautiful. Clad in the flowing Dornish silks of gold, the light slap demanding your attention when she entered a room was now a backhand with a mailed fist.
She averted her eyes, still feeling her mother's suspicious narrow eyed gaze on the back of her head decades later.
"My daughter will take no comfort in the title of queen," her distant cousin said simply. It did not matter if it was only Rhaella's ears that heard the unspoken 'Just as you have not' as it was true all the same.
Cereza had that talent of saying just enough to prick, but not enough to reveal the knife. Those half spoken sentences had once vexed Joanna so…
Rhaella hid a second grimace in her tea, hoping the hot drink would settle her turning stomach.
"He might be disappointed with her look," the woman continued. "A single silver dragon streak and one eye of violet." Rhaella was sure she was not imagining strain in her laugh this time. "Little changed for Doran aside from going gray before his time, but Oberyn is Olyn Nymeros-Martell come again and hating every moment of it."
The name of the first son Daenerys Targaryen bore her husband Maron Martell after the Submission of Dorne, Rhaella knew.
Cereza played with her tea cup, turning it on its plate. "I sent him with Elia to have some peace, to tell you true."
"I hope…it was painless?" Rhaella asked, thinking of her other cousin, Steffon Baratheon. Daenerys Targaryen had been Cereza's great grandmother. Rhaella's own aunt whom she is named after, Rhaelle Targaryen is Lady Baratheon and Steffon's mother. Their relation was far closer.
And it showed.
Cereza's fingers on the cup went still and that said a thousand words. Rhaella winced, wishing again that she had not said a word.
"I see."
The conversation stalled.
The words hung in the air like a dead cat in a bag for several long, torturous moments.
"Joanna might have leapt at the offer." The Princess said as if it had just been an idle thought of Rhaella's, extending the white flag of parley as she set the book on the edge of the small table. "She had her hopes set on a desert thorn over a fish."
"Tywin Lannister would have leapt at the offer," Rhaella corrected gently, blowing needlessly over her tea. "And Joanna had always picked her battles carefully."
Cereza hummed thoughtfully.
"She practiced that, I am sure," was said lightly.
Rhaella stared out over the city. "Picking her battles?"
"Opening her mouth and letting her husband's voice out."
Rhaella could not help her shocked glance.
"Do not look at me like that," Cereza admonished her with the wicked smile Rhaella both recognized and did not on the strange-familiar face. "She had to practice such a thing, so when she wanted something, well, of course Tywin was always willing to listen to himself."
Rhaella's lips pursed. "You are terrible."
"Guilty as declared."
Most of the time, it was as if the funeral had been six years ago, but every once in a while, it felt like yesterday. If her answering chuckle was a little sad, a little choked, Cereza was kind enough not to mention it and instead picked a biscuit off the tray.
"Elia's hand would only be given in marriage with her consent after having met the match, this I promised her."
"You sent her to Volantis." And that had no right to sound as accusing as it did.
Where her mother sent the girl was of no concern of hers. Not even the possibility of a betrothal between Elia and Rhaegar had been raised at the time.
Rhaella hid a third grimace in her tea.
There was an art to such a thing. It could not seem hurried nor that she was necessarily hiding an unwanted expression. She swallowed another unappetizing hot mouthful.
At this rate, she will have drunk more boiled leaf water in a single meeting than she has all year.
"I have full confidence that she will not return intent on bullying me into approving a match she made for herself in Essos." Cereza smiled wryly. "She is not Doran."
"So she will ask politely first," Rhaella quipped and was rewarded with a small chuckle.
"Just so."
"A familiar tale, is it not?"
Cereza conceded the point with a tilt of her head. "I have been cursed with children all too much like myself."
Rhaella hoped, she prayed that she was under such a curse as well. Viserys was only two, a happy, babbling babe.
Who has to be told she was the woman that gave birth to him.
She was still never left alone with her youngest son. Aerys' baseless suspicion had not yet abated that much. He - Viserys was still warming up to her, but she had faith that she would not need to dismiss the wetnurse he also called 'mama' just yet.
Rhaegar was more complicated.
"Steffon could be sent to recall her early if you will not," Rhaella pressed because it had not been just an idle thought. "A marriage alliance between our two houses is not so terrible, surely?"
"And so the king shall wait until she returns if he is truly of the mind to inquire after her," the Princess spoke dispassionately about the same king who had taken to cheerily naming the woman 'cousin' before all and sundry.
"She might be good for my eldest," Rhaella ventured. "My boy tends to fly with his head too close to the clouds." Or in books and scrolls. "He needs someone more goal oriented, grounded."
"Perhaps she will agree," Cereza allowed with a pointed look. "Whenever he returns from his recent flight of fancy."
A fourth grimace was obscured by the delicate Yi Ti porcelain cup.
Rhaegar was more complicated.
Her own father Jaehaerys II had been so enamored with an old woodswitch's "prophecy." So much so that it decided the marriage of his children for some 'promised prince.'
Bollocks, all of it.
Her treacherous mind turns to her child at seven name days of age. A small boy who never truly knew his grandfather, excitedly chattering about a 'destined bride' for him before she even knew she was with child. He had been right about the timing and gender of the child.
But her girl Shaena had been born dead.
Rhaegar had been devastated with more than just grief. A truly clever boy with moments of true brilliance.
Consistently marred with something uncanny that Nuncle Aemon only encouraged in his letters.
Seven forbid, that boy comes back married.
"I would not call it a flight of fancy," Rhaella rejoined. "Unless you would say your visit is one such flight of yours?"
"Ah, yes." Cereza did not bother to hide the unhappy twist of her own lips. She never had. As the heir to the rulership of Dorne, among young women taught from birth that their worth lay in their marriage, she never had to. Rhaella had always envied that.
She still did.
"I will admit to a curious interest in revisiting some things. What strange times we live in, hmm?" The Princess of Dorne ran a considering hand over the faded, leather cover of the book she had been reading. Remnants of the Dragonlords by Archmaester Gramyon were engraved in the red hide in faded gold lettering. "When history no longer is content to remain - "
A heavy knock on the door to the joining room sounded out. Rhaella set her tea on the table, sitting up as the oak door on black iron hinges swung open.
"Your Grace." Ser Jonothor Darry, the Kingsguard assigned to her, stepped in. A thick overcoat in the colors of House Darry lay over the white enamel scales of his white armor, fur lined his gloves and the ser was miserably battling a stuffy nose judging by the redness of it.
By the king's command, the Red Keep was once again outfitted for summer. Windows open, reduced consumption of firewood, meetings held in the many gardens of the castle amidst wind and snow. Fortunately for the running of the keep, there were enough dragonseeds found in King's Landing that could prove their lineage eager and willing to serve in the place of warmth seeking others. Knightly and Masterly houses such as Longwater, descended from Velaryon and Targaryen bastards, were unaffected. The blood of the dragon proved true. More and more pale haired heads filled these halls, leaving all who suffered the chill with their king's not-so-quiet contempt.
The Hand of the King, Tywin Lannister, numbered among the miserable.
That was reason enough for Aerys to command it.
"What is it, ser?"
Ser Darry bowed deeply. "Begging your pardon, your grace. The High Septon has sent a request for a meeting with your grace here in the Red Keep. What is your will?"
"I would be willing to speak with him at his earliest convenience." She did not have to consult her itinerary.
She had no desire to attend court with her brother-husband. The stench of burnt flesh and ash still tickled her nostrils. She long since ceased counting any noble women of prominence within her circle. Years of Aerys' predations and whoring had cured her of it, which left her with the unimportant dregs of the Crownlands.
She had her fill today of watching her little boy look for another woman as he played.
Rhaegar was still missing.
She could hold private banquets or meetings, perhaps sewing in a circle with other noble women.
She did not want to see pity.
Ser Darry turned in the doorway to address someone in the hall and then turned back. "In a bell, your grace?"
"So soon?" A small kernel of concern lit in her stomach. By the time a messenger descended the hill and made his way through the streets to the Great Sept of Baelor, the High Septon would have to depart post haste to make it in time. "An urgent matter?"
Ser Darry grimaced. "I could not say, your grace."
Of course not.
That would be too simple.
Gods, she hated politics. For all that the High Septon preached, dealings with the Faith were always political.
"A bell then," she said after a moment.
Ser Darry bowed once more. "As you command. Your grace." He turned to her guest. "Your grace."
"Ser." Cereza had picked up her book again, looking for all the realm as if she was engrossed in the reading were it not for the complicated expression in her vivid blue eyes.
Rhaella nibbled on a biscuit as the door closed heavily, stalling her own reaction.
Letting her fears run amok would not help her.
"I am not sure I wish to know what this will be about," she finally released with a sigh. "Nor why he thinks to approach me with it."
"You should be glad for it," Cereza mildly rebuked her as only the older woman could. Rhaella had not needed to defend her right to do so to her mother, Shaera as Cereza gladly did it for her. "Approaching the lady of the house before her husband is seeking alternatives before formal action, is that not the way of things?"
That was the way of things. Her biscuit sat heavy in her stomach.
That the High Septon of the Faith of the Seven, their Voice among men, would be moved to seek alternatives…
"The burning?" Rhaella whispered.
"Mayhaps." Cereza grimaced. "Mayhaps."
"What else?"
For a long moment, there was no answer as the Princess of Dorne ran her fingers over the cover of her book once again. "I did not know how to admit this. Forgive me."
Rhaella watched numbly as her distant cousin picked up the small steel spoon from the candied sweetmeats tray. As she held it up, the metal near her fingers began to hiss, steam and finally gain a dark red glow that grew brighter the longer she watched.
She did not understand what she was seeing.
"...how?"
Cereza smiled grimly as the spoon began to warp and bend as the sticky syrup of caramel dripped back onto the tray. "A gift. In return for my life."
Rhaella raised her eyes from the spoon. "A gift?"
Cereza's lips pressed together hard enough to drive the blood from them. "You were aware of the journey through the kingdoms I underwent with my two youngest children some years ago?"
Yes, she remembered.
Because Cereza was able to do on a mere whim what she could not bring herself to beg Aerys for.
To see Casterly Rock, home of her dear Joanna Lannister, after her friend passed away in childbirth.
"It must have been in the Stormlands, wet and miserable as it is." Cereza flicked her fingers carelessly. "I contracted the consumption."
Rhaella choked.
Her free hand darted to her mouth as she coughed. "I beg your pardon?"
"Consumption," Cereza repeated with a sad smile. "Fear not. The Flames burned it out."
The Flames burned it out.
Rhaella put her tea down. With shaking fingers, she reached across the small table between them. The Princess did not retreat, allowing her queen to grasp a silver-gold lock of her hair. She rubbed it between her fingers as if the pale color would give way to the black it had once been.
Quietly, she asked, "What Flames?"
"I believe you know," Cereza replied just as quietly.
"The gods of Valyria." The silver-gold lock slipped out of nerveless fingers. "The Valyrian gods gave you a gift."
"They did," her cousin confirmed. "After Mother Rhoyne rejected me." Rhaella let her hand drop as Cereza drew back, the first flicker of vulnerability Rhaella had ever witnessed on the older woman's face. "I thought I knew hatred," Cereza murmured. "I thought I knew it, until my daughter drowned."
Rhaella startled in her seat. "Then Elia - " She stopped herself at the way Cereza's eyes wearily closed. "Then Elia…"
"I did not send her to Volantis," the Princess admitted. "She is at the mercy of greater mysteries and powers far beyond me."
Aerys would be disappointed with Elia's look, Rhaella remembered. Only a single dragon streak of silver and only one purple eye. Princess Nymeria and her ten thousand ships of women and children had fled the embers of the fallen civilization of the Rhoynar who once revered their mother River Rhoyne.
Torched by three hundred dragons of the Valyrian Freehold.
They landed in Dorne and the joining of houses was the birth of the Nymeros-Martell name.
"What strange times we live in." Cereza echoed. "When history is no longer content to remain history." Her violet flecked eyes opened. "Water itself answers Elia's call. Who am I to deny her? And the Seven…" Those eyes looked away. "It was nowhere to be found."
"You converted."
Cereza's lips twisted unhappily again. "How could I not?"
How could she not indeed?
Rhaella did not have the words.
This woman in front of her should be near to her deathbed, if not on it already. Consumption was a slow, insidious killer, a disease of the lungs that ate away at the tissue until the victim coughed more blood than air. Drowning on land, unable to breathe or simply wasting away.
"The Princess of Dorne," Rhaella began slowly. "Holds to the gods of Valyria."
"I do."
Hearing it plainly did not make it feel any more real.
"My little brother Lewyn currently tends to a sapling tree of white bark with red five fingered leaves."
"A weirwood?"
"Flourishing in the middle of arid Sunspear. Desert roses are blooming."
Aerys had once boasted of digging a canal through the Red Mountains to 'make the desert roses bloom' in Dorne during their visit to Sunspear years ago. A painfully fanciful idea, discarded and forgotten by him like so many others.
Cereza's small smile quickly faded. "We will have a proper Northern godswood in a few years time. He is not alone and gifts such as mine?"
She lowered her voice.
"Are not restricted to only the nobility."
"Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, your grace," the High Septon greeted her with a dusty, but strong voice.
He did not bow.
She expected it. He was the voice of the Seven among men. The laws of a king were one thing, the laws of gods were another.
The High Septon of the Faith of the Seven was a short, weedy man swimming in the long robes of his office, tastefully and simply decorated. Rhaella did not know his name, for all shed their names upon being elected to the position and this one a contemporary of her grandfather, Aegon the Unlikely. The crystal crown on his head glittered and he shuffled with thick sleeves of parchment in his wrinkled hands. Age spots nearly as numerous as freckles dotted the face not covered with a white beard, but his eyes were sharp and his back straight.
Rhaella inclined her head in acknowledgment. "The Iron Throne has ever been a friend of the Faith since the days of Jaehaerys the Conciliator."
"And it is that friendship that brings me to you today."
Yes, it did seem to be as Cereza had said.
Alternatives before action.
Politics was a cesspool she had no desire to wade into.
But needs must.
"Shall we sit, your holiness?" She kept her voice even as she gestured towards the seats.
"Yes, thank you, your grace." The old man let out a quiet groan she pretended not to hear as he sunk into the cushioned sitting chair.
She had chosen a sitting room far out of the way within Maegor's Holdfast, the fortress within the Red Keep that housed the royal apartments. She had no illusions that the Master of Whispers, the eunuch Varys, did not have ears even here, but that was no reason to be careless.
Rhaella kept her pleasant expression as a pale haired maidservant poured two golden goblets of mulled wine and stoked the fire she had ordered prepared beforehand.
Leaving the High Septon to freeze would be unseemly.
She subtly shifted in her seat, ruthlessly suppressing the flinch of phantom pain. It had been several moons, She was fine. "Seven willing," she murmured to hide the movement. "The Citadel has made their prediction correctly and this winter will end soon enough."
"Seven willing," the High Septon echoed and now, more than ever, did those words sound hollow to her. The old man smiled as he sagged into the cushions. His crystal crown stood high and proud on his wrinkled bald head. "Am I to understand that you still keep to the Seven the same as your forebears, your grace?"
Rhaella blinked.
"Ye - es…" she said slowly.
The gods of Valyria had chosen not to speak to her. A woman of Valyrian descent, of the house of dragonlords was unworthy of an audience. All she remembered before she woke in bed with her blood aflame was a dream of a molten eye.
And an unseen dragon's beating wings.
"Forgive me," the High Septon said heavily. "I assumed you were aware that our prince of the realm has renounced the Faith."
Rhaella set her wine down on the table beside her before she threw the cup.
Of course he did.
Of course he did.
Her son had just disappeared off the face of Westeros again, leaving Aerys' eunuch piecing together what had happened at Dragonstone, but she was hardly going to say that. Only her own timely reminder of their kinsman serving as a maester in the Night's Watch calmed her brother-husband from suspecting treason from his heir heading north.
Never mind that an hour before, he had been fretful that Rhaegar had been assassinated or kidnapped instead.
She did not need this!
"I see. Near two moons hence, I wager."
The old man's head bobbed. "You wager correctly, your grace. He had the forethought to send a copy of the announcement to the Starry Sept of Oldtown as well as the Sept of Baelor here in King's Landing."
Forethought was not the word she would have used.
This already stunk to high heaven of her boy's sudden, unexplained decisions. She still had not the faintest notion what prompted Rhaegar's turn from a reclusive scholar to a celebrated tourney knight. He was often just shy of erratic by his ability to explain his actions in a logical manner when pressed.
After the fact.
"That is curious, I will grant you." A childish burst of pride at her ability to keep her voice calm flared in her chest, then faded. "Surely, that cannot be the sole reason for this visit? Rhaegar would hardly be the first Targaryen to hold other gods."
"But none on the throne," the High Septon rejoined.
"Rhaenyra Targaryen," Rhaella said swiftly with an eyebrow raised in challenge as the man's brow wrinkled.
No matter how many would prefer the only queen to sit the throne to be known only as a pretender, the line of their current king was that of the Half-Year Queen and not of her usurping brother Aegon II.
"There were many arguments against her ascension. I do not recall her faith being one of them." She settled her hands in her lap to hide trembling fingers. "Uncle Duncan was disinherited for refusing to set aside his smallfolk wife, not for holding the old gods of his mother and wedding before a heart tree, unless you recall differently?"
"No," the man who had joined Aegon V in pressuring the boy to dissolve his consummated marriage murmured quietly. "I recall no different."
Perhaps had Duncan married his beloved Jenny in a sept before a septon, that annulment would have never crossed the High Septon's mind in the first place.
She breathed out and squeezed her hands together. "I was under the impression a new monarch being crowned by the Faith to be mere tradition, not a requirement."
"It is, however, a concern," the High Septon continued strongly. "The Iron Throne made the commitment to protect the Faith of the Seven, an agreement signed and ratified by the Conciliator in exchange for exceptions."
Like incest. A marriage such as her own was decried as a sin and her two boys abominations had they been anyone else but Targaryen. "You wish to know how good a protector can a monarch who rejected the Seven be?"
"You have the right of it, your grace." The High Septon rustled the sleeves of parchment on his robed lap. "I would seek to hear from the Crown Prince for I would be remiss in my duties were I to not at least try for an understanding. To see if he could be guided back to the Faith or seek reconciliation. However…"
The old man looked up at her from under his white bushy eyebrows. "I am short on time. With no expectation of when Prince Rhaegar will return to the capital, I bring it to you."
"Short on time." Rhaella repeated.
"There are certain matters that cannot be put off and succumbing to the temptation to do so, promises to create a quagmire from which it will be difficult to escape."
She chewed on the inside of her cheek.
Gods, she hated politics. "Speak plainly."
The High Septon hesitated. "You grace…I speak of the rearmament of the Faith Militant."
"The Faith Militant?" It flew from her mouth at the speed of an arrow loosed from a goldenheart bow. "You cannot be suggesting a reformation of an army beholden to no lord or king under the command of no more than the local septon?"
'Are you mad?' She did not say.
The Poor Fellows, the more 'humble' order of commoners and women had scaled these very walls of the Red Keep seeking to murder the royal family after Aegon the Conqueror's son married his children together. The Doctrine of Exceptionalism did not stop the Good Queen Alysanne from nearly being assassinated for her marriage to her brother-husband and pregnancy.
Aerys was not fool enough to aim such a dagger at their own hearts.
"I am aware of how it sounds," the old man said heavily. "However, I see little choice in the matter."
"Because Rhaegar would not worship the Seven?" She asked incredulously.
"No," the High Septon said quickly. "No. Your grace." The man held up his hands, palms up as if asking for alms. Rhaella opened her mouth, but before she could utter a sound, a light flickered into being in his palms.
"Behold," he said quietly, reverently. "A skill taught to me by a septon serving Flea Bottom, in the face of the poor and downtrodden, himself a farmer's son, found his heartfelt prayers answered. A more humbling experience," he spoke of the miracle in his hands. "I have never before known."
Rhaella stared wordlessly.
