Shujin
M. NightShujinlan
- Location
- New York, New York
Thanks! And the D20 is me just being extra again with my stories. It's certainly been interesting figuring out what a roll means and how it could play out while still making everything coherent.
Rust (Pathfinder/ASOIAF)
- Thread starter Shujin
- Start date
Riverlands I
Shujin
M. NightShujinlan
- Location
- New York, New York
Elbert: So you woke up with lightning powers and decided that was reason to ruin your friendship with Ned? Who, by the way, woke up blind?
Robert: Hey now -
Eddard: Yes.