"I am still investigating occurrences, but have found…enough, I believe. A hedge knight with the ability to call the Warrior's blessings to his sword," the man spoke. "A woods witch with the Crone's miraculous cures. Craftsmen receiving ingenuity from the Smith. All need neither oaths of fealty nor my leave to proceed as they see fit. Just faith."
The High Septon held out his hands to her and the sparkling light reflected off the spires of his crystal crown.
"You misunderstand me, your grace. This is not a request. It is a warning."
Rhaella sought the comfort of her own apartments after that conversation. The familiar richly colored Myrish carpet and finely polished copper mirrors and other luxuries greeted her in all their cold, uncaring glory. The red brick, black iron and dark wood furnishings Maegor the Cruel had commissioned for his grand fortress before he murdered all the builders surrounded her, trapping her.
The High Septon's warning rang in her ears.
"You look as if you have seen a ghost." Aelyn Longwater pressed a wooden cup of chilled Arbor Gold wine into her hands. Rhaella stared into the dark drink until her lady-in-waiting took it back. "A bath then," she sighed at her queen's unresponsiveness and gently hustled her towards her bedroom. "Are you willing to share, your grace?"
Rhaella started a little.
She looked at the young woman with pale blonde hair and lilac eyes of too low birth to truly be considered for Rhaegar's queen, no matter how loudly her father boasted of being of proven Velaryon descent.
Bastard descent, but proven nonetheless.
"Not yet, I think," she murmured.
"The bath or whatever's got you so unsettled?"
Rhaella sighed. "Both, Aelyn, but thank you."
She wrung her hands, guiltily. "I could go gather up the others?"
"Please do not, I have not the energy." Aelyn was rambunctious, but earnest. There was no pity. The girl still looked vaguely horrified instead. Rhaella reconsidered. "Perhaps a bath. I trust you know my preferences."
"I do." Aelyn Longwater had no fear of scalding water any longer. "Please rest, your grace."
"I will."
Left alone, she hesitated before the door to her bedroom. Her gorge threatened to rise, her stomach turned as her bruises seemed to burn from the proximity. Gritting her teeth, she pushed the heavy dark wood door open and swept in hurriedly.
The Myrish lace. The delicate silver and gold furnishing on the wall scones, lining the furniture. Oppressive dark wood and black iron. Her room was just as she left it.
She still did not know how to feel about that, save for the queer sensation that she must have felt something.
It was in her avoidance of looking at the bed that she found the one thing that had changed in her room.
There on her windowsill was a small steel colored dragon.
Her hands flew to her mouth to stifle the gasp.
Was Aerys harboring dragon eggs in his room again? Was her numb thought. It must have just hatched, being no larger than a cat curled up as it was on the stone sill with its stinger tipped tail hanging down. The blackened tip was twitching in its sleep. It had its small head tucked under its tiny wing with a pudgy belly and stunted claws on its hindlegs.
"Oh," she finally breathed.
And like a spell being broken, the little creature woke up.
It yawned. Needle sharp little teeth in a tiny maw followed by the cutest little chirrup she had ever heard. It then hiccuped, a puff of steam and then its wide surprised eyes narrowed. Its eyes were steel, or silver, the same as the scales of its body and Rhaella felt tears come to her own eyes in wonder.
A dragon.
A real, live dragon.
The first dragon seen in over a century.
It was gorgeous, perfect, living and -
And it was beginning to look alarmed.
Her heart stopped as the beast spread its wings, drawing attention to the sword belt looped around its thin shoulders. It was not going to -
When it launched off the sill, she yelped. "No!"
The small dragon pitched drunkenly over her head, nearly braining her with the long scabbard it was carrying as it made its way out the door.
She rushed after it, "Wait, no, pl - "
Her pleas caught in her throat.
"My apologies," a silver haired woman said with audible frustration as the light about her faded. "I keep forgetting drakes cannot speak before a certain age."
At first, Rhaella looked about the room.
Checked the tall rafters.
Peeked behind the stuffed long chair.
The same scabbard the little dragon had been carrying was held in the strange woman's arms. Her hair was the same shade of shining steel as the little dragon's scales.
"You…" Rhaella's mouth worked. "You?"
"Yes." The young woman had a sheepish half-smile as if Rhaella had just found her nicking pies from the kitchen hall and not being discovered as a young dragon. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, your grace. I am the silver dragon, Terendelev."
For a moment, luminescent silver scales flashed into being over the woman's visage, gradually fading into silver light, then lit outlines before fading.
"Yes," her mouth spoke without her. "A pleasure."
Rhaella blinked then.
"...I need to sit down."
She collapsed into the long chair, tilting her head back until all she could see were the rafters of her ceiling. She breathed in. Breathed out. She stared long enough at the top of the holdfast until she could feel herself turn as if on a slowly spinning plate with a dash of vertigo before she inhaled once more.
She looked down.
The woman was still there. "Are you well?"
"I do not know," Rhaella answered honestly.
The woman held out a hand. Rhaella grasped it before she could think better of it.
She was real.
Her hand ran just as warm, porcelain skin with long fingers and a firm grip. Rhaella's eyes trailed from the hand up the soft leather silver sleeves patterned like dragon scales. The top of her dress were made of those same scales, cut away at an angle across the flat stomach. A luxurious blue silk formed the rest of the dress, the skirt embroidered with ruby diamonds fell to the floor. The woman herself was the very image of what it meant to be a dragonlord. Her face shared the same sculpted perfection her Rhaegar inherited, but unlike her pale haired son and herself, the dragon's loose long hair was truly silver. It shone and glittered as if each strand had been spun from the metal itself.
Eyes of dark indigo stared back, a distant predatory amusement within them.
It was those eyes that convinced her. "You are a dragon."
"I am."
"...are you…bigger?"
Rhaella flushed as the dragon broke into unashamed laughter.
"Much, much bigger."
She pulled back and was allowed to slip her hand free. "How? Why…?"
This 'Terendelev' smiled then, flashing straight white teeth. "I was born with this ability. And I have come to offer you this."
The scabbard was held out and only then could Rhaella finally notice that it housed a blade. "What is - " Her voice died for the second time in so few minutes when the sword came free with a cold whisper and revealed the dark smoky gray steel.
Valyrian steel.
The shining bronze flame shaped pommel. The polished large dragon's eye ruby on the wavy crossguard below the black leather hilt.
"Is this…"
"Dark Sister," the dragon finished for her. "Recovered from Lord Commander Brynden Rivers by yours truly. And now I return it - "
"No!" Rhaella blurted out.
The dragon blinked. "No?"
"No," Rhaella said, softer as she tightened her grip on the blade to keep her fingers from trembling noticeably. "The blade of Queen Visenya should be in the hands of a warrior."
It was a powerful symbol, a reclaimed ancestral Valyrian steel blade granted back to their house by a dragon.
A powerful symbol wasted on the marginalized wife of the king.
Provided her son had not gotten himself killed -
"Not yet," the dragon said with an amused twist of her lips. "I understand the concern, believe me."
Rhaella stared up at her. "I - pardon me, I did not realize I said that aloud."
Amusement flashed strongly in the dragon's eyes. "That would be because you did not say it aloud."
A chill shivered down Rhaella's spine as she swallowed thickly. "...you have met Rhaegar then?"
"Have I met him?" The dragon smiled once more as she sunk into a courtesy Rhaella was instantly envious of before her, not a single waver or wasted movement. "I have granted him the honor of courting me."
Rhaella sprung from her seat.
"Oh thank all the gods!"
The dragon's lips twitched. "There are Northmen that would swear on their deathbed that he was mad."
"Of that I am sure," Rhaella scoffed. She took back every unkind word she had ever thought about her eldest son and forgave him for taking off to Dragonstone, leaving her with his father alone after the thief burned.
He claimed a dragon.
This was it.
This was the answer to everything. This dragon had been born with the ability to change forms. She would not question it. Dragons broke the back of the Faith once before. Dragons could break it again.
She shoved Dark Sister back into the bemused dragon's arms. "Please, give this to him. Did he truly go north?"
"To the Wall," the dragon confirmed, still looking unsure as she adjusted her grip on the blade. "Maester Aemon had sent a letter to Dragonstone about my presence."
"Well, thank the gods for him as well, then." She took back every unkind word about Nuncle Aemon too. "Where is my son now?"
The dragon's mouth opened before its hungry indigo gaze suddenly darted to the corner of her sitting room behind one of the Tyroshi tapestries lining the walls, a mural of a dragon killing a harpy in aerial combat.
Rhaella stiffened when the dragon held a finger up to her lips and a whisper sounded quietly, but clearly in her ear.
'Play along.'
Terendelev turned to give the wall her back, incidentally obscuring any glimpse of Dark Sister within her shadow. "Is there anything you would like me to prepare after your bath, your grace?"
Her fingers trembled. "Only some mulled wine, and perhaps some of those hazelnut cakes from the kitchens, Taeren."
Rhaella winced immediately for using an unfamiliar name that Varys would no doubt latch onto. She should have just said Aelyn.
The corner of the dragon's lips pulled up. "Of course. I might take one for myself, they did smell lovely."
"Not too many," Rhaella said reflexively as another whisper sounded,
'Meet you on your balcony.'
"Yes, yes, not too many…or at least commit to walking up and down the Tower of the Hand afterwards?" The dragon swept out of the room as if she belonged in the royal apartments. Then again, she would.
Rhaella eventually began the stagger back to her bedroom, half in a daze.
Her son was to wed a dragon.
Within a quarter of a bell, a considerably larger silver scaled dragon swooped onto the small brick overhang attached to her bedroom behind the tall oiled wooden shutter door. Silver light overtook its form and the silver haired woman dropped with cat-like grace onto the floor.
"Where I come from." The dragon dropped a napkin sack onto her dresser. "Spying on your own monarchs was treason."
"Only the king himself is beyond suspicion," was Rhaella's practiced response. Where the dragon came from - no, she was not dealing with that today. "Are those hazelnut cakes?"
That distant, hungry amusement of a cat watching a mouse struggle to escape shone in her eyes. "Yes."
"Thank you," Rhaella said helplessly and the dragon inclined her head. "...you said you were bigger."
Why did she say that?
"I have been told that my natural form is comparable in size to the Great Queen, Vhagar, albeit a bit smaller." She barely heard the 'smaller.' Any dragon comparable to Vhagar was an awesome beast of power and destruction. "Age is not a restriction for my ability. As for your earlier question, he is in Winterfell." The dragon smiled gently. "Lord Stark has agreed to support Rhaegar's bid for the throne."
Rhaegar must have made a favorable impression -
"Wait." Bid for the throne. The Crown Prince, already crowned as such before the realm once he reached his majority, did not need to make a bid unless his ascension was in question.
Like if his father was still alive.
Hope and dread pooled in her belly in equal measure. It was too early. It could never be too early.
"Now?"
The first sign of the dragon's ill temper surfaced. "Not quite," it spoke sharply. "I have been advised that subterfuge was necessary at this junction. He wished to announce his bid after securing the Vale and the Riverlands."
"Impatient?" Rhaella ventured cautiously. At two moons since he had been reported missing it was too soon to tell, but she knew her son. Rhaegar was not so good a man that he would not think to force the issue as Duncan had. "Forgive my prying, but you have not yet lain together, have you?"
Revulsion stole over the dragon's face. "Never."
"Oh," Rhaella breathed, her excitement cooling. "Then you cannot…"
"I can." The dragon said bluntly. "I simply will not."
That answer refused to make sense no matter how many times Rhaella rolled it around within her skull.
"Why?" She gasped. "Without a legitimate heir - "
"He has a younger brother," the dragon nonchalantly interrupted a queen. "Does he not?"
Rhaella clasped her hands before her. "He is still young," she forced through her lips. "An illness, a battle, a tourney injury or even a Trial by the Seven could leave no heirs at all. It has happened before."
Daeron the Good's heir, Baelor Breakspear, suffered a blow to the head in a Trial over a tourney accident. His two sons were taken by the Great Spring Sickness, leaving his younger brother Aerys I the throne who shunned his wife's bed, leaving the throne to his younger brother, Maekar I.
Whose heir predeceased him from illness.
And his second one was mad enough to drink wildfire.
When the Peake Uprising killed Maekar, a Grand Council had to be called to settle the succession.
"We are too few. Questions would rise the longer he goes without an heir of his own, a single heir in his brother is far from a stable one. The court is full of vipers with poisoned smiles looking for such weaknesses."
Aerys had summoned Steffon to King's Landing, only to order their cousin to search Volantis for a bride for Rhaegar. Those behind the Black Walls of that city were covetous of their lineage and the purity of their blood. Her and Aerys' grandmother was a Blackwood. Before that a Dayne and then a Martell.
Perhaps Aerys had convinced himself of the feasibility.
But only a fool would not consider it Aerys' attempt to deprive his own heir from making a powerful marriage alliance in Westeros. She considered it telling that no one, not even her brother's newest pet spy from Lys, volunteered the lower hanging fruit of Lysene and Tyroshi noble daughters.
It would have been a mission doomed to fail.
But then the stars fell from the sky.
"Such things are of even more import now. To ascend ahead of his father's passing is unprecedented."
"So I have learned." The dragon's smile was thin and cold. "I am choosing to believe that your house must have fallen far without those beasts of burden you call dragons." Her indigo eyes were ravenous. "To speak to me of such petty concerns."
"Petty?" Rhaella echoed, shocked.
"Petty." The dragon waved a hand in the air. "What concern is it of mine what is said behind my back or to my face? Words are wind and I am a dragon."
Dragons do not heed the opinions of sheep, Rhaella thought suddenly. A foolish, pithy statement Rhaegar had taken to parroting.
She was the queen of the Seven Kingdoms.
She was sheep.
Rhaella breathed. The years she had spent seeing venom behind every false condolence for yet another lost babe. Seventeen long years of her worth repeatedly, loudly questioned by grasping former friends. Her brother. All over a living heir was but a petty concern of petty, small beings.
She was not even angry. "Is it petty to fear that any family that weds a daughter to Viserys would have every reason to hasten his ascension?"
"I have already committed myself to Rhaegar's protection," the dragon readily dismissed. "Do you truly believe any house would be so eager to earn my wrath? Neither his injury nor his illness frightens me."
She committed that to memory even as she softly rejoined, "You cannot be at his side always. You are not at his side now. You need only be late answering his call once."
The dragon's face softened. "That is true."
It was not pity, nor even consternation in the dragon face at the thought of surviving Rhaegar.
A muted, distant fleeting regret.
That was all.
And why not?
Rhaella blindly groped behind her for her chair and fell into it heavily.
Why not?
The mighty Vhagar readily flew young Aemond Targaryen at the funeral of her previous rider. It was said that dragons were as gods on earth. Atop their backs, the dragonlords were above both gods and men.
And gods were beholden to none but their own peers.
"Yes," the dragon answered the unspoken thought once more. "It takes much to offend me precisely because so much is beneath me, your grace. You do not wish it were otherwise."
She supposed she did not.
The dragon sighed. "If I were to concern myself with such things, another bride would be for the best for children regardless." Rhaella looked up in confusion. "Mayhaps the first generation will be…stable," the dragon drawled with a faint sneer. "The third would not."
"...why?"
"The first generation would bear the full effects of their lineage," she replied coolly. "Such things quickly stop being assured. What happens if the heir of the heir did not manifest his bloodline, but his younger brother did?"
If Rhaenyra Targaryen had not managed to claim a dragon of her own at all, but Aegon the Usurper always had his dragon Sunfyre. Or if she had, but amidst the rumors of the bastardry of her heirs, her sons could not.
"Or neither did, but the nephew born to the house his mother wed into does."
"I understand," Rhaella croaked.
The dragon inclined her head as regally as any queen. "If he does not change his mind, Viserys will be his heir."
Even had Elia Martell been available, her marriage bought only ten thousand Dornish spears. The Lord of the West was no friend of the Iron Throne. Not anymore. Rhaegar knew better than to give enemies a marriage and Cersei Lannister was too young in any case.
House Tully of the Riverlands would benefit from a royal marriage.
Far too much.
Factitious, insubordinate vassals both capable and willing to check their Lord Paramount's power and an indefensible land that had seen countless wars fought within its borders. Fit for a second son, as her own father had been, but not the throne.
Both had scales, but between a fish and a dragon was no contest.
"He will not change his mind," Rhaella murmured, twisting one of her rings around a finger.
The dragon smiled briefly. "I suspected as much. Should you wish to tell him anything, send the raven to the Vale. Your grace."
Silver light shone.
Rhaella rushed to the balcony, watching as a startlingly large white raptor with gray speckles on its feathers bore away on the harsh winter wind north. Dark Sister hung around its neck, the sword dangling down as it winged towards Rhaenys' Hill and the abandoned ruins of the Dragonpit.
…had that just happened?
It must have.
"Your grace?" Aelyn's voice called from the door. "Your bath is ready."
It must have.
The napkins had lost their knot, leaving two small hazelnut cakes on her table.
"Cousin!"
Rhaella felt a burst of chagrin when Steffon Baratheon swung around precariously at the sound of her voice.
"Cousin!" Lord Baratheon boomed, unaware or more likely uncaring of the disgruntled, swaddled courtiers he left behind as he hobbled towards her. The robust, ruggedly handsome features and coal black hair had been…burned clean.
Only his voice and character were recognizable.
The rest was as if an artist had taken exception to the traits of the old Durrandon kings. A file and chisel had been taken to the sculpture until only a man who could have been the Spring Prince, Baelon Targaryen come again, remained. Hair as gold as any Lannister shot through with silver and more pale hairs in his close cropped beard. Red-purple eyes set in a finely featured face; a jawline that could cut glass, a regal brow and full lips, but at least his straight nose still carried evidence of being broken three times.
"Come to save me from politicking today?" Steffon jested jovially as he insisted on holding out his arm. "You are too kind, my queen."
"Not at all," she said tightly as she took it, adjusting her stride to compensate for the click clacking of the cane he still leaned on. His eyes were still glassy with illness along with a faint pallor to his newly pale skin.
She still did not understand it.
She woke up with fire burning in her blood. Cereza had to accept a cold bargain, her worship for her life.
Steffon had been comatose with fever for near to an entire moon.
Did he receive a 'gift' as well?
Kept quiet for fear of Aerys' volatile nature?
A sudden fear took her as she searched the meeting room she was in with new eyes. Lucerys Velaryon was Aerys' lickspittle lord who also woke with fire in his blood. Had he been offered anything?
Penrose? Chelsted?
Lannister?
"I am saving you from sycophants so you can assist me with politicking."
Steffon made a face. "Lovely."
"Quite."
She pulled him along out of the shallow hall into the corridors of the Red Keep. The red brick Maegor the Cruel commissioned surrounded them, decorated with black iron, dark wood and hanging tapestries and portraits. Ser Jonothor Darry followed shortly behind them. The clanking of armor muffled by the man's attempts to stay warm under layers in a sharp contrast to the light black doublet Aerys' had made for their cousin. The Baratheon gold decorated the collar, clasps and cuffs, but the emblem on his breast was quartered with the stag and a single headed crimson dragon.
To be afforded the right to that crimson dragon was a great honor she had not agreed with.
More so now.
Steffon sighed. "What did he do now?"
"Nothing yet." Rhaella glanced up into his concerned plum colored eyes. Steffon was handsome so she looked forwards again.
The Princess of Dorne, the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands and the Lord of the West were all in King's Landing. Tywin would be difficult. Cereza's support was inconsequential, but would still be welcome.
Steffon was dangerous. She needed to know just how dangerous.
In the other big ASOIAF/D&D story I read, A Sword Without a Hilt, the Faith of the Seven had a pretty bad time in the world with awakened magic.
Mostly because Bloodraven was active from the start and the old treelich is far better at his job than any cleric or paladin among the faithful could possibly be.
Here though Bloodraven is dead and as another factor, it doesn't seem like the gods of Valyria are dead.
So a wholly different playfield for divine rivalries to play out, looking forward to it.
Noble politics, where a life, a thousand lives, can hang on a single, miss-said, word. How I do hate you...
Still, stir a true dragon into the mix, those with words of sharp-edged steel, may have to tread... a little more carefully.
Guess we'll see whether any child, sleeping in human form, of other ancient beings is awoke by the changes... Or, is that more the concern of your other story?
Rhaella: Let me get this straight. My husband is an insane pyromaniac, my eldest son disappeared off the face of the earth and the church is about the come at us with pitchforks and magic?
DM: Rhaegar is courting the dragon. Unfortunately.
Rhaella: ...and that makes everything better?
DM: Um. So you can roll to get this bad ass magic sword? It's only a DC 5?
Rhaella: *rolls a 2*
DM: Um.
Rhaella: I hate this campaign already.
Long time, no see. The promised Vale chapter is coming, but I needed to shake the rust (pun!) off on writing. Hope this doesn't annoy anyone too badly.
Interim: Golarion
"How bad was it?" Galfrey, queen of the crusader state of Mendev, swiftly strode down the corridors of the Cruciform Cathedral of Iomedae.
Unlike other monarchs, she did not rule from a castle or palace, but from a temple that doubled as a military base. All of Nerosyan was built the same way, function over form. The city was built in diamond shaped fortifications centered around the Cathedral for the sole purpose of making the districts easier to defend in the event of an attack. There were some flourishes. The white marble was red-veined, dark wood furnishing, plush red carpet, gold plated braziers, statues and candelabras, but for the most part, this was a place of worship and righteous purpose.
Galfrey prided herself on living similarly. Her full plate armor was richly furnished with brass embellishments, not gold to make it easier to replace. The darkened steel itself still had nicks, dents and scratches from battle, evidence of repairs by the blacksmith's hammer. She was without her full helmet, but what replaced it were the braids of her golden hair and her crown forged from plain steel.
"By far the worst case of demonic corruption we have ever seen."
He was a humble looking man, out of place walking just behind the queen of Mendev in her plate and crimson and Mendevian blue cloak. A farmer or woodswitch by trade from the look of him, with coarse clothing sparsely decorated with stitching and bird feathers. A lined, weather beaten human face under a mop of red-blond hair, but the warning growl of a dragon echoed from his throat and shivered across the high ceiling.
Galfrey turned slightly. "We?"
"We," Halaseliax rumbled.
That included the entire Silver dragon Collective and their combined centuries of experience with the demons of the Abyss and the corrupted land of the Worldwound.
She let out a slow breath and hiked up her shoulders. "Understood."
"Do you really?" The Gold dragon had a talent for asking condescending questions without quite sounding like he was.
"I understand enough," she said curtly. "A Tarnished Metallic dragon is akin to a fallen paladin. Terendelev lost her way."
"By the time I arrived to guide her back…" the Gold dragon hesitated. "I was ready to die trying. She was a Rift dragon of the Abyss in all but name. Her scales were midnight. That she is recognizable right now is testament to her strength."
In spite of herself and the subject, Galfrey smiled. "That's my girl."
"Do not reject her."
Galfrey stopped dead in her tracks. "You really think I would give up on fifty years just like that?"
Halaseliax looked at her placidly. The only evidence of his displeasure were his brown eyes had been replaced with twin orbs of pure gold. "Your goddess did."
Her stomach clenched. "...why?"
The Gold dragon looked away. "Our efforts in cleansing the corruption, of purification, were failures."
"But then…"
"She is recognizable. She is not cured," the elder dragon stressed. "The usual methods either did nothing, or the malady reacted so violently, I could have easily killed her had I persisted."
"She proved capable of driving Deskari's premier warlords from the battlefield only five years ago." Her lips pursed. "Perhaps it is not so surprising that the demons want her dead so badly."
The Gold ducked his head. "I am certain that would have also been an acceptable outcome."
That cryptic statement drew a frown from her.
She supposed a mad tarnished Silver dragon equal to a balor lord with intimate knowledge of the crusade's military could do a lot of damage before she was…put down.
That was how demons worked.
Dedicated to calculated misery.
"With an inability to rid her of this…curse," Galfrey settled on. It was not her fault. Never. "I take it you went the path of control instead."
"A chaotic form of evil cannot truly be controlled," Halaseliax said slowly. "Only denied. Or appeased."
Her stomach sank along with her heart. Terendelev put in the work. The effort, the hours and the service to be ordained as a cleric of Iomedae instead of relying on the power of her birthright. She could not imagine the Inheritor turning her back on any paladin, inquisitor or cleric of hers that denied the pull of the Abyss.
That left appeasement.
What pieces of herself Terendelev was capable of protecting against the caustic, ravenous hunger of the Abyss.
And what she could afford to lose.
"She is recognizable," the queen said dully.
"She is recognizable," the dragon repeated miserably. "Please. Do not reject her."
Galfrey breathed in, quick and sharp. 'My strength is not in my sword, but in my heart. If I lose my sword, I have lost a tool. If I betray my heart, I have died.'
Iomedae's decisions were her own and it was not for her to gainsay them. However, her paladins swore to always guard the honor of their comrades, to have faith in the best of them.
"I will not. I swear it."
Halaseliax studied her. Even in his humble guise, the full weight of his years and majesty still shone through.
He nodded. "This way."
The Gold led her to one of the small chapels sequestered away within the Cathedral near the barracks. It was a room meant for quiet contemplation and confession rather than grand sermons, attended by a single elderly veteran of the crusades. A warpriest perhaps, or an old paladin. It was in his stance and sharp salute when he saw her.
"At ease." Galfrey waved him down.
The evening sun was spilling red light through the thin high windows, bathing the entire room in a bloody glow. The Inheritor's statue dominated the far wall of the small room. The regal woman in gold plated armor with a longsword boldly pointed at the sky and the other hand resting on a kite shield planted on the ground emblazoned with the radiant sword symbol was a familiar sight. There were a handful of small plain wooden pews and red cushions at the sides for kneeling.
Not far from the door in the back pew, a miserable figure was hunched over clasped pale hands.
"Terendelev," Halaseliax rumbled. "Your rhîsskha is here."
Galfrey startled. She knew that word. "Her what?"
The figure jerked in her seat, rasping. "My what?"
By the Inheritor, her girl sounded wretched. Galfrey gave Halaseliax a 'you will explain that later' look, unimpressed with his innocent smile, before she approached the pew.
Terendelev turned to face her.
Matted silver hair damp with sweat. Sallow pale skin. Deep blue eyes red-rimmed and hazy as if suffering through a high fever.
Halaseliax, as good as naming her Terendelev's mother, was instantly forgotten.
"Oh, Tee," Galfrey murmured, stepping forwards even as the silver dragon in human form cringed back.
She was trying to make herself as small as possible, Galfrey noted.
Not that it was very difficult.
Dark, dirty clothing that her human guise practically swam in, as if she had recently lost weight she did not have to lose. Her silver hair was dull and unevenly cut, missing in some places like locks had been yanked out at the roots leaving scabs behind. Her cheeks were sunken. The bags under her eyes looked more like bruises. Just sitting there on the pew, Galfrey could see tremors of exhaustion wrack her form.
"Your Majesty," Terendelev croaked. "You didn't have to - I mean - " She started to rise from the pew, to bow or curtsy because even half-dead, vulnerable to any stiff breeze, Silvers adored their manners.
"Forget protocol," Galfrey cut her short.
The dragon froze.
"In fact," Galfrey said. "I forbid you from standing on ceremony with me."
"I - I - I - In - in public and polite company, surely…?" Terendelev stammered. She licked her cracked lips, blue eyes darting around the small chapel as if looking for an escape.
It was a split second decision. "No."
The Silver cringed again.
"Really, you act as if it would kill you." Galfrey stepped forward carefully, as a druid would when approaching a frightened, hurt animal. "It's been almost a year. You were missed, dear one."
Terendelev shuddered. Her expression crumpled.
Galfrey slipped into the pew beside her. Slowly, gently, she wrapped an arm around Terendelev's thin shoulders. Those shoulders shook once.
Twice.
Then the girl all but collapsed into her side against the hard steel plate. Galfrey's free hand came up reflexively to cup the dragon's clammy cheek. The cold nose nuzzled into her palm as Galfrey hugged her closer, wishing she had the forethought to change out of her armor into something more comfortable.
"Allow me," Halaseliax murmured. In an understated show of strength, the Gold tore Galfrey's thick tangled cloak free from its steel fastenings and wrapped it around his student.
The girl felt like a baby bird in her arms. Shivering, weak and feverish.
The queen's heart broke.
"There we are," she murmured into the dirty silver hair. "There we are."
"You shouldn't have come," Terendelev murmured brokenly. "I couldn't - I failed. I'm not safe."
"Well, I don't know about that. I feel plenty safe right now."
Terendelev pressed closer. Her thin hands grasped at Galfrey's armor as if they were still tipped with razor claws. A sibilant hiss. Bared teeth scraped over her jugular. "Are you?"
Galfrey held herself still and relaxed. By her goddess' blessing, she could heal herself through a torn out throat.
She'd done it before.
"I believe you are capable, and more importantly, willing to control yourself." Her words came out evenly around the ball of ice in her stomach. "The dragon I know will settle for nothing less."
The Silver hissed again. "The dragon you knew died in a squalid cave on the border to the Worldwound."
"Did she?" Galfrey mused aloud. "Then I wonder why whoever it is I have right here bothered to try to warn me away." The dragon in her arms trembled. "Could it be that she doesn't want to hurt me?"
"But I do want to," Terendelev whispered.
Ah, Galfrey thought. She turned her head slightly, catching sight of golden eyes and a nod in her peripheral vision.
This was what Halaseliax meant.
Merely recognizable.
"And yet you still haven't."
"Don't tempt me!" The Silver's snarl shattered the peace of the chapel.
Out of the corner of her eye, Galfrey saw the attending cleric slowly rise from his seat. She held out a hand, halting him. Terendelev sniffed contemptuously, eyeing the man like he was a bloody steak she would love to tear apart.
But the dragon remained harmlessly curled into her side on a pew in a chapel devoted to Iomedae.
There was still hope.
Those dark blue eyes, the same shade as that of her father, the last prince of Mendev, looked up at her from under silver lashes.
Galfrey vividly remembered when that color was chosen.
Like many Silvers, Terendelev had defaulted to silver for her eye color. Unlike many Silvers, the girl quickly realized and cared that meeting her gaze was difficult for the lesser races. The predatory draconic instinct that kept her from being mistaken for a celestial-blooded silver haired Aasimar instead was not helped by the unnaturally bright color of her eyes.
The dragon had awkwardly asked for permission to use the same shade of blue as Galfrey's own.
She denied it, of course.
Half in jest and half out of a desire to see what the dragon would come up with.
When it was her father's eyes staring back at her from a hesitantly smug face, Galfrey realized what Terendelev had really been asking permission for.
Silver dragons. Silver eyes.
Dragons themselves were separated into subtypes by color.
It was too late to allow her the use of Galfrey's deep sapphire eyes, but she could, and did, explicitly allow her to keep her resemblance to the Mendevian royal family.
Terendelev's eyes dropped.
"Someone once told me, a wise and kind Silver dragon, actually, perhaps you know of her," the queen said lightly to Terendelev's watery, weak laugh. "That we crusaders were beautiful."
The Silver groaned and shrunk in age old embarrassment as the Gold snorted softly.
"I remember that." Halaseliax teased.
Terendelev muttered something unintelligible.
"That even amidst our suffering, our loss and despair…we held onto hope. We gave our all for our loved ones, for the world. Out of compassion, out of duty, we continued on."
"Duty is not enough," her dragon murmured. "Compassion, sympathy, affection, all of it burns away. Just rage," she growled. "And hate."
"Then do not think of it as your duty," Galfrey offered. "Just don't let the demons win."
The Silver went still.
"...yeeeessss." The hiss crawled up Galfrey's spine. "I do not have to care." The dragon rolled the words in her mouth, savoring them. "But that is no reason to let them have what they want."
"Do good," Halaseliax's deep voice tentatively ventured with the air of someone hesitantly reminding another of something. "And it will not matter."
If she was to be honest, redemption through sheer spite was not the worst idea Galfrey had ever heard.
Or proposed.
"I will try," Terendelev said in a small voice. Then she cleared her throat. "But not because I was ordered to."
In spite of herself, Galfrey had to smother a smile. "I do not recall making it an order, merely a suggestion."
"Because I want to."
"Of course."
The Silver grumbled a little. "...I'll kill you last."
"And voluntarily put yourself at the back of the line of all the demons that want to kill me first?"
"Good point," Terendelev muttered sleepily.
Halaseliax's exasperated stare bored into the side of her head.
Yes, she should probably aim to not make things worse.
"I will not give up on you," Galfrey murmured gently. "So do not give up on yourself."
Terendelev's breath hitched.
Choked.
There were no tears.
The sun set and the light from the windows to the chapel darkened and died as they sat together. The old cleric lit the candles with murmured prayers to the Inheritor, the Light of the Sword, the Lady of Valor. She could repeat those prayers in her sleep.
She likely could repeat them while dead.
Barely audible, came a guilty whisper, "You remember your oath to Iomedae?"
"Always."
Galfrey smiled in bittersweet nostalgia.
It was strange, sometimes.
To remember that there were noble houses in Mendev that prided themselves on generational worship of Iomedae.
When she herself had been alive for longer than Iomedae has even been a goddess.
"No matter how arduous, no matter how dark the skies, no matter how much blood flows from my wounds, I shall stand with you."
It was almost a bedtime story.
A bedtime story of a young queen's faith and conviction, among the first to take up the banner of Aroden's heir amidst the shattered promises. Back when the Age of Lost Omens and broken fate had begun, when the Worldwound had just opened, but she still believed. Saw victory against the demons of the Abyss on the horizon.
"We shall fight for our loved ones and our friends, for the right to live and die free. We shall do everything we possibly can, and after that, we shall begin to do the impossible."
That had been some seventy years ago.
"...and if the hour should come when our arms can no longer raise our swords, our bodies will become a shield for those who still have the strength to fight. I, Galfrey, Queen of Mendev, swear this to you."
Over the years, familiar faces changed. Grew older, wrinkled and gray before finally becoming absent, replaced by new faces that became familiar.
Then grew older, wrinkled.
She stayed the same.
"This I vow," she whispered.
Galfrey was one hundred and thirty four years old with all the strength and vigor of herself at twenty three. Her life is prolonged by powerful, expensive magics as a crutch, to keep Iomedae's chosen paladin at the head of the crusade movement. Every close companion, comrade in arms, friend, family that stood with her on the battlefield when the Herald of Iomedae blessed her was long, long gone.
So great was the need, that the simple fact that humans were not meant to live forever was disregarded.
It was lonely.
Her faith remained.
And a Silver dragon.
There was a slight tug on her armor.
"Again?" Was a quiet, childish plea.
The queen of Mendev rested her cheek against the top of the silver gilt head. "No matter how arduous, no matter how dark the skies…"
It was in the middle of her third recitation when she realized Terendelev had fallen asleep. As always, Terendelev looked painfully young asleep. Even as a dragon, her tendency to curl into a ball meant stumbling upon her was more adorable than intimidating. Her thin frame swaddled in Galfrey's thick cloak and bird's nest of silver hair was the image of a tired child.
With careful movements, she shifted the girl off her pauldron onto her legs. Her fingers picked through the knots and tangles of silver hair.
"Thank you," Halaseliax said, heartfelt. "She thought her friends had abandoned her to suffer and perish."
"We did not want to leave her. We just all wanted her to get better," Galfrey murmured, working through a matted clump of silver hair.
"I thought of bringing her to the azata first," Halaseliax admitted.
Galfrey raised two incredulous eyebrows. "That would have gotten one or both of them killed."
Her first cousin Countess Brenhild Arendae had seen something in the angel of Elysium all those decades ago, but in her experience, Braganon was best in very small doses with at least three days minimum before repeat exposure.
"I am aware," the Gold deadpanned. "We will depart in the morning - "
"Back to that cave?" Galfrey interrupted. "Let her stay here. The royal wing is private enough - "
"Not for a dragon throwing a tantrum," Halaseliax said. "The minute she begins to feel overly burdened with a human form, she will shed it and if I should need to stop her…"
Galfrey stifled a sigh.
Her first impulse was to insist and hope for the best, but her sense won out. It had taken nearly a year after that demon ambush for Terendelev to 'only' threaten Galfrey's life instead of actually trying. Dueling dragons in her capital city would be a disaster.
"Look at her," she said softly instead, carding through the silver hair. "She's exhausted."
"Our hearing is impeccable. Her lair and coin bed is far from here," the Gold said warmly. "She would still have trouble sleeping, if she did not feel safe."
There was an almost painful twinge in her chest.
"I will have rooms prepared in the royal wing anyway," Galfrey found herself saying. "For when she returns."
When.
Not if.
"As is your right."
"As her mother?" Galfrey laughed coarsely. She strangled her own voice when Terendelev stirred and kept quiet until she settled. "She is at least eight times my age."
Halaseliax bowed his head. "That means much less than you think."
"Yes, I know." She could only agree. A hundred year old elf was an adolescent. A hundred year old dwarf was on the far end of middle aged. A hundred year old human should have one foot in the grave. "Sometimes she is almost a thousand and sometimes she is almost twelve."
A confident, regal and poised woman when in her element.
An anxious, awkward mess of a teenager when she wasn't.
"The first time I saw her, she was in the main hall, looking as if she wanted to collect my crusaders, their armor, boots and all."
"I had to keep her from wandering off before she actually managed to enlist," Halaseliax reminisced fondly. "She didn't even notice I was holding the back of her collar."
He hadn't even needed to look, Galfrey remembered. As soon as Terendelev started to move, fixated on some curiosity, a weathered claw had already been snagging her shirt.
"I called her child then." 'Dear one' was a compromise. "I still feel that impulse whenever she is being irritatingly Silver."
"I am guilty of that one as well. Constantly." The Gold sighed. "For the exact same reason."
"Which is ridiculous, as I know she has had children of her own."
Halaseliax let out a long, drawn out sigh of resignation in response. "Teenage rebellion."
Galfrey blinked.
"At five hundred?"
"Yes."
She snorted. "Well, we do have our fair share of encounters with headstrong Silvers. Sevalros - " The Gold winced and she bit her tongue. "If it is any consolation, the Silver Collective reported no sign of him recently."
Silver dragons were reclusive and isolationist as a rule. She has heard it said that Silvers in a territory could be 'neighbors' with another Silver they will only set eyes on once a decade at the local meet up. The Mendevian population of Silvers waged their own war against the demonic hordes of the Abyss, understanding how vital Mendev's struggle was to the safety of the rest of the world.
A concept many of the bordering nations failed to grasp in favor of their own petty politics.
If she tried to run her crusader state the same way the Silvers governed their own, her army would rebel as one.
And they would be right to.
The sheer perfectionism she only received glimpses of from Terendelev boggled the mind. Mentors were assigned to younger dragons efficiently with signups, negotiations and numbered tables. Detailed, yet concise military reports on their efforts were submitted on time, every time with a precision she could set her clock to. Shift length measured in weeks of hyper vigilance and little rest or food. A dragon 'officer' and a dragon 'grunt' were divided only by responsibility. No difference in pay, privilege or luxury. Internal report cycles that expected one hundred percent participation with a recent referendum to make mating less burdensome to bolster their numbers.
To be a Silver dragon was to be meticulous, thorough and driven.
That did not make them callous or uncaring.
Every so often, news crossed her desk of the great lengths a Silver dragon went to for the sake of their friends. Right here in Nerosyan, under the watchful eyes of senior clerics of Iomedae were Silver dragon hatcheries. Part of their agreement with their nominal allies was keeping their young safe, even as their parents fought the demonic hordes. There were losses, even among their mighty comrades. So far, five had died in attempts to bring Terendelev's wayward sworn brother and fellow student of Halaeliax, the Silver dragon Sevalros back from the Worldwound.
No egg ever went unaccounted for.
She was considering copying their rotations for mental health herself -
No egg…
"...she introduced herself only as being of Apsu's line all those years ago," Galfrey realized. At the time, she had been thoroughly distracted by the 'rogue' Silver wishing to enlist and fight with the crusaders instead of with her own kind. "That is not typical of Silvers, is it? Not with their record keeping and pride."
The Gold dragon smiled. "Perhaps."
There are no orphan Silver dragons.
Galfrey traced the shell of Terendelev's ear. "Who is she?"
"Whoever she makes of herself."
Her lips pursed. That was not an answer. "I see."
The Gold held out cupped hands in surrender, but said nothing else.
She changed the subject. "It would be for the best if the tale of a corrupted Silver dragon overcoming her trials to regain her former purity was the one told."
If she could learn to control, or at least to suppress her curse…
No one else needs ever know.
It would be a private matter between Terendelev and the goddess, Iomedae then.
"And I will remove her from the front lines."
"Your generals will not be pleased," the elder dragon rumbled. It was not a warning. It sounded more like he was curious.
"I find myself not giving a damn what will please my generals," Galfrey scoffed. "The same reasoning they used on me to keep me safe applies to her now. We cannot risk the conqueror of the balor lord, the Storm King."
She was safe now. And must be kept safe.
They already almost lost her once.
This must be a taste of what dragons feel, Galfrey thought. To be both possessive and protective almost beyond reason, ready to bare her teeth before the gods themselves, all for the sake of the hurt hatchling huddled underneath her wings.
Kenabres. The fortress she saved a decade ago would be ideal.
Terendelev was already fond of the city and its people were fond of her. They kept a broken claw of hers in their Estrod Museum, celebrated as a hero of the crusades and invited her to attend their festival parades as a guest of honor.
The Fourth Crusade was a disaster. She could admit that.
A decades-long slog of attrition accomplishing nothing that soon the Church of Iomedae would call an official end to.
Their Silver dragon's victory over Khorramzadeh, the Storm King, the only spot of hope. Morale was a resource like food or water and it was running dangerously low. A triumphant return of their hero would lift spirits.
Terendelev would feel obligated and it would be for her own good.
A military promotion was dead in the water. An excommunicated paladin or cleric was to be court-martialed, not promoted. Even if any agreed to waive the need for a trial in recognition of her great deeds, it would saddle her with too much responsibility too quickly.
There were spare noble titles.
There was one she was thinking of.
The legalities would be… complicated.
But not impossible.
If none of the Silvers could be bothered to claim her, then Mendev would.
Halaselix looked at her dubiously, but his lips twitched in amusement. He must have plucked the thought from the surface of her mind. Now she knew where Terendelev picked up that habit from. "My apologies, but, good luck getting her to agree to that."
"Headstrong Silvers, yes, I know. Don't fret."
Galfrey smiled softly down at the mess of silver hair on her lap.
"I will think of something."
That had been fifteen years ago.
"Thank you, all of you. I expect to see you all tomorrow, but in the meantime, you may take your leave."
"With all due respect, appointing this - "
"Viscount Thalun." Queen Galfrey's voice turned to cold steel. "You are dismissed."
She watched the various members of her staff and council file out of the room dominated by the crude long table. It had taken three knights to bring this monstrosity in and she still wasn't sure who decided she needed it, but it was here covered with her campaign map and reports.
One of those reports was picked up by a delicate hand.
"Prepare yourself," the dark orange haired aasimar lightly said. "You will be hearing a hundred variations of 'Galfrey, why' for some time yet."
"All of you."
"The royal advisor has been duly dismissed," Opaline said calmly as she continued organizing the reports on the table before her.
In the low light, the crimson tracks that ran from her molten eyes looked bloody and one could easily see how the Emberkin excelled in Cheliax where her other celestial blooded kin were persecuted as threats. Fallen angels made for a significant number of Devils.
"Do you intend to throw out a friend as well?"
"I am…not in the mood for your games, Opal."
"I know," she said softly. "That is why I am staying."
Something hot burned behind her eyes and Galfrey lowered them.
The abandoned inn still stunk of smoke and blood.
Kenabres was in ruins. It would take years before the city resembled what it had been. The inn itself was half a building, a mostly intact northern section facing the outer wall of the defenses of the fortress city with the southern half crushed by a large chunk of what must have been the roof of the Gray Garrison. The local churches and temples were either thoroughly desecrated by their short term demonic inhabitants, or infirmaries and beds for refugees and crusaders. Galfrey turned down the invitation to use the church of Shelyn, the goddess of beauty, from a shell shocked Sosiel Vaenic, the last surviving member of the local chapter.
He would have to prepare his brothers and sisters in faith for burial. She had no wish to impose upon that.
Not when she wished she was able to do the same.
She looked tired, she supposed. They had just completed a forced march to Kenabres from Nerosyan as soon as the news came in of the attack, so looking tired was excusable. She had been right in the thick of it with each band of fleeing refugees her forces intercepted, cutting bandages and healing until her gift burnt out only to do it again the next day. She kept her hair in neat braids and her armor shined.
She was on the edge of falling apart, keeping herself together by keeping herself busy.
"You remember my interview, I hope," Opal continued, slightly teasing. "I was hoping for a minor courtier position, only to walk into an office with the queen herself."
Galfrey closed her eyes.
"You talked a dragon into going to a sewing circle," Opal quoted. "It was a brilliant idea, she enjoys it and that look you are giving me right now, yes, that one. I like that about you."
"How would you like to advise me in matters of state…" Galfrey murmured, finishing the small tale.
It had caused a small scandal in Nerosyan, as nearly every one of her decisions did nowadays. A former Chelaxian noble, from that kingdom of Devils, premier advisor to Mendev's crown? To many, it seemed a sudden, rash decision. As far as she was concerned, Opaline was still being evaluated and tested ten years later. She did not know when her plans and ideas began to span the next decade instead of the next year.
The queen Opal was meant to learn how to advise was not herself.
A gentle hand landed on her shoulder.
"What hurts?" Opal said simply. "When it shouldn't?"
Without her permission, Galfrey's mouth creaked open like a rusted hinge. "...why them?"
"You haven't even met them."
And yet, she hated them already.
They could be a saint, a true god sent gift of generosity and selflessness with angel wings sprouting from their fucking back and it wouldn't change a godsdamned thing!
Opal clasped her hands together in front of her. "Why them…and not you?"
"I would have understood if it was me!"
It felt like she swallowed glass shards. Galfrey swayed in place, suddenly exhausted beyond belief. She slowly sank into her seat as if saying those words aloud had taken something more than air from her lungs to say.
"Do you have any idea - " she cut herself off because Opaline always had some idea. "I don't understand."
Her mouth worked. The walls seemed to be closing in.
"I do not understand. She blessed me a century ago. I have led four crusades in her name, was the first to take up her banner as Aroden's heir and it was this random nobody that was given immense power -" She held up a single finger high in the air. "Which they still have! By the way! Performing a great bloody miracle blowing to roof off the Gray Garrison, taking back the city from the demons, a complete and utter rout mere days after it fell - "
Her voice broke.
Just days. A little over a week after Terendelev's head was separated from her neck, Iomedae saw fit to intervene.
Too late.
The shine to Terendelev's scales returned with laborious effort, support and a rather frivolous anti-brooding reptiles law she did not regret. The day Iomedae rejected the dragon for the second time was the day Galfrey saw exactly what it would take for the noble creature to finally give up.
For her best to never be good enough.
She did not wish to think that Iomedae left Terendelev, who tried so godsdamned hard, to die…
But it was difficult.
"What is this, Opal?" Galfrey looked up with one hand raised and a flash of golden, healing light surrounding it. "I am still her paladin. What does that even mean now? What did I miss? Where did I fall short? How did I fail?"
She could have understood if her goddess chose the only individual that could possibly compete with a Silver dragon.
She chose neither.
Galfrey now knew exactly how Terendelev felt that day.
She did not know if it would be better or worse if the hero of Kenabres hadn't actually been chosen by Iomedae at all.
"Alas, I do not have an answer for you," Opal admitted sadly. "Only such questions will poison you, if you let them."
"I don't - " Galfrey looked down at the table and with deliberate movements, petulantly shoved one of the report stacks off the table. The sheaves of paper fluttered to the ground. "I don't - " Her voice broke again and she could only hoarsely rasp, "They took her body, Opal."
She couldn't even give her dragon a dignified burial.
She'd give her crown and throne both for just a chance to say goodbye.
It felt just like losing her father in Sarkoris all over again:
'Here's a new impossible crisis you have to fix, oh and, your family was just messily reduced by one and you didn't have a lot of that to begin with.
Congratulations.'
A depressed kind of silence permeated the borrowed room.
The demons must have dragged it away to who knows what damnation. If she was fortunate, the dragon was being displayed as a trophy. If she wasn't, they found a way to desecrate her sacrifice even from beyond the grave.
"It should have been her," Galfrey finally said. "She should have been here, in this room, accepting the position of Knight-Commander of the Fifth Crusade."
Terendelev would have thanked her for the responsibility with thinly veiled panic in her eyes, but she would have done wonderfully.
That - was her girl.
"That was the plan," Opalline said softly.
Demons lived to ruin those.
"There is a celebration planned in the Defender's Heart inn," Opaline offered. "Perhaps it would be best if you attended, instead of being holed up in here."
"Put on a brave face?" Galfrey's lips twisted unhappily.
"I was thinking in disguise, actually," the rogue admitted with a demonstrative twirl of her hand, displaying and then vanishing a gold coin. "Sit in a corner with a mug of terrible beer and simply watch your people rejoice."
That…did not sound too bad.
If she drank enough, putting on that brave face might even be possible.
"And then afterwards." Opal looked at her with large molten eyes. "You will sit down with other parents who have lost a child to the crusades."
That was it.
Something in the back of her throat painfully snapped and then hot tears were searing their way down her face. A wail rattled in her chest at finally, finally hearing someone acknowledge what she had lost. Not a curiosity, a noble figurehead, a quaint friend or a - an irrational ill-conceived ploy to silence opposition.
She helped raise that girl, damn it! It was a child's right to inherit after their parents.
She was supposed to be safe.
A gentle hand rested on her armored shoulder.
"I watched you two for ten years," Opal whispered. "I know what I saw. And I am so sorry."
"It was preposterous when her mentor said it." The words tumbled out like broken slag from a shattered furnace. "Absurd. Then it was almost reasonable, accepted."
"Then it was familiar," Opal said. "Comfortable with no need to put it into words."
And now there were no words left.
"I don't even have a body," Galfrey whispered.
Now there were no words left.
"Ah, Soot! Come back - !" The shingle under her foot gave way, her knee collided painfully with the edge of the roof and Ember had a moment of thinking, 'Well, that's not very fair. I'm an elf' as she tipped backwards.
"Whoa there!"
A hand grabbed her wrist and pulled her onto the rooftop of the Defender's Heart Inn. Ember blinked a few times, patted herself down and smiled up at her new friend.
"Thank you for saving me, Butterfly Mister!"
"Butterfly Mister," her friend echoed with a familiar quirk at the corner of his mouth. "That's a new one."
"You have butterfly wings," Ember said. Maybe he didn't know about them? "They are very pretty."
"Why, thank you," he said and Ember clapped as he turned to show them off. He had two really big wings pointed up and four smaller ones pointing down, just like a butterfly. They shined blue and purple and green in the moonlight and seemed to sparkle in time to the music pulsing through the roof under their feet.
Speaking of feet… "And you have fuzzy feet!"
"Paws," he corrected her gently. "Like a lion. Rawr!" And like a very silly person, made claw motions with his very humanoid hands.
"And tall ears," Ember told him. "Like mine!"
"Ayup. Bet you noticed the tail too."
"I didn't," she admitted sadly. "But I noticed it now! It's also fuzzy! And really short, can you make it bigger?"
"Ouch," the man muttered.
"I did notice your hair," she offered, feeling bad for hurting his feelings. "It's pretty too." Purple like jewelry. His tail really was short though, a bob really, like a bunny rabbit's. Her new friend had bright blue eyes that matched his blue clothes, but his belt was green. He had feathers and a flute hanging from it that she pointed at. "Do you play?"
"I wouldn't carry it around if I didn't," the nameless kind stranger said with that quirk to his mouth again.
Ember gasped, finally placing the smile. "I know that smile! You look like one of my new friends! He has a fancy title, so maybe you know him too?"
"If the title is 'Count' then you've got it the wrong way around," the man said. "I don't look like him, he looks like me."
Ember's felt her eyes grow big. "Are you his dad?"
"Add a great and then a grand in front of that, kid." Then the man frowned. "Or was it two greats? Three? It might be three. When was the Second Crusade again? Shit." Then he frowned harder. "You didn't hear me say that last word."
"It's okay," Ember reassured him. "You don't have to be sorry. I heard a lot worse on the streets."
"...oddly enough, that does not make me feel better."
"Oh." Ember muttered. "That doesn't seem to make anyone feel better."
"Wonder why…" he said in a funny, slow tone of voice she heard other adults use a lot.
"I wonder why too," Ember said solemnly.
The man palmed his face. "Note to self: Absolutely no sarcasm."
"Why not?"
"How about you tell me what you are doing climbing up on top of roofs?"
"Oh!" Ember turned quickly, only saved by taking another fall by the quick hand on her collar. "Well, Soot led me up here. She usually does that when someone needs my help, but…" Ember squinted, but not even her eyes could locate the bundle of black feathers. "But she seems to have gone off somewhere without me."
"The crow, huh?" The man seemed sad.
"She'll come back."
"She will," he said confidently. Ember knew that already, but it was nice of him to say it too. "Here. Take a seat - away from the edge, thank you - and I'll keep you company until Soot, was it? Until she comes back for you."
It didn't matter who or what he was, really. Ember had a sneaking suspicion that he was who Soot wanted her to help and he looked kind of sad, even when smiling, so she wanted to help him too.
He was really silly though.
"Instead!" The elf looking man with lion paws and butterfly wings cried out, jumping up to his feet. "She would only spit on him if he were on fire because he grew up a prick with some weird crush on her uptight queen mother. They're, like, second cousins or something. Who does that? Gross!"
Ember squinted up at her friend. "But you want your grandkid to marry your friend and they'd still be cousins too. How is that different?"
The nameless man sputtered. "Well, I mean, it's like this, it would be kinda sorta, but no, it's way different because she's adopted?"
Ember squinted further.
His shoulders slumped. "Okay, look kid, do not come at me with the logic. I will fight you."
She clapped her hands over her mouth with a small gasp. She didn't want to fight! "Sorry!"
"It's alright," he said indulgently. "You didn't know."
"I understand though!" She kicked out a leg and listened to the strains of music that had grown more chaotic and whimsical rather than any known melody the longer time went by. "You were just trying to look out for your friend, but it didn't work out."
"Yeah," he said softly. "It didn't work out at all."
"I'm sorry," she apologized again. "I'm not helping at all, am I? I'm just making you sadder."
"You're helping," he said. "Trust me. You are. If you weren't here, I'd just be brooding like a loser up here."
"You're not a loser for feeling sad about your friend," Ember said, frowning. "It's good to care. Sometimes caring means we get hurt, but we have to keep caring so that we don't hurt others."
His eyes shined wetly. "I'm - I'm being a jerk and Tee would have already rearranged my gut with her bony elbows…my name is Braganon."
"I'm Ember!"
"Nice to meet you, Ember," Braganon murmured gently.
"You lost her," Ember ventured, because she had the sinking feeling that his friend wasn't just hurt or missing or too busy and they hadn't seen each other in a long time. "Was it when the demons attacked?"
"Right at the fucking start!" He spat over the side of the roof.
It was a familiar story.
A lot of her friends were gone too. They were homeless, like her. So no basements to hide in or guards to protect them or horses to run away on. She still doesn't know how Soot guided her through the back alleys without getting caught, but it meant she could help others.
So she did.
"And it's weird, because we're friends." He said it in a strange tone that echoed in her ears with a hand over his heart. "And, get this - wait, you don't know what an Aeon is, do you?"
Ember shook her head.
"Uh, right," he said, thrown. "They are like - you know those knights that patrol the streets to keep them safe?"
"Oh!" She smiled. "I know them! They keep the shops safe by chasing away all the 'riffraff' or take money when they think no one is looking so they can do their jobs properly and I'm not supposed to ever talk to one of them with the funny helmet and to run away really fast if he tried."
Braganon stared at her.
"You help," he said slowly. "You do help, but talking to you is also fucking depressing."
Ember pouted. "I'm not trying to be…"
"I know, just - " He palmed his face again.
"Not all of them are like that, though! Some of them were really nice and gave out food and medicine on their patrols. One time -" Ember leaned in close and motioned for Braganon to share in the secret. He obligingly moved closer. "One time one of them offered to adopt me and everyone said she was a princess!"
Braganon's eyes closed like he was tired. "Did she have silver hair?"
Ember blinked up at him. "So she really was a princess?"
"Technically."
She hated that word. Was it yes or no?
"I don't know why she offered. I'm nothing special."
"It was for nice and not-so-nice reasons." That didn't explain anything at all! "She wanted to do something good for you."
"But I'm an elf," Ember protested. "So I don't get sick and don't need to eat as much as the other kids do. They needed her more."
"And that's the not-so-nice part. She's - was working on it, but as an elf, you live longer. Just like dragons."
Ember thought this over, tumbling it around in her head. "The other kids needed her more then."
"Probably."
"But I would need her for longer?"
"That's right," Braganon said softly.
"I feel bad now," Ember admitted. "She was fighting with herself and it looked like it hurt lots. It scared me and I was doing fine on the streets, so I said no." She tucked her knees up to her chest. "I could have helped her get better."
"It's not a good thing that you stayed on the street," Braganon said. "But you saying no was helping. It's not the kid's job to support the parent. It's supposed to be the other way around."
"But - "
"No buts."
"You said it first," she muttered and he laughed.
"Are you looking for an aeon to help you?" She asked after they sat in silence for a good long while, so long, her butt was getting a little cold and numb. "The special knights?" Ember guessed.
"Special knights who serve this…thing waaay out in space who really likes order and really doesn't like it when things down here get fucked - fuck, I need to stop swearing - get messed up."
"Like demons everywhere?"
"Like fffffreaking demons everywhere!" He crossed his arms. "One problem, there have been freaking demons everywhere for over a hundred years already."
"My dad said I was born the year the Worldwound opened, so that meant I was meant to help." Ember's smile dimmed. "He died though. The crusaders got mixed up and thought we were bad."
"That would be where you got those burns." Braganon said in a strangled tone of voice.
Ember smiled down at the ropy scars that ran up and down her legs and arms and her missing fingers. "A kind knight got me off the pyre, so it's okay."
"It's not, Ember. It's really not." He turned away. "Anyway, Aeons fix crap happening that isn't supposed to happen. Over a hundred year old problem called 'the Worldwound,' no Aeons. So what I'm trying to figure out is why the everloving fuck - "
He flung out an arm towards the center of Kenabres, where the market square used to be.
A Silver dragon died there.
"After a fucking century, did an Aeon only decide to show upafter Terendelev died?"
I admit, I never played that to the end, switched to Gold Dragon on rank 7.
Aside from that, it looks like Terendelev did properly die like canon in Golarion, rather than dissapear while wounded?
Since people talked about her head being cut off.
Or maybe the body is gone because she did get removed to Westeros and the reports of her head being off are exaggerated
I admit, I never played that to the end, switched to Gold Dragon on rank 7.
Aside from that, it looks like Terendelev did properly die like canon in Golarion, rather than dissapear while wounded?
Since people talked about her head being cut off.
Or maybe the body is gone because she did get removed to Westeros and the reports of her head being off are exaggerated
Well, the main reason the Knight-Commander would have the possibility of the Aeon Mythic path is because one had already shown up to try to save Terendelev for reasons, but fucked it up and through timey-wimey bullshit the KC does that instead. Considering every opportunity to do the time warp again in the game is explicitly to change what shouldn't be, there are some implications.
Pathfinder: Wrath of the Righteous. It is both an adventure path of 6 modules and a CRPG by the same name based on said adventure path. If you know D&D, same deal as The Temple of Elemental Evil or Ghosts of Saltmarsh.
Galfrey: I see. When you come back from being dead, you're grounded.
Terendelev: Bhwwahat? You can't do that, can she do that?
DM: You're the one that wanted to be a dragon princess.
Terendelev: I am an adult -
DM: Galfrey is your queen. And your mom. That you just died on. Got a problem with it, get your real parents to hash it out with her and I'll see what I can do.
Terendelev: ...you gave me the Mysterious Orphan background. I don't have any -
DM:
Terendelev: I hate you.
AN: This chapter's alternate title is Rhaegar Fails Upwards. Notes at the end.
Winterfell V
"Great Apsu, the Fresh Water, Maker of All, the Waybringer and Exiled Wyrm, greatest of all dragons, god of Kingship and Glory, I humbly beg for an audience."
The statue continued to snarl at him, unimpressed.
Rhaegar sighed, dropping his hands.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Arthur suck the inside of his cheek as he ran a cloth over Dawn's milk glass white blade. No doubt arguing with it again. Ser Wendel Manderly of White Harbor meditatively folded and unfolded his white cloak, lined in Mendevian blue along the edges. The jingle of silver buckles and enameled scales played through the still air as Ser Oswell shook out his leg and resumed standing guard.
The Riverlander sighed. "Am I the only man still baffled that asking a god for a bride can be done now?"
Arthur shrugged as he peered down Dawn's edge. "Durran Godsgrief and Elenei?"
"History does lay precedent," Rhaegar intoned before giving Arthur a sideways glance. "Of gods attempting to murder their daughter's suitors…"
His sworn brother shrugged apologetically.
Oswell looked pained.
"We fought an evil tree five days past," Wendel said simply as he folded his cloak once more.
They all turned to stare at the second born son of house Manderly in his plain boiled leathers.
Wendel raised an eyebrow as he met their gazes evenly. "The Seven." He repeated. "Let me smite. The Seven Hells. Out of. An eviltree."
"That does not make this any easier to swallow," Oswell sighed.
Arthur snorted. "Swim with the current, fishie. Glub glub!"
The knight kicked snow at him.
It was a strange clearing within the godswood.
The oiled leather covered windows of the Stark's Guest House were dark pits in the moss covered gray stone of the walls. Beneath it, the small forest of the Old Gods lay sprawled. Three pools, red Weirwood leaves floating on their placid surfaces and the wisps of steam drifting off the water had given the clearing an otherworldly look long before Terendelev thought to ask Lord Stark for permission.
'In the Name of my Father, the Waybringer,' the dragon's voice ever so softly floated among the rustling of leaves as a memory. She had been radiant, the wind playing with her silver hair and eyes bright with a joy that made his heart ache. 'I, Terendelev, declare where I stand to be hallowed ground.'
A gentle, silver light lapped at Rhaegar's boots and broke into silver ripples. It welled up from the snow and moss and mud and stone as if he were standing in a shallow spring. Between the pools, a perfect silver orb bobbed in the air on unseen waves before the carved wooden shrine of a dragon and a direwolf keeping an unceasing vigil.
'Through his grace, may the dead find peace and trespassers their just reward.'
It was unsettlingly lifelike. Shaped with the meticulous precision of a master at her craft with each scale, tooth, claw and strand of fur carved into the light wood. One could see the wolf bristle in warning. The dragon had a claw raised and its weight shifted, as if it had paused in the middle of walking on by.
The wooden wolf held a proud stance with its head lifted above a broad chest, sturdy legs ending in sharp claws and a low hanging tail. Its head was raised and turned with watchful ears, a hint of fang and hackles raised. The dragon of the shrine radiated strength in its powerful chest covered in thick plates, feathered wings that ended in bone spurs, a segmented crest like a knight's helm around his skull parting for two vicious upward horns. For all that it was the larger creature, the dragon did not overshadow the wolf. Positioned behind on four legs, not looming over, a challenging gaze and a long tail wrapped protectively around them both.
The statue was lightly varnished, just enough to deepen the shadows and protect it from the ravages of snow, wind and time.
As he stared up into the dragon's exposed teeth, he pondered.
'Maybe He does not wish to speak to me, a lowly pilgrim unknown to Him,' his mind whispered, up to its usual tricks once more. The unwanted, intrusive thoughts. 'What is one mortal, one little prince, one petty king to a god?'
He lowered his gaze and clasped his hands together.
His daughter accepted reverence, but never demanded it, preferring to be called by name instead of by titles. Would selfless Terendelev hold her Father in such high regard, were he so callous towards lesser beings?
He would not believe that to be true.
'Then why am I addressing Him as if I do believe it?' was the faint reproach, always sniffing within himself for signs of irrationality, of weakness.
Of madness.
Rhaegar closed his eyes.
"Apsu," he pleaded softly, hoping beyond hope that he was not making a mistake. "My name is Rhaegar Targaryen and I would ask for your daughter's hand in marriage."
A bitter cold wind blew.
It cut right through the fire in his blood, sending an unfamiliar chill down his spine as he opened his eyes.
The weak midday sun cast a harsh, moving shadow behind the dragon's horned head. It loomed over him, seeming ten feet taller. Its wings were no longer protective, but threateningly flared as it silently growled with grinding wooden teeth. He was pinned to the spot beneath its narrow eyed glare.
"I - " Rhaegar's voice cracked as every instinct begged him to run. "Please, I…I am not a dragon, but surely a prince or - or a king - "
A memory overtook him.
He was in the library, as was his wont, but he was not truly reading. He had been staring at the same page for an entire bell, because he had not been there to read.
But to escape.
His father had an innocent woman beheaded, as if the wet nurse had aught to do with little Jaehaerys' death. Then he had been overcome with paranoia that his son had been poisoned rather than dying of a weak heart. He imprisoned his mistress. Rhaegar had overheard the news that her family was being called to account for her 'crime.'
He had been five and ten and knew well what that meant.
'Behold,' his mind hissed. 'The worth of a Targaryenking.'
"I am not my father," Rhaegar pleaded with himself. "There - and there was nothing I could do."
'Did I even try?'
Even if he had failed, had it not been worth trying? The King had them all put to the harsh question until they broke, confessing to everything and nothing at all just to make the pain stop.
It did not stop.
Not until they died there in the Black Cells under a torturer's skilled hand.
He had still been his father's only son and heir. He would have been safe to try, risking only humiliation, perhaps the stocks or being confined to his rooms. Even if he could not save them, even if he had only managed a noose or a headsman block for them, it would have been kinder.
He did nothing.
Shame curled in his chest.
The dragon statue snarled at him in disdain.
More memories began to surface, of his father's black rages and his mother's tears. Never focused on any grand suggestion, but the little moments.
On what he could have done.
When he could have stayed to comfort a servant, a hedge knight, a dock worker. When he could have volunteered his help for a courtier, petty lord, messenger, Kingsguard. When he could have made his position clear instead of disinterested ambivalence, letting men he knew did not have the best interests of the realm at heart do what they will.
Tywin Lannister tarried in the attempt to free the King from the dungeons of Duskendale. Underneath his words of false concern for the King's safety and Darklyn's threats was a bitter, petty satisfaction.
Rhaegar knew.
He did nothing.
The King sat in Duskendale's dungeons for half a year.
Once freed thanks to the bravery of the Kingsguard, Ser Barristan Selmy the Bold, the King took the heads of not only Lord Darklyn, but the man's family. His wife, Serala, Aerys had burned alive after cutting her woman parts and tongue out. The Hollards, who kept faith with their liege lords, were executed one and all save for a single boy Ser Barristan had begged clemency for.
He had told himself that he was not responsible for the sins of others.
The statue agreed.
His sins were his own.
'I tolerate evil,' was the insidious whisper of his mind. 'I would commit evil if I thought I had reason. Is a crown enough to make a half-mad apathetic boy worthy?'
"No," he croaked. "I - I am trying, but I need - "
'Need?'
The shadow shifted on the wooden dragon's angry visage.
'I need the loyalty of lords. I need to be king. I need men. I need coin. I need answers. I need to learn my magic. I need dragons. I need that dragon. I need. I need. I need. I want.'
Rhaegar swallowed thickly. He could have been earning that loyalty. He spent seventeen years as the prince of the realm. It's only prince. He squandered Dragonstone. He chased prophecies while the North and its legends of the Long Night were right under his nose! Terendelev would help him. She wanted to help him.
Because it was the right thing to do.
He still wanted more from her.
Greed was unbecoming.
'Why do I want these things?'
To save everyone.
Rhaegar dropped his gaze, unable to look at the dragon's terrible visage any longer.
Why was he so invested in being the savior of the Seven Kingdoms when he proved disinterested in saving one person right in front of him, countless times? Could the people of Flea Bottom eat the music he played for them? Did the city stink less for his victories in jousts before cheering crowds? Were the laws any more fair for his niceties to the common folk?
It was not enough. He knew it was not enough.
He did nothing.
He scrabbled in the dirt for purpose when a treasury of worthy causes were refused for no other reason than their mundane nature. Worthy of a prince. A king. Not a legend.
Simple hubris.
(Jaehaerys - they all knew! Vipers, all of them, vipers! He would have been a worthy heir, he would - not this - this useless craven - I will have justice! I will - )
He shoved his father's bile away.
(Viserys. He will be Viserys! A good, strong name for - a strong son. For one that will live. A kingly name. I named my first after his mother, a woman, you see, that - that was the problem.)
It lingered.
( - playing at war when you do not have the stomach for it. The piss and the shit, gutting the other man before he guts you - that's what war is, you fool -)
Half-wit.
Fool.
His father alternated between callous indifference, momentary pride and jealous, bitter disdain of his eldest son. He could never be enough to dry his mother's tears, no matter how hard he tried.
The dead child was always of more importance than the living one.
Eventually, he stopped trying.
Deep down, deep enough that it bled, was the childish desire to be able to make someone like Terendelev happy. It selfishly grew every time she seemed startled by how much he paid attention to her, as if she expected him to be blinded by her scales forever.
Startled and - he did not believe she even knew how it made her smile.
If a dragon deemed him worthy of her affection, then he was not broken.
'And then what?' His mind sneered.
Shadows played along the grooves of the dragon's wooden scales, giving it the appearance of having shifted in place.
'A happy ever after? As one of my precious songs?'
She was lost.
Alone in a land she knew not, surrounded by unfamiliar faces with strange tongues and customs. What could he give her?
'To whom would she turn to for friendship?'
Only Mance Rayder had ever drawn a full laugh from her.
What foreign queen could find true companionship in King's Landing? She already had friends. A beloved mentor. Comrades in arms. A mortal mother. Her kingdom was out of her reach. And the jealous twit that he was could only be glad to see the back of the man in black.
'With whom shall she share the skies?'
There were many things she did not understand about their ways. Refused to. Too much, too fast and she would disappear into the Wolfswood or simply…
Fly away.
She was alone.
She learned High Valyrian with ease. It did not compare to the way she spoke the dragon's tongue for the youngest Stark, Benjen.
Like it freed her soul.
Magic was in his blood, but he did not breathe it the way she did. He did not look at a broken blade and think it a simple task to will it whole. He did not see gathering storm clouds and think a coming blizzard to be a matter of preference. He could not comprehend Death as a condition that could be cured.
he almost lost arthur
No one did.
'I would have her fall down from her clouds to break herself upon these rocks -'
'No,' he thought then, horrified. 'I just want her to be happy.'
'So do I,'was the miserable whisper.
Rhaegar's head shot up.
The statue was just a statue. A stoic, protective wooden dragon only a little taller than himself with its wings tucked in against its sides behind a wooden direwolf. Its expression was placid. Its jaw was closed, showing no teeth at all.
Rhaegar turned, disoriented.
"My prince?" Arthur called. His brows furrowed with concern as his purple eyes flickered to the others. Oswell was alert, but confused. Wendel was looking up at him from the ground. Had they not seen - had they not heard him speak - ?
Rhaegar's mouth opened. Then closed.
Of course.
He had asked a dragon god for Terendelev's hand in marriage.
It was not like her to carve the visage of her beloved Father as aught but strong and welcoming. The anger, the threat had not been another conjuration of his diseased mind. It had been a sign that he was unworthy.
The answer was no.
The prince walked away from the shrine on unsteady legs.
To his credit, Arthur realized what had happened immediately, rising to his feet. "We leave for the Vale on the morrow - "
He knows.
"With Lord Stark to seek the support of Lord Arryn passing through the lands of Lord Tully," he called at Rhaegar's back as he marched out of the clearing. Away from the cold gaze of dragon and wolf. "Dragons do not even wed so it might mean nothing to her, Rhaegar, you do not have to - don't be rash - !"
He knows.
He was painfully aware that he could do nothing at all.
"And our prince lost a bard battle against a Black Brother," Arthur quipped among the books and scrolls of Winterfell's library. Maester Walys was in his quarters, scribing records and letters, leaving them with the impressive collection of parchment already deemed irrelevant for the coming Others.
It was hard to believe those words. Those were the sort of words that a man could drown if he dwelled on them.
So he did not.
"If that can happen, there is little that cannot," Arthur continued.
It was Rhaegar's turn to sigh. He knew what Arthur was doing. "Please stop calling it a 'bard battle.'"
All three men around the table waited.
"And I did not lose," the prince continued peevishly from behind his book, because knowing your older brother was trying to vex you did not mean he did not succeed.
"We see fire all of the time," Wendel mused, running a gloved hand through his auburn locks and scratching at one of his sideburns by the door. "Jory's dancing plants were rather novel."
Oswell smiled nastily. "Much better than being evil."
Wendel glared at him. "Why was it evil?"
"Any tree that gives men the runs is evil and the Seven agreed," Whent said shortly.
"I'll not argue that," Arthur said cheerily. "Which is why someone should have thought to scout out the creepy tree before burning it."
Rhaegar dragged a hand down his face.
"In our prince's defense," Wendel attempted to rescue him. "The last thing a reasonable person would expect the diseased tree you just set on fire to do is reach out to kill you back."
"Yes!" Rhaegar waved a grateful hand at the Manderly knight. "Thank you!"
Oswell jabbed a mailed finger at Rhaegar's nose. "We were told that the grove was cursed - "
"When was the last time you took such a warning seriously as aught other than wives' tales?" Rhaegar hissed back. "When has anyone? A century at least!"
And Lord Rickard Fucking Stark had not even batted an eye!
He completely understood why the Andals burned down all the Weirwoods south of the Neck. He had no trouble imagining they suffered through that nonsense, marched up to Moat Cailin, discovered spiders the size of horses and wolves the size of bears and wisely gave up.
What kind of arse-backwards region was the North?
Why did they not know this sooner?
Heavens wept.
And no one said aught about the North's underground caverns! He would have liked to have known about the underground caverns evil trees grow evil roots in before he fell in one!
"You have been courting a magical dragon for the past moon!" Oswell cried, throwing his hands in the air. "There are spiders the size of horses with - " The Riverlander clawed at the air around his head. "With a face that can appear out of thin air! The Sword of the Morning can enchant his sword with the elements - "
"Lightning," Arthur volunteered.
Wendel raised a finger. "Can you not bespell multiple effects - "
"Lightning."
Dawn rattled in its sheath menacingly and that was enough of that. Dawn was now strong enough to overtly disagree with events, much to Rhaegar's chagrin.
Getting bit by a sword hurts.
"You undermine your own argument, ser," Rhaegar sniffed. "If I should have known a cursed tree was truly cursed because magic, then - "
"No," Oswell said.
So trying to sing the plant to sleep did not work. And he did not appreciate crawling back to Winterfell, vomiting every ten steps, only for the dragon to patiently remind him that trees did not sleep.
Or have ears.
But what was he supposed to do?
Set the enclosed space they were all in on fire?
"Strike it with a sword like the rest of us," Arthur's smart mouth answered. "Or a fist," he amended with a befuddled grimace. "In Lord Stark's case."
Rhaegar crossed his arms with his best disappointed stare.
The Dornishman ignored him.
"That Willam's illusions were impressive," Arthur continued. "Rayder was able to break a boulder in half, so perhaps there is truth to the horn of winter bringing down the Wall."
"And what would you call near setting the Wolfswood ablaze?" Rhaegar asked snippily. It was a reasonable question, because all the judges being Northerners meant they were sadly biased, and there was no legitimate reason why singing badly enough that rocks break to make it stop was better -
That was his jealousy talking.
Arthur slowly raised an eyebrow. "Not winning."
Older brothers were awful.
Or mayhaps that was just Arthur Dayne.
"Do you think Lord Arryn is doing the same thing?" Wendel spoke up, looking around at them with ocean blue eyes glimmering with rainbow light. "Not the - " He circled a finger in the air. "Contest."
"Bard battle," Arthur supplied, earning the Northern knight's exasperated look and Rhaegar could strike him, by the Flames -
"Is Tully?" Oswell froze in his seat with realization. "If the Seven are blessing knights in their name throughout the Seven Kingdoms…" He looked at the Manderly knight, before softly finishing, "It could cause chaos."
Ser Wendel, the dragon's sworn shield, smiled tightly.
The light of the Seven shone brightly on Ser Wendel Manderly after the Stars Fell.
His older brother, Wylis, their father's heir was unchanged.
Lord Wyman Manderly's second born came to Winterfell with disturbing, fractured rumors from across the Narrow Sea. Of Volantis in flames, abominations rising up from the mazes of Lorath, chaos in the Dothraki Sea, the silence of the Iron Bank as a blood-soaked madness descended upon Qohor…
And the quiet, unshakeable confidence of a man who knew he was blessed.
The Seven chose him. Another god's daughter had been thrilled to learn of his gifts and would see him trained in them.
Yet he would exchange his cloak for the white of the Kingsguard, or if he had been refused, the black of the Night's Watch before he threatened his brother's seat.
Ser Wendel Manderly had more honor in his little finger than many knights Rhaegar knew.
More than knights he had knighted personally.
More than himself.
"More than that," Arthur gently murmured. "What if it were not just Stark? The blood of the First Men kings runs through many a house. Mooton, Mallister, Bracken and Blackwood - "
"Hoster's heir, my nephew is a boy of eight," Oswell muttered into a hand.
Left unsaid was if houses that could boast more men, more wealth, more land, a longer history than the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands received sorcerous talents, monstrous beasts or blessings from the divine.
But Edmure Tully grew to be just a man.
"That would complicate matters, would it not?" Rhaegar murmured. "Merely promising to uphold Aegon the Conqueror's elevation of Lord Tully could be reason enough for other Riverlands lords to refuse me."
"There would have always been those grasping to improve their fortunes," Arthur said, but there was a troubled wrinkle on his brow all the same. "All the more reason for the progress to better know the situation. Lord Arryn has a strong hold on his lords, but the mountain clans…"
"Heavens forbid the fucking Freys…" Oswell moaned, adding a second hand to his face. "Please no fucking magicweasels…"
Wendel huffed and turned back towards the hallway as guard.
Rhaegar returned to his book.
Stark hardly needed his help to command his lords. A lord that needed such assistance might prove himself a constant thorn in the Iron Throne's side. Much as his forefather Aegon the Fifth needed to quell rebellions in the Westerlands under the weak rulership of then Lord Tytos Lannister. Mayhaps Tully would prove unfit to be Lord Paramount. Mayhaps the problem would solve itself by the time he arrived.
He could do nothing.
"Your grace," Ser Wendel simpered. "You are a vision of loveliness today."
He spoke the truth.
Most of her silver hair fell loosely save for twin braids that framed her face. She wore a slim gown of glittering silver scales with a Mendevian blue skirt, a sash of white crossed her center, pinned by her collar with a small golden sword pendant. What he would not give for the colors to be red and black, but she would be beautiful in rags.
"You wound me, ser." Terendelev answered coolly as she brushed past him into the library. "Has there been a day when I have not been so?"
Rhaegar smothered a smile.
Ser Wendel surrendered and turned to the prince with an exasperated sigh, "I was wrong. She is always this difficult."
"To compliment?" He gave himself a safety net. "Yes." She wore her vanity openly. "There is a trick to it, however," he pushed ahead before Terendelev could get a word in edgewise. "If you wish to flatter a dragon, tell her something she does not know."
There it was.
The startled, soft and nearly grateful smile.
It was gone too soon.
"Bards," she muttered fondly as she slipped into the seat across from him. The beginnings of her cruel smirk lifted the corner of her mouth as she addressed her knight. "You act as if I do not hear you cursing me to each of the Seven Hells in the yard, ser. I can make your training worse."
Ser Wendel flushed and straightened, turning back around. "That - ah, will not be necessary, your grace."
Arthur snorted.
He choked on it, pounding his chest, when the dragon's purple gaze sought him out with a raised silver eyebrow. "Yours too."
Oswell snickered.
"I… am glad to see that you returned, Teren," Rhaegar began uncomfortably as she picked a book from the small pile on the table. "Before we set for the Vale."
"I gave you my word," was the dragon's even response. "The matter of the Ironborn's slaves still troubles me," she admitted and he bit down on the urge to say they were merely 'thralls.' Her eyes flashed towards him, as if she knew what was on his tongue. "I will accept the need to handle that matter later."
"Later," he offered quietly.
The Lord of the Iron Islands, Quellon Greyjoy seemed open to compromise. And if he was not, a dragon had a way of changing one's mind.
"Once we have the legal authority." A tension seeped from Terendelev's shoulders. A ravenous gleam in her eyes tucked away as she smiled gently. "Later."
He let out a slow breath and listlessly turned a page.
"Your mother seemed a sad woman," the dragon murmured as she settled into her sturdy, ironwood chair, flipping open her chosen collection of Northern sagas.
"What?" Rhaegar looked up, frowning. "When did you meet my mother?"
She looked up from over the hard leather cover of her book with her eyebrows raised.
He backpedaled immediately.
"Not that I am doubting your assessment, or accusing you of aught - " He rethought his trajectory. "You certainly do not need my permission to travel wherever you please, I apologize for the presumption."
He crossed his toes.
"...she seems to be under a great deal of stress," Terendelev said slowly. "She has not been sleeping well and could stand to eat more. I suspect." Her head tilted towards him questioningly. "That there are some faded bruises she is very aware of."
"Oh," Rhaegar said.
The correct answer was asking after his mother's wellbeing.
"Oh," he repeated softly. "I…apologize, my mother has been sad for quite some time, so it failed to -"
Failed to matter?
Failed to deserve his attention?
"What I mean to say is that many have expressed that sentiment - " And what has he ever managed to do about it if so many were concerned about the queen? "My father has always - " Deflecting blame again. "I am sorry, I - "
There were no more excuses.
"I am sorry."
Terendelev closed her book. "Rhaegar. Why are you apologizing to me?"
"I…" His lips twisted into a bitter smile. "It is one of the few things I am good at doing." As was turning every subject to be about himself. "Is there aught I can do for her, do you think?"
"...she is a contradiction of pride and humility which leaves me uncertain," the dragon allowed with a sideways look at him. "I told her to seek you in the Vale if she had need." Her head tilted in that avian manner that did not necessarily indicate confusion the way he had once thought it did. It meant she was weighing her words. "I thought it prudent to inform her of our courtship." Rhaegar's stomach sunk down to his knees as the godling shrugged one shoulder. "She was supportive."
"Yes," the prince murmured. "She would be."
He sent the Starry Sept a letter of his renouncement of the Faith, but thought nothing of leaving his mother alone to his father's fickle mercies without so much as a 'by your leave.'
Faded bruises.
His eyes squeezed shut.
This was why her father thought him unfit.
A light touch on his arm opened his eyes. Terendelev's indigo gaze was eyeing him with concern as she pulled back her hand. "Rhaegar, what is wrong?"
Because he was.
"I believe - " He was speaking with shards of dragonglass in his throat. "It would be best…if our courtship was…" He swallowed and looked away. "If I released you of any obligation towards me."
Terendelev startled. "What?"
"I can explain it to Lord Stark!" The words tumbled out of his mouth quickly. He had to be able to explain it. He was good at apologies. "I can think of something - "
She held up her hand and he stopped talking.
"Arthur." Terendelev bit out with silver eyes and slitted pupils in a face full of lightning as she pointed at the prince. "What isthis?"
"Prince Rhaegar asked your father for your hand," the Sword of the Morning dutifully replied, none of his misgivings on his face. "Apsu rejected the suit."
Terendelev sat up in her chair like she had been stung. Her silver eyes narrowed dangerously, a hard, violent glint in them that was shockingly ugly on her. Her gaze slid to the side, seeing through the walls of Winterfell's library.
"Oh, did he now?" It was a sibilant hiss. "Where did he get the notion that he has any right - " She stood up, smoke escaping her lips in a wisp. "Rhaegar, I did not tell you to ask, so you are being stupid. Consider yourself fortunate that I need to talk to the bigger fool that is my rusting Father first."
She turned on her heel.
Wendel shot them all a panicked glance as he followed her out of the library.
"You had to do it," Arthur said flatly.
"Let us ensure the godswood remains standing," he muttered instead of dignifying that with a response.
He was undeserving. This was for the best.
They caught up to her in that godswood clearing, having a staring match with the wooden shrine. With an outstretched hand, she called a muddy stone to her hand which she placed on top of the wolf's head.
"You are not getting a proper offering," the dragon said flatly. "I am rebuilding my hoard. I know you know how important that is." A thin, cold smile spread across her face. "And if my presence here was your doing, then you cannot complain because it is also your fault."
The weak midwinter sun slipped behind a cloud, casting a long shadow on the wooden dragon.
"Thank you for saving me," she allowed softly. "But the way you did it also makes you an ass."
Oswell spluttered behind him.
Arthur leaned in. "Is this a prayer or a whinging family - "
Terendelev turned her head, frowning.
Arthur shut up.
"That being said." She turned back to the statue. "We do not let you talk to novice devotees of the Platinum Band for a reason."
The shadows lifted for a moment.
"This is that reason," Terendelev growled and the wooden dragon was shrouded in darkness again. "You know if the boy was a dragon who knew he was discarding me,I would have torn his head off and shat down his neck."
Oh.
"I have not done so," she snarled, "Because he is not a dragon and you overwhelmed him taking liberties you do not have the right to!"
A cold breeze picked up, scattering a handful of evergreen needles across the shrine that suddenly seemed smaller against the moss covered wall of Winterfell.
The dragon of silver reluctantly softened slowly, the silver light fading from her eyes to return them to the clear, precious indigo.
"...Rhastwyr was my choice, Father. We may have failed each other, but my only regret is that I was not enough."
The sun playfully peeked from behind the clouds.
Terendelev blanched.
"I regret two things, you lecherous - why were you even paying attention to that?" She held up her hand. "Do not answer that. Claws off my things. You do not interfere with other dragons. We both know every color but Gold would have rioted if you tried. I do not understand why you chose to intervene with mine."
Some stray needles slipped off the wooden snout, catching on some of the scales in a crooked smile.
Terendelev gave the statue a suspicious look, but turned away.
"And as for you."
Rhaegar gulped.
"I believed we had an understanding about what our courtship meant," the dragon purred in a low, growling tone. "One we informed Lord Stark of when he was offered the position of Hand of the King. I agreed to foster Benjen in King's Landing in the Red Keep in exchange. Every lord that visited Winterfell was told. Ser Wendel is to leave my service for the Kingsguard after the wedding, did we not agree to that?"
Rhaegar opened his mouth.
The look she gave him could have melted castle-forged steel.
He closed his mouth.
"So I will be very, very clear." He took a small step back when she stepped in close. "I will be your queen. Your miserable little kingdoms will be mine to defend." She was close enough to kiss as her voice went quiet and threatening. "And you will never stain my honor by making a liar out of me. Do you understand?"
He nodded very quickly.
"Good." She stepped back and he felt like he could breathe again. Her head tilted to the side as she ran a languid gaze from the top of his head down to his toes. A flicker of amusement. "Ser Dayne. Ser Whent. My betrothed needs a moment to compose himself. See that he gets that moment."
"Your grace," Arthur the turncloak immediately answered.
"Ser Wendel."
"Your grace," the Manderly knight stepped behind her dutifully. Silence fell upon the clearing when she left, taking her sworn shield with her.
"If you had said no," Arthur began slowly as Rhaegar shakily breathed out. The prince sank to the ground and began to shovel snow onto his crotch. "I believe she would have beaten you to death with your own spine and then worn your skull as a helm."
"I know," Rhaegar sighed dreamily as the snow melted.
Oswell palmed his face.
The way the shadow of a tree branch fell on it made the dragon statue seem as if it was giving him a skeptical, side eyed look.
Rhaegar bristled. "I love her."
Rhaegar used a Hero Point! Gained Reluctant Shipper on Deck Apsu.
The statue gave up.
A globe of clear water appeared in midair above his and then fell, drenching the prince in ice cold water. He burst into steam.
AN: So Rhaegar's rolls can only be described as 'hilarious.' For how well his 'Seduce the Dragon' goal went during the timeskip, he rolled a 20 again (DM: this motherfuc -) However, the roll after that was a Nat 1. Followed by a 3. And then another 20. The end result is failing Apsu's vibe check so hard it dug up his trauma, actually attempted to dump the dragon that was starting to like him a little, pissing her off and then getting away with it engaged.
Great blend of humor and "Oh right, I'm courting a dragon. This is what that means." moments.
Rhaegar might actually turn out a decent ruler instead of a friendly fu boi. Will wonders never cease?
Just kidding. A true dragon will be ruling the Targaryens for once - Aerys will be honored to be immolated to make way for her. The wonders will not cease!
Great blend of humor and "Oh right, I'm courting a dragon. This is what that means." moments.
Rhaegar might actually turn out a decent ruler instead of a friendly fu boi. Will wonders never cease?
Just kidding. A true dragon will be ruling the Targaryens for once - Aerys will be honored to be immolated to make way for her. The wonders will not cease!
T's goal during the time skip was filling in her knowledge gaps about Westeros and even by their standards, leaving her hanging out to dry like that isn't kosher. It's the equivalent of successfully concluding betrothal negotiations getting unilaterally tossed out right before the papers are signed because the other lord got cold feet after you told everyone that you were about to head out to sign them.
Not as bad as breaking the actual betrothal, but people will still get pissed.
Terendelev growled and the wooden dragon was shrouded in darkness again. "You know if the boy was a dragon who knew he was discarding me,I would have torn his head off and shat down his neck."
Notes: Last chapter was Rhaegar Fails Upwards. This chapter is Everyone (Especially Robert) Successfully Fails.
Terendelev: I don't want to marry Rhaegar.
Apsu: I don't want you to marry him either.
Terendelev: How dare you! I'm going to be queen whether you like it or not! *steals potato chips, leaves*
DM: ...what the fuck just happened?
Apsu: I changed my mind. You can have her.
Rhaegar: Awesome!
The Eyrie II
Elbert Arryn pressed his ear to the door.
Unintelligible furious whispering drifted through the hole between the warped wooden planks.
He sighed, stepped back and squared his shoulders.
"There you are!" Elbert burst through the door and watched both of his little brothers jump guiltily.
Eddard Stark's pale fingers grasped an equally pale ghostly sword made out of a spectral silvery white light as he fell into a basic knight's stance. Robert Baratheon jumped a foot in the air, a curse on his lips as lightning crackled down his right arm. The small storage room flooded with the stink of the same close thunderstorm that crippled Lord Eldon Estermont.
It was a testament to the times that Elbert simply crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow.
"Oh, it's just - " Robert slumped forward in relief, his black and seaweed hair falling around his long, pointed ears. "Fucking hells, Arryn," he mumbled thickly. The boy shook out his right hand and flinched when a thin lance of lightning scored the far wall with a loud cracking sound. "Don't you ever knock?"
If the ice of Ned's gaze was unsettling, the sparks of Robert's, near devouring the orbs in his eye sockets, were no less hard to meet.
Elbert had a full moon, and then some, of experience doing just that. "You are fortunate Uncle Jon did not see fit to send out a search party."
Both boys grimaced.
"Was anyone hurt?" Ned asked quickly as he banished his magic blade. Those pale frozen over eyes earnestly stared at a point somewhere over his right shoulder.
Elbert raised his eyebrow higher. "I find your concern curious, given you were nowhere to be found while injuries were being treated."
Ned winced. "I was assisting Lord Robert…"
Robert's lips briefly curled into a sneer before he looked away, crossing his arms.
'Lord Robert.'
Oh, Ned, Elbert thought. At his age, Elbert would have knocked Robert flat by now.
"Rob?" He asked leadingly instead.
"Robert," Baratheon muttered petulantly before shrugging one shoulder and shuffling from one foot to another. "You know how hard Runt is to catch," the boy weakly offered. "Like in a tourney match gone foul, the horses are led off the field away from the fallen knights first…"
"Why was it not locked away in your rooms." Elbert said flatly. "You told me - "
"I said I was intending to lock him in my rooms!" Robert blurted out, puffing up like a wet cat. "Those were my exact words. That means I hadn't fucking done it yet!"
Little brothers were fucking unrepentant burs in his fucking saddle.
"I asked," Elbert continued in a strangled voice. "If you got him out of the rookery right before we went to the gatehouse!"
"I did get him out of the rookery!" Robert sneered back. Saltwater leaked from his hairline to drip down his face and onto the long sailing coat the heir to Storm's End grudgingly wore. Lightning flickered down the boy's leg as he shook it out. "He flew away."
"And you were needed as Arryn heir to greet the lords, so you were not listening," Ned spoke up softly. "Lord Robert thought he would be drawn to the sounds, presuming intruders - "
"My keep!" An affronted high pitched watery squawk sounded out from behind the boys.
Elbert's eyes closed wearily. "So you did catch him," he gritted out through clenched teeth. "Pity it was not before the gatehouse near burned down with a dozen Vale lords still in it."
"Intruders!" The voice insisted. "My keep!"
And that was one raindrop too many for the dam of Robert's patience to hold.
"YOU DON'T HAVE A KEEP!"The boy roared.
There was a squeak as Robert turned around, fists clenched. And there on the ground, its shadow pinned to the inside of a wicker basket and curled around a half-eaten small wheel of cheese was Robert's runt of a dragon.
It could be nothing else. A lizard snout and tiny maw of teeth that spat fire.
But it could fucking talk.
It had magic. A full moon and it hadn't grown a wit. No matter how much it ate. Elbert had made the mistake of questioning if they were caring for a sickly dying runt within earshot.
The next day they found his small clothes absent from his drawer, smothered in butter, covered in chicken feathers, scattered all over the keep and a small dragon proudly owning up to it.
His scream of 'You runty little shite!' had echoed throughout the Gates of the Moon.
The 'Runt' Dragon stuck.
Its scales did not resemble a snake's, but more like the segmented carapace of a lobster of a deep ocean blue color. No need to wonder how he found out about the poison in the quivering spines lining the curve of its thick neck and down its back.
It had two limbs, but where Valyrian dragons had hind legs with their wings coming off their shoulders, this creature had two forelegs that ended in flexible pinchers as the rest of the body tapered into a fish tail lined with sharp frills. A man could be forgiven for thinking it was a baby sea dragon, if it weren't for the two translucent wings shaped like fins on its back.
At home in the air as it was in water.
Which meant catching it was a pain in all their asses.
"Runt, for the last fucking time!" Robert growled as the small creature shrunk back into the basket with wide, blue eyes. "Get. It. Through. That. Thick. Skull of yours - "
He trailed off under Stark's disappointed frown.
"He's just a babe," Ned gently rebuked them both.
"What of it?" Robert hissed.
It was odd to see Ned squaring his shoulders against the taller boy. "Shouting at him will not change his behavior. We have to teach him."
"We?" Robert's head lowered. "Stop pretending to care."
Elbert blinked.
Ned's lips thinned. "I will not. This is who I am."
"No, it fuckingisn't!" Robert snarled, stepping up to the smaller boy who bared his fanged teeth like a feral hound, or wolf. "Enough of this godsdamned mummer's farce - "
"Robert!" Elbert barked sharply.
They both stilled.
Then quietly, Ned hissed, "My sorcery is not to blame for your uncle's injuries, yours is."
"Eddard!" Elbert snapped, appalled.
Stark tossed his bronze tipped hair dismissively with a small scoff, but he held his tongue and retreated to the far wall. The dark twisting patterns crawling up his right forearm seemed to wriggle with the flickering of light from the torch on the wall.
"Robert," he said again, softer and watched those broadening shoulders shake. "Come here, lad."
It took a good moment, but the boy eventually dragged his feet over only to be crushed to Elbert's chest in a full hug. The boy only shook harder, sniffling as his forehead pressed hard against Elbert's shoulder.
"Which of the Seven Hells is this?" Robert's voice was watery and weak. "Who's in his skin?"
Eddard's face could have been carved from stone.
'Oh, Robert,' he thought.
"He looks a bit different, I suppose." Elbert said softly.
He'd gotten used to those iced eyes, but there was a reason the local septon made signs of warding evil whenever he caught sight of the second son of Winterfell. Eddard Stark had the paleness of a corpse, as if the boy had died in his sleep but his body refused to keep still out of principle. The dark brown of his hair bled into shining bronze due to some pact he made and a livid, crimson scar he refused to explain streaked across the bridge of his nose.
With a thought, the boy's hands would grow claws. His gait became one that stalked with the senses and strength of a dire wolf.
Any reasonable man would pause.
"He is hardly alone in changed looks, though," Elbert said.
In his arms, Robert shuddered.
Robert Baratheon brought to Elbert's mind what the first Durrandon king, the half divine heir of Durran Godsgrief and Elenei must have looked like.
An arrogantly handsome boy with hair so black, it shone a gem-like blue color. Wet strands of dark green seaweed sprouted from his scalp. He knew Robert tried to cut them off, stopped by the crippling pain and blood. Leaf-shaped ears rose up from both sides of his head, above where a scattering of pale blue barnacles marred the sides of his neck. He grew a full hand taller and he had already been tall for a boy of three and ten, near able to look Elbert in the eye with his own sparking orbs full of lightning. Until his clothes were returned from the seamstress, the only article of clothing that fit him perfectly was…
An obscenely luxurious long sailing coat that would beggar many a house. Uncle Jon identified it as made in the style of pirate lords of the Narrow Sea.
Supple leather dyed a rich ocean blue with cresting waves embroidered in gold and pearlescent thread. Gold stitching decorated all fifty of the buttonholes made for fifty identical grinning skull buttons made out of solid gold. A cloth of gold sash about the waist. Gold buttons on the cuffs. A chain as thick as a finger of gold linked a gold skull and crossbones broach, sapphires in the eye sockets, on the black silken collar to the decorative cloth pauldron intricately stitched with some monster on his right shoulder. The tendrils of the creature dripped off the pauldron, most dangling freely in the back and front, but following the line off the shoulder two appendages gripped the ruby sewn into the sleeve.
A gift fit for a king.
"I didn't - I didn't want - " Robert's shivering gasp went straight through Elbert's heart. "I have a mother - why is this happening? When will it stop? Why does it all have to be wrong?"
"Hm. You ask questions for which there is no answer."
Ned had a Northman's practicality, grasping his sorcerous talents with both hands, thriving. But Robert was not the only one not taking the changes well.
Managing outbreaks of restlessness, of despair and fear were now part of his duties as heir to the Vale's great house as rumors of the mountain clans possessing sorcerous powers and great beasts trickled in with ravaged travelers. His uncle occupied every waking moment consumed with worry. About his people. About the scraps of news from the Seven Kingdoms. About the reticent response from their wealthy Gulltown cousins. About the future reactions of the Faith of the Seven as discontent brewed on his doorstep. About the rumors from King's Landing and across the Narrow Sea. About the safety of the young wards of his house.
About his nephew's dreams.
"You know my egg will hatch," Elbert said evenly. Robert stiffened and he tightened his grip on the boy to prevent him from pulling away. "Mayhaps not today, or tomorrow, but soon."
They had found it in the snow covered cliffs. By accident rather than by design of some mysterious force, he hoped. A speckled egg so large he had to pick up with both hands and as soon as he had laid eyes on it, he knew it was meant for him.
"She'll need some time to grow, of course," Elbert continued. "I shall have to see what our falcon master advises for her care, find out what she likes to eat and then when she is large enough…then we will fly."
As falcons were made to.
"I swore to you that you will never need to handle this matter alone. We shared blood." He would not mention that the moon old scar on his left hand still stung as if freshly cut, a prickle of lightning numbing his fingertips. "Will you denounce me too then?"
The boy sniffled, but remained silent.
Elbert sighed. "Your father was unable to carry out the king's command. He fell ill the same time you did. Recovered the same time you did."
Uncle Jon had been sitting on the news like a mother bird on her eggs. He and Lord Estermont had agreed to tell the boy when they thought him ready.
Elbert squeezed as Robert choked on a sob.
They both knew the implications of that.
"And your mother, she sent a letter this morning." Elbert whispered. "For when you can stand hearing from your family? These past moons have been hard on all of us."
He had not thought to blink twice at the runes on Lord 'Bronze' Yohn Royce's titular bronze armor truly glowing as if pulled right from a forge. Why should he? Every boy knew the tale of the ancient armor laid with First Men runes of protection, even if the maester scoffed and groaned about superstition. Lord Grafton brought his heir, Marq and although it had been years since they last crossed blades as squires, Elbert still recognized him. Not even the maester could deny the truth of the legend of the Falcon Knight then.
Marq Grafton had wings.
In a realm gone mad, there were few lords that could afford to turn a blind eye. He understood Lord Cobray's defiant gaze. His quiet bastard, Eger Stone, dressed in house colors trailed behind his father with a whispering green eyed raven on his shoulder. His Stormlands brother had a baby sea dragon that could talk and his Northern brother had a pet wolf that was occasionally possessed by the old gods of the North.
A croaking magic raven was of no concern at all.
He had been there when Ned woke up blind, after all. Was there through the miserable silences as his Northern little brother refused to eat. He was there when Eddard began to vanish from his rooms, guided out into the cold and snow wearing only a shirt and breeches by a giant wolf no one else could hear or see.
Ned's one-eyed teacher walked into existence beside a ghostly camp fire.
"Seven knows, you do not have to like it. But what's done is done. If you do not accept it, you are going to hurt those who care about you. Is that what you want?"
Slowly, Robert shook his head.
Elbert let out a slow, tired breath. "Uncle was hoping we could keep things quiet for a little while longer because - well, Lord Stark is coming for his son. And Prince Rhaegar Targaryen is accompanying him."
Ned started. "Father is coming here?"
Robert's head turned.
"...I have a dragon," he mumbled miserably.
"That just scared a half dozen years off the lives of every important lord in the Vale." Elbert said with a wry pull of his lips. "A bit inconvenient that, eh? You'll have to show it off now. If it looks like we were attempting to hide it, someone might be tempted to inform the king."
A cold feeling in his gut told him that Uncle was right to be concerned about that.
Runt looked at them with guileless blue eyes. Tiny pinchers mauled its snack until it came away with a shredded lump of cheese it clumsily held out towards Robert, burbling.
"Our keep?"
Robert sighed heavily. Those sparking teary eyes looked up at him for a long moment before they dropped along with his shoulders.
"What's done is done," Elbert murmured. "What's done is done."
"Giving away food, eh?" Rubbing his eyes, it came out very soft from the boy as Elbert let him go. "That's not like you."
Runt curled in on itself. "I make trouble?"
"Yes," Elbert sharply replied.
"Apology?" The creature bubbled.
He and Robert glanced at Ned.
The blind boy raised both of his eyebrows, then jerked his head down at Runt expectantly. When they still hesitated, the long Stark face turned stormy the way he and Robert knew, silently promising to make them regret it later.
Ned was magic now.
And the only boy in the Seven Kingdoms that would take offense at being offered a whorehouse visit. Being pinned to the wall by his shadow with a rumbling stomach through mid-day meal was not an experience he was eager to repeat.
"Forgiven," Elbert stiffly gave in. "Do not do it again."
"I'll trade you," Robert murmured, ripping one of his gold skull buttons off his coat to exchange for the bite of cheese. Runt excitedly grappled with the button, burbling over the shine. Robert smiled briefly, weakly. "If you are a good dragon for a full fortnight, I will give you another one."
"Two days?" Runt wiggled in the basket.
"Four and ten days."
"Four days," the little dragon bargained and Robert's lips twitched.
"Eight days. Final offer."
Runt grumbled but agreed, hugging its prize in its cheesy pinchers. Robert picked up the wicker basket, dragon and all. By the time the boy straightened, the button had silently, seamlessly replaced itself with a new one.
Elbert ignored the shiver that sent down his back.
"I will not accept blame for this," Robert muttered.
"Oh?" Elbert replied mildly.
"I will not." Baratheon frowned at him. "Lord Arryn was never going to be able to hide shit about shit and we all know it. I look like some kind of grumkin!" He tossed his black and seaweed hair, showing off his long ears. "I throw lightning when surprised. Stark can't lie to save his life."
Ned nodded agreeably, accepting the flag of parley for what it was. Because of course Robert knew Ned would lie and lie well to save someone else's life.
…right?
"Runt is a fucking grumkin dragon! Being a nuisance is what he does."
Runt crooned sadly.
"Uh." The tall boy bounced the basket, grimacing down at the creature in it. "I meant that in the best way, of course."
"Their faces were funny," Runt muttered petulantly.
Of that, he had no doubt.
Elbert dragged a hand down his face. "Just…keep it in your rooms. Please."
Robert gave him a long look. "No promises."
"Robert."
"Star - Ned," Robert choked out hopefully. "You tell him."
"It is a magic dragon, my lord," Ned said quite reasonably. "We cannot expect my own sorcery to always succeed."
Robert nodded quickly. "And the lil' shit is fast."
"Shit?" Runt's snout raised as another one of Ned's disappointed frowns appeared. "You are all little shits! I like that word!"
Elbert frowned as well. "You are who it learned to insult people from? You realize it called Lord Redfort a horse humper?"
Robert's bright eyes widened with mirth. "You did!? Uh - I mean, that was very rude, Runt. You should not say untrue words."
Runt blinked up at them. "I didn't?"
Baratheon snorted so hard he choked. "F- from the mouth of babes - !"
Ned frowned harder as the baby dragon spat a small jet of flame at him. Elbert brushed the lick of fire off with his arm as Robert lifted the dragon's basket further away, smirking. It was half-hearted, but it was an improvement from the sullen, suspicious looks of the past moon.
"No promises, Arryn," the boy said. And perhaps it was not only about not teaching a dragon to insult every lord it came across. "No promises."
Elbert cuffed his Stormlands little brother upside the head anyway, just in case.
His Northern baby brother ducked.
Fucking how?
He's blind -
Perhaps it would have been better if he truly was.
Instead of a timeless nothing filled with ghosts of the past, Ned thought as the young maid of house Arryn carrying fresh linens, years, decades, centuries ago walked right through him.
He fought down the shiver.
The cavernous halls of the Gates of the Moon were shifting through some bloody history that must have been shortly after the start of house Arryn. He could tell, because no one worshiped death anymore. It had been so long, it was as if they never did.
All that remained of their priesthood of death were the Silent Sisters, women sworn to never speak who prepared bodies for their burial. The walls were lined with knights of the Vale fitfully sleeping on the stone floor on bloody pallets as the pale robes of apprentice devotees flitted between them with water and bandages. The black robes of a full Silent Sister, wearing so many layers only her eyes were visible, matched the lone septon in the crowd. A thin man in black with the hood drawn up to shadow his face as he swung incense and clutched a seven sided star to his chest.
In a way, it was almost insulting.
He was a Stark, of the blood of the First Men that harken back to the days of the Last Hero. Moat Cailin's defense of the Neck against the invading hordes was a point of pride and the loss of heart trees in the South a generational tragedy.
And the stupid Andals up and forgot why they even burned the weirwoods in the first place.
He wondered if his father knew.
Oh, child, the old gods had softly crooned that day. We watched you forget.
One of the knights died.
The finality of the last exhale blossomed into his sight like a drop of red ink spilled into a clear pool of water.
As if he blinked without blinking, one moment there was nothing. The next moment, there was a shadow. Like a man cut out of the world leaving behind only his absence, standing above the new corpse. He had half-expected it. However, this time, The Stranger actually looked at him.
His heart stopped.
His wolf growled and the shadow disappeared. With an unsettling rolling sensation in his chest, his heart began to beat once more. The wet canine nose snuffled in his hair as he fell against its side, breathless and a headache blooming on his brow.
Bloodraven told him some beings could look back.
Let us try not to look death gods in the face again, he told his familiar.
The wolf huffed at him, tongue hanging out of its mouth in a canine grin.
Ned grimaced. He tightened his grip on the dire wolf's fur as the wet canine nose nudged him into continuing onwards.
It patiently led him through the walls that existed in the wrong times, across gaps where stairs had long since been built and around people he could not see. It was hard trying not to think of what he would even do if his Father arrived and had not changed at all and he could never see the man's face again because he was blind blind blind -
A flash of light startled him.
"Stark?" The boy of living lightning holding a sea dragon babe hesitantly called out as Ned hissed quietly as his headache flared up.
Closing his eyes did not help.
With the sight of blood and sorcery, bright lines of lightning pulsed under Baratheon's skin as bright as the midday sun, arced out from his back like vestigial wings, burned in place of his eyes. "Ned. Lord Eddard, I mean."
Behind Robert Baratheon was the distant crash of waves. The silhouette of water lapped at the other boy's feet and the outline of a tentacle lined with toothy suckers was possessively wrapped around Robert's ankle.
He averted his eyes. "Lord Robert. Good morrow."
A grumble and heavy, labored breathing followed the clacking of a wooden stick on stone. "Do they not look at the one speaking in the North? My nephew is addressing you, Lord Eddard."
His shoulders stiffened. He forced a small smile on his face as he fully turned towards the voices. The sharp intake of breath, the sound of a heavy step backwards and softly uttered oath. He expected that, or worse.
"Uncle, he's blind."
He did not expect Robert to stand up for him this time.
His chest hurt. His eyes stung as his wolf gently lapped his cheek as the painful breath rattled loose because he didn't before. Elbert had to and it had been fortunate the Arryn heir had even been nearby -
The bruise had healed, but the pain of the thrown rock did not fade so easily.
Thirty five days.
It was a long time for a boy to be reminded every hour of every day that he was the sole living incarnation of how the world had gone mad.
"I lost my sight the night the Stars Fell, my lord," Ned offered softly. "I apologize if I have given any offense."
Those words tasted of bile. He was tired of saying other words like it.
I have committed no crime, I am not at fault, forgive me for any misunderstanding I have caused, I apologize for scaring you, I have rights as a noble born son of house Stark…
"Blind - " Lightning seared lungs choked Lord Estermont's words into a cough. "Blind men do not move about a keep with such haste."
"You would accuse me of telling falsehoods?" Ned sneered as a low rumble ran through his familiar's powerful chest, a flash of shining bronze teeth. "I was examined by Lord Arryn's maester. You could pluck out my eyes and it would change naught!"
Even if every drop of magic was drained from his veins, even if his pact was broken, even if the world righted itself tomorrow, his eyes were dead! In return, he could touch the tattered veil that separated man from deity. Bloodraven told him that power required sacrifice.
Would that he had received the choice.
"And you have yet to break your fool neck coming down from the towers unaided," the lord pressed suspiciously.
"Uncle," Robert hissed. "Enough!"
The back of his throat burned. "My lord, I would not consider myself unaided."
Cold, he chanted into that timeless space. The knights, the physicians, septas, maids melted away into a cocoon of bone white roots. Is a hungry mouth that devours heat, it seeks it, it craves it until satisfied. He spread the fingers of his right hand. The mouth in the roots opened. Ice formed, softly cracking as it spread across the stone underneath his feet.
Another oath escaped Lord Eldon Estermont. "Seven fucking Hells - "
"I said enough!" The living lightning surged in a raging hymn. "Gods - " A loud crack, a bang that hurt his ears as his hair stood on end and then the tinkling of stone shards falling to the floor. Robert whispered into the silence, "Damn it."
His wolf chuffed and nosed his hair. His hand fell back to the bag slung over his shoulder. The mouth wilted away to roots that crumbled into dust. Time intruded, this time of a more pleasant scene of nameless lords ambling through the hall in hunting clothes and holding mugs of beer, laughing silently. His knees trembled as he pressed into the dire wolf's fur.
I should feel ashamed, he thought.
He was acting like Brandon, leaping first and thinking about the consequences later. His poor behavior reflected on his teachers and of his house. He should feel ashamed.
He didn't.
"Uncle," Robert firmly said. "You are a guest under Lord Arryn's roof and Lord Eddard is his ward. Lord Stark intends to visit. I should hope we have the sense to not insult the Warden of the North when he arrives."
"Look at him." Lord Estermont murmured in return and Ned wanted to shout -
"Look at me!" Robert snapped.
A tense silence followed.
Robert sighed heavily. "Go on without me, uncle. I need to talk to - to Lord Eddard. Please."
This time the deep sigh came from the older man. There was a rustle of cloth. Lord Estermont hummed. There was a sleepy watery protest before Robert shushed it and in spite of himself, Ned felt his defenses thaw. The lord of Estermont island departed with his cane clicking on the stone floors. An awkward silence stretched on, the likes of which had not lingered between them since they first met.
"Runt still refuses to wake before mid-day?" Ned broke it first.
"Mhm," Robert grunted. "Lazy beast, but if it keeps him out of mischief…" There was the sound of a throat being cleared. "I - Ned, Lord Eddard. I just - " There was a thunk as Robert kicked at the wall, before muttering, "You still look like a snark haunting the lands beyond the Wall."
He silently raised an eyebrow and made a show of looking Robert up and down with his sightless eyes.
Robert barked a laugh that trailed off into a more miserable sound. "...I'm the last one that looks aught like a Baratheon at all. Or Durrandon. Father and my brothers turned Valyrian, can you believe it?"
Ned frowned a little. "As the Targaryens? Silver-gold hair and purple eyes?"
There was a pause and he realized Robert had nodded before remembering himself.
"Yes, well, more gold than silver as Mother tells it and even Grandmother Rhaelle lost her dark hair." The boy of living lightning clutched his dragon to his chest. "Father and Stannis have purple, but the babe has eyes of crimson." A bitter chuckle. "Stannis and I have needless suspicion in common now. He thinks Renly's possessed."
Ned's eyebrows bounced. "Renly is two."
"Don't ask me what he's thinking," Robert said quickly. "Mother is at her wit's end with him. Says he's been bleeding himself despite the maester saying he wasn't ill."
One of his wolf's ears flicked, a shine of gold in its blue eyes of cursory interest.
Power requires sacrifice.
"He likely awoke some kind of sorcery," Ned said mercilessly.
"I - yes," Robert said heavily. Ned almost wished he could see the boy's face through the lightning. "That's…that is about what I thought too…" The faint sound of shuffling feet and scuffing leather soles on thick rugs before Robert blurted out, "Father's the Grand Master of the Alchemist's Guild now!"
Ned's eyebrows bounced once more. "...why?"
"I don't rightly know," Robert muttered, kicking the wall again. "They make wildfire, do they not? What Father has to do with any of that, I haven't the faintest."
"Hmm." He glanced at his wolf. It looked back with blue eyes, not gold, so it seemed the old gods had little to say for now. "I have plans for the day. I will have to take leave of you here, my lord."
"Allow me to accompany you," Robert said quickly. "I can…" His voice shrunk. "Open doors?"
"Watching out for stray stones too much for his lordship? I will manage," Ned drawled acidly. "I am expected at sorcery lessons. I doubt you have any interest in being near - "
"A one-eyed witch of some sort from across the Narrow Sea, was it?" Robert ventured very softly and Ned stopped in surprise. "Your teacher. I…asked."
"You asked."
"You were right, gods damnit!" Robert nearly snapped. The lightning bit back his words, flitting away with a snarl through clenched teeth. "You…were right," was quieter. "I'm more of a danger than you are."
One could tell which tower of the Gates of the Moon Robert Baratheon resided in.
From the way Elbert described it, the stone of the walls were scorched black, cracked and broken from mighty lightning strikes bolting down from iron bellied clouds. For a full fortnight, Robert had locked himself away in his rooms.
Lord Estermont would ever take to the field again, not with burned lungs and hands that could barely hold a spoon for how much they shook.
"The fucking goat head though," Robert muttered.
"I did not mean to scare you," he choked out. "I thought - a sentry when making camp was useful and I just wanted to share - having magic could be good."
No matter what it was.
Even death and ice.
He had more in common with the Others than with the Last Hero that fought them with his flaming blade. Robert had woken up changed too and he had hoped -
He had not the faintest notion how his siblings, Lyanna or Brandon would have responded to waking up so different. To the entire realm moving on without them. When his Father arrived, would he find out?
He just wanted to help.
"And I am sorry," Robert whispered painfully.
Ned dropped his head and turned away. "Me too."
His wolf led them through the halls of the Gates of the Moon to the door that led out to the inner courtyard. The door opened with a wave of his hand. Robert made a small noise, but said nothing. Ned bit his tongue.
It was - it was simpler to learn how to inscribe into his arm the ability to touch things with his sorcery than to blindly grope at cups, door handles or his own clothes. It made it easier to ignore that what he could see…
The courtyard was almost as it should have been. Pure snow covered the gravel and sand as high walls rose around it. Drifting in and out of his sight, various knightly figures in their furs and thick cloaks sparred, talked, received messages and taught their little brothers, nephews and sons in the snow as their wives, mothers, sisters looked on. The wind blew in carrying a flurry of snowflakes. It must have been cold, but he felt only the movement of it ruffling his shirt. It passed him to swirl around Robert, who brushed the lingering breeze away as if it were an overeager pup.
"You changed more than just in look," Robert spoke up.
There was so much he could say in response.
Rowell Arryn had been a boy of seven two centuries ago. The words he read in a history book could not compare to watching the boy fall from the East Tower himself, pushed by his jealous cousin. Ned had run towards him, forgetting in his panic the peculiars of his sight.
What he could see was not what was truly there.
All he accomplished was knowing what it felt like to see Rowell, as young as his little sister Lyanna had been when he left to foster, pass through his arms to shatter upon the stone.
His first teacher must have taken offense to his student's naivety. Would Lord Steffon Baratheon have a young boy killed to secure his own holdings? At Bloodraven's side, he watched his own father, Rickard Stark, consider the murder of the Bolton heir, Roose. He watched other lords of the Winterfell, his forefathers, do more than just consider it.
His second teacher encouraged him to see farther, to when children of the forest still walked the land, sacrificing heart blood to the weirwood. That alone should have told him that their time had not been any more peaceful even before he witnessed fish men crawling up from the sea to drag victims into the water off the coast of the Iron Islands.
One went down, two came back up.
Men and women with changeable faces wearing human skin. Flames in the guise of man, flesh melting from the inside out. Skinchangers both capable and willing to force themselves into the mind of another. War and misery always seemed as inevitable as the sun rise.
Death no longer phased him. The severed head of a fresh kill could be given a false life, a pale flame in the empty sockets of the skull allowing it to keep watch for danger. Robert had screamed. His new teacher had praised his practicality. The same practicality that saw him bite his tongue and beseech a new tutor in the first place.
After his gods threw Bloodraven away, choosing instead to trust in the bloodthirsty silver beast that was his murderer.
In the inner courtyard, a fight broke out between brothers, one wearing a crown before phantom guards pulled them apart and their time passed by.
There was too much he could say.
Instead, Ned shrugged a shoulder. "I woke up blind."
Robert hummed as he watched Lord Eddard carefully pick his way across the inner courtyard, gliding through the snow with a hand clutching the bag hanging from his shoulder and the other gripping thin air. His wolf.
"I fucked up."
Runt cracked open an eye.
"Any advice on how to get my friend back?" He tried half-heartedly, looking down at the creature in his arms.
The little dragon shrugged its crab arms and went back to sleep.
Fair enough.
He blew out a harsh breath and quickened his pace before Ned got too far ahead of him. He expected the other boy to look back over his shoulder, but he didn't and of course he didn't, what good would him looking do?
He almost suggested the use of eye patches, or a bandage wrapped around those blank eyes, but the words caught on his tongue. Maybe he should just ignore it? The way his eyes still moved like they were trying to see, but always in the wrong direction. The corpse cold of his skin and how he moved like a dead man walking.
The fucking unseen giant dog.
Robert pressed his lips together.
He had no right to complain, did he?
It was cold out, but the wind was not as cold as it should have been. He could feel it in his gut. He knew it like the back of his hand that this was a child current, split off from a gale brewing in the clouds above by the peak of the Giant's Lance. It blew down the mountain as naught but sheer momentum and would continue through the valley towards the Riverlands. It would split again around Maidenpool, pierced in two by a warmer current blowing in from the sea.
Ignoring the unnatural was hard.
As hard as ignoring how bright his vision was, every color cast in vivid relief against dark contrasts as if he lived inside of a painting. As hard as ignoring that he could stare into the sun without blinking now, just as he no longer needed firelight to navigate the keep at night. As hard as ignoring the low murmur of whispers his long ears overheard only to turn and see that the gossiping knight was a good one hundred paces away.
As hard as ignoring the raging hymn of lightning under his skin, the warm pulse of Runt's bond beating alongside his own heart and the siren call of his ship, far away on the sea.
"Are you going to follow me all the way there?" Ned drawled with that ever present cold hostility.
Fair is fair.
He earned it.
"I don't know what comes after the apology," Robert admitted. It was why he avoided it as much as possible. Saying it aloud was bad enough, now you both knew for true who was in the wrong and what was he supposed to do with that? "You will have to suffer me until I figure it out."
He tried a winning smile before remembering it didn't matter.
Eddard sighed, but said nothing.
Robert pressed his lips together. He inspected their path which looked to be headed right for the gatehouse. "Are you leaving the keep?"
"Aye," Eddard said shortly. "It is not far and there is little risk."
There were fucking magical wildlings out there besieging whole towns, he thought.
As if he could read minds, Ned continued, "I have nothing to fear from the mountain clans."
"Because you are also a First Man?"
It was a sore misstep. Stark stopped walking abruptly, in that 'jerking puppet on tense strings' way that made his skin crawl even worse than the dead fish eyes.
Robert swore under his breath. "Arryn said you had the attention of your gods, the old gods? They worship them too, don't they?"
The tension in Eddard's shoulders slowly seeped away. His raised hand shifted through the hair of the unseen wolf as he stared forward sightless, his left eye drifting. "I have the benefit of formal teaching. Would a castle-trained knight fear a bandit?"
"And if there is more than one?" He pressed.
"My teacher will kill them."
Robert's stomach shrunk into a ball. Both at the horrific disinterest of the response and his choice of words. If and only if there was more than one, would his mentor respond. A single grown raider was up to the two and ten year old boy to dispatch.
"Having the same gods don't matter, eh?" He managed.
Eddard's bloodless lips pulled into a rictus grin. "The old gods are not interested in coddling pups."
Robert grimaced. "Sounds familiar."
It was Ned that raised his eyebrows in that familiar way that made his chest hurt. How had he ever thought he was a skinchanger? "Your patron dotes upon you. I know about your new warhammer."
And the pet dragon.
The new wardrobe after he had regained the fortitude to whinge about no longer fitting into his old one. New boots. A new leather purse. Filled with the fucking allowance of coin. He got more the first day of the new moon. He checked.
Whispering into his ear about how to pull his lightning back - out of his uncle's faltering heart near as soon as the words left his mouth.
"She gave me a magic ship," Robert said. "So I could plunder Old Valyria for her."
The Flame didn't steal shit from her. She chose to give his family up, so why the fuck was evening the score his problem?
Ned's eyebrows flew higher into his hairline. "That is…"
"Death," Robert finished for him.
Old Valyria was in the middle of the Smoking Sea. The last person to return from it had been the ill-fated Princess Aerea Targaryen who flew the great dragon Balerion to the land of her ancestors. She came back with lungs seared shut from the poisonous air, skin smoking with moving growths and had died within the day.
Stone men driven mad from the greyscale. Twisted monsters and half-dragons. Molten parasites. The fourteen volcanoes still smoldered, choking the air with ash above a blighted, ruined land.
She wanted him to sail into that all for a fucking temple.
Worst grandmother ever.
His father's mother Rhaelle Baratheon preferred Stannis, openly lamenting his status as the second born son. It was no surprise. She was a crotchety old woman with no sense of humor who would piss on the grave of the Prince of Dragonflies, the once heir Duncan Targaryen if she was ever given half a chance. Robert never understood her cutting words. He had naught in common with her older brother.
As if he would ever ruin his life over a woman!
For all that she was of the gentler sex, he butted heads with her like two stags viciously fighting over territory. Even his father kept his own antlers out of the way.
He had already written Grandmother Rhaelle an apology for being a twit.
If that chill she caught wouldn't kill her, his letter might.
"The gods are cunts!" Robert declared.
Ned hesitated. "...the Seven appear to be treating their Chosen well?"
"Good for them," he said tightly. His family, house Baratheon, had been followers of the Seven for over two thousand years. His mother's letter had one glaring absence, but the sept of the Gates of the Moon boasted of a fucking stable boy that could heal wounds with a prayer. The septon had no gifts of his own, but seeing him preen, prancing about like a show horse in a rainbow saddle about his precious fucking 'Chosen' made his teeth and knuckles itch.
"Good for them," he repeated, quieter. Bitterly. "Just so long as they were chosen."
"Do you envy their attention?" Ned asked just as quietly.
He hoisted Runt over his shoulder like a small sack of potatoes. The dragon whined, but quickly fell asleep again in the cold.
"I suppose not," Robert said after a long moment. "We already have the attention of gods, don't we? Naught to be envious of."
A shadow of a smile crossed Ned's face.
It faded all too quickly.
Lord Eddard turned away and started walking again without a further word, tossing him aside. His foster-brother was buried under the snow of the winter sorcerer again.
He made a mistake, he was sorry, why couldn't they go back to how everything used to be?
Robert followed him anyway, heart in his throat.
Eddard was bribing the fucking guard.
The man in the Arryn blue cloak flushed guiltily under Robert's disbelieving nose, but that didn't stop the man from taking the coins and wineskin.
"I keep 'nuther ear out for 'im," the man defended himself with a wide eyed glance at his seaweed hair and ears. "On me own accord! Lord Arryn ain't askin' it of me."
"Lord Eddard is not asking it of you either," Robert said with a pointed look at the wineskin. "He is paying you."
"I get pay as a guardsmen too," the man muttered as if that justified his actions. Robert opened his mouth, but before he could speak his mind, Eddard cut in,
"The gate, if you would, ser."
The bluecloak stuffed the coins into his belt and hurried to the winch.
"Since when did you -"
"Since I began to fear that I would be locked outside," was Eddard's cold response. "I do not need warmth, what else would prove unnecessary for my survival? Food?" He knew why, but Eddard's refusal to look at him still stung. "I need to learn. Am I to bring a foreign witch among people so afeared, they need someone to blame?"
Robert's tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.
The Stark boy waited patiently, still as a statue for the clanking sounds of the small portcullis to stop. With a nod in their general direction, he passed through. Robert pursed his lips as Runt yawned in his ear.
The path leading out of the Gates of the Moon up the foot of the Giant's Lance towards the Eyrie was sparse. Scraggly vegetation of stubborn roots fit only for equally stubborn mules lined the winding beaten path ahead of the pale forest of snow laden pine and sentinel trees. It was no Kingsroad, just packed dirt and stone blocks broken from ice that wound up the mountain through the three outposts, Stone, Snow and Sky. It became more and more stone the further up the mountain, and the path would narrow until it would not even fit two travelers walking shoulder to shoulder.
The wind howled.
Eddard Stark walked. His eyes shifted back and forth, as if seeing a full procession out of nothing. They walked for a good while, long enough for Robert to start getting concerned.
"Ned - Lord Eddard, how much farther…"
There was an abandoned campfire off to the side of the trail, sheltered under two stately sentinel trees. As Eddard approached, the old, frozen, charcoal lit itself on fire.
The flame burned a pale, ghostly color.
Stark fearlessly approached, as if fires lit themselves all the godsdamned time. And the pale light revealed the wolf.
It was fucking huge.
A great beast as big as a warhorse with emerald green and bronze streaks in its fur. It glanced at him with shining golden eyes before huffing, tongue lolling out in a canine grin as it flopped onto the ground in a curl. Eddard sat between its front paws, dwarfed by the wolf as he began to pull small scrolls of parchment from his bag.
In a shower of pale sparks in the air, a woman walked into existence.
"Eddard. Greetings." A genteel one-eyed young woman of dark red-gold hair in a dark cloak murmured quietly. Her right eye was covered in a white eye patch and the ropy burn scars stretching from underneath across her cheek and down her neck, as if she had been lashed with flame, told why.
Her left eye burned a radiant purple, the same shade as an evening sky just after sunset.
Right then.
This was the Essoi witch.
Ned shyly smiled back, awe on his face. "Lady Melina. Good morrow!"
The dusk eye found him.
"Will your friend be joining us?"
"Ye -es?" Robert's voice cracked. The lightning in his veins was thrumming oddly. He cleared his throat. "That is, if you do not mind my presence?"
"Not at all." She brushed her hood from her head with burned hands as she sat on the other side of the fire with the grace of a princess. Closer to the light, he thought he saw a very faint claw mark scar at the edge of her left eye. "Would you entrust me with your name…" Her one eye briefly dropped to his feet just like Ned's did. Her even tone gained a more questioning lilt. "Lord?"
"Erm, Robert, my lady," he mumbled as he shuffled forward and sat before the strange fire. "Robert Baratheon, heir to Storm's End. And this is Runt."
The little dragon sleepily murmured a greeting, snuggling into Robert's coat.
Her brow crinkled as if she had expected another answer.
Fair is fair.
Runt was a fucking stupid name for a dragon.
Even if it was true.
"Then I greet you as well," the lady intoned. "The pleasantries have been observed. Now someone can tell me." Her eye moved to the wolf. "Why they have not removed the crest from my student yet."
"Pardon?" Ned said.
The wolf chuffed.
Then a fucking voice grated through those bronze teeth. That star cluster is a magpie, always grasping for shiny baubles. The death aspect took an interest in the pup. Our pact stands. The mark is of no consequence.
Robert nodded to himself. "Your wolf talks."
"Your dragon talks," Ned replied smartly. "And not truly. It's just possessed."
"Oh," he said numbly. "Just fucking possessed, is it?"
"The old gods tend to do so when they are restless."
The giant fucking wolf that could easily bite Ned's head off let out a sharp bark. Insolence and disrespect!
"And not incorrect," Lady Melina lightly teased the creature. "You are curious. You wish to know what we will discover, do you not?"
"Discover?" Robert asked.
"A ritual," his teacher answered for him. "One that seeks out the truth of another's nature from a distance, without a likeness, belonging or bond."
Robert looked to Ned and saw that his pale face was pinched. His hands trembled as they mangled the hem of his gray doublet.
It was important, then.
A silver coin among the reagents would not go amiss, the wolf volunteered as it laid down its head, eyes closing.
"I have one!" Robert fumbled for his new purse.
The silver stag slipped through his fingers. It landed not on any one face, but on the side as it rolled away. He scrambled after it, nabbing the errant coin before it disappeared into the snow. "How can I help?" He leaned forward, holding it out as he poured every drop of earnestness he could into his next words, "Ned, please. Let me help."
Robert rolls a Natural 20!
"Can he?" Ned whispered.
His teacher hesitated, but then lowered her head. "We shall see."
"You are still angry with me," the prince said.
His lady love turned her head just enough to not be discourteous. He was a prince, the next king and the most beautiful man she had ever seen who was plainly smitten and it was baffling how easily Lady Teren ignored him.
"And why do you say that?"
"His boots are frozen to the stirrups," Jaime Lannister gleefully pointed out from atop his unliving steed, molten eyes bright as he shared a mischievous smirk with Benjen Stark.
"That sounds rather inconvenient," the silver-haired false-woman said blandly as she absently corrected the scribblings of the youngest Stark seated before her, sharing the saddle.
"The ice will not melt." Rhaegar Targaryen matched her tone.
The Lady Teren Mendev had a wicked smile she was a little envious of. A sharp lift of one corner of her mouth that flashed white teeth as she slowly raised her dark purple eyes. "That sounds very inconvenient."
The prince visibly struggled. "I apologized. Profusely."
"You did."
"You can ascertain my sincerity for yourself," he offered. "My mind holds no secrets to you."
"I am aware," she allowed with an avian tilt of her head, sending her shining, pale braids swinging. "And I am not daft enough to make the mistake of detecting what you think of me again." Another flash of teeth. "Your mind is absolutely filthy."
The prince pinned the false-woman with a smoldering look, "Do you want me to stop?"
"Of course not," she answered easily. "If I was offended by such fantasies, would I look as I do? And I do not wish to be cruel," she added, almost as if in afterthought. "I know just how very well it comforts you at night."
The prince sputtered, reddening as laughter broke out.
Her uncle, Brynden, chuckled as she smothered her own smile, turning away. His horse drifted a little closer, almost incidental. She patted the neck of her surly stallion as he tossed his head.
"Poor boy," her uncle murmured under his breath. And then, "What do you think, Cat?"
"She knew why my nose bled in her presence," Catelyn Tully dutifully reported quietly. The pounding of her head, the blurring of her vision as she felt as if she were about to faint had abruptly stopped after the false-woman had apologized, seemingly for nothing. "She is…restraining herself? And yet, she still hurts. Even worse than Jaime."
Jaime Lannister made her scars burn like the brimstone of his eyes.
When he showed them he could call his steed, a horse skeleton that shone as if lit from within by a dim candle coalescing out of thin air like water wrung from fog, Cat understood why.
"She is concealing her true appearance, but…" She hesitated. "I suspect they know?"
Uncle Brynden's brow raised as he glanced forwards. "I do as well. Curious."
"Benjen Stark stings. Ser Dayne, at least five of the Stark men, but I am uncertain of Lord Stark himself. I do not feel sorcery from him, however…"
"His eyes changed," her uncle said what she was thinking. "From the color of pale stone to the color of a full moon. Not to mention his utter disregard for the weather."
"He does not have Ice," Cat said softly, though she did not know what the missing ancestral Valyrian steel greatsword of house Stark meant. "And no response to Lady Teren's presumptuous familiarity with his youngest."
Uncle Brynden hummed thoughtfully. "Benjen Stark. Who stings."
"The prince is…something." It was honestly beginning to vex her. "And Ser Manderly is of the Seven."
"Quite the spread," her uncle said in a lazy tone, but the corners of his Tully blue eyes had tightened. "Mayhaps we are in for some interesting times. Women have inherited and ruled in their own right before. If your father has the sense the gods gave a fucking horse…"
"Jaime Lannister is suitable," Catelyn said quickly.
Her uncle gave her a wry look. "And agrees with me."
Catelyn's lips pursed. Jaime was a green boy in awe of the Blackfish of house Tully. He would agree with her uncle if he said jumping off a cliff was the best way to grow chest hair. She was spared from saying exactly that by Lord Stark riding close.
"Is that a storm approaching?" The Northern lord eyed the dark clouds gathering on the close horizon.
"Looks it," her uncle said. "Damn winter always spawns the big ones and from the south? Darry lands are not too far now. If we make haste, we could reach the Crossroads before the flooding."
At the word 'flooding', Lord Stark's face twisted. "No need." Without raising his voice, the lord continued, "Your grace, if you would?"
"Of course," Lady Teren demurred.
Benjen Stark perked up. "Can you show me how!?"
The false-woman paused for a moment. "The basics, yes," she allowed slowly. "Perhaps you will have this in common as well."
The boy growled some nonsense word and she passed a gentle hand through the boy's snow white hair with a small smile as if she understood him. Her dark blue eyes swept over their procession. For a moment, that predatory gaze met Catelyn's Tully blue eyes and there was a gleam of knowing there that she did not like before she was passed over.
"If I may?" The quiet voice of Lord Howland Reed spoke out. The green of his eyes was a tingle on her arms before she looked away.
"Uh, me too?" Jaime asked, curious.
"And do you also wish to see a miracle up close?" The false-woman dryly asked the prince.
Rhaegar Targaryen waved a careless hand at her. "I already see one."
For the first time since they came upon their procession on the Kingsroad coming down from the Neck, the prince finally got the response he desired.
The false-woman reared back like a bewildered cat as pink dusted the bridge of her nose. "I - well, that is - I mean - " she stuttered before she kicked her horse into a canter with a vicious snarl. "Rusting bards!"
"I believe she preferred you when you did not know how to speak to her," Lord Stark observed her ride away over the nearest gently rolling hill with an amused quirk of his lips under his thick beard.
"Mayhaps." Rhaegar Targaryen's grin was victorious.
When the very world lit up with power, every hair on her body rose like being outside in a thunderstorm as every scar throbbed, a headache pulsing behind her eyes. She licked her lips, tasting blood as a brilliant silver light arced up into the heavens, banishing every cloud from the sky.
All Catelyn Tully could think as she looked up into the shining letters branded above them was,
Oh.
Notes: Robert and Ned both rolled a 19. Which means when Ned went to get a new teacher, he struck gold and Robert passed his crucible with flying colors. Meanwhile, Elbert rolled a 2, so he still doesn't even have an official class yet because his mount is a baby. Meanwhile Jaime inherited way too much from someone, Catelyn is a full BAB class that eats arcane spellcasters for breakfast and Ned succeeded at everything that didn't matter and failed everything that did.
Just like canon.
Robert meanwhile proceeded to roll a 1. This was an issue, because his roll was for his saving throw against his grandmother's claim. And because it is a saving throw, a 1 is a crit fail.
I let him reroll with a Hero Point.
He rolled a 1 again.
The end result is that when she said he would be her son, she meant it. Robertcrit failed his way into being the second godling in Westeros. As this is a failure, this has consequences. Big ones. And then he turns around and rolls the only Nat 20 ANYONE got, and I rolled for EIGHT PEOPLE, which meant his series of rolls looked like this: 19, 1, 1, 2, 5, 18, 20.
He became a Godling upon passing his Trial and proceeding to utterly fail at remaining human at all. Godlings naturally ascend upon learning their heritage or having their first meeting with their divine parent or an agent of said parent.
I'd like to say that I find this a lot more fun & interesting than the original...
Before the TV series I noted all the fuss about the books, and read the first one. Noted the familiar GRRM 'introduce then kill characters for effect' method, and decided it was pseudo-medieval power-politics of limited interest. Good characterisation, but nothing novel. Too many mad characters. So, read no more books, couldn't be bothered with TV series.
Mixing in Pathfinder (DnD) magic, and bits of weird mythology, with this writing style, makes ASoIaF much more worthwhile!
I'm... not completely sure, as an author, I approve of the way you seem to be using D20, but, you seem to be making it work...
). An esoteric attack like the crystal breath was a good choice in this regard, something weird and unexpected that could catch even a powerhouse offguard. Seeing the humans be this vulnerable adds a lot of stakes to all future combat encounters, especially since their fragility constrains our glorious dragon overlord from going all out, but at the same time we get to see that they are competent and do their best with the meek human bodies and abilities they have, perhaps giving us a small glimpse of their future heroic glory should they survive long enough. I liked it a lot!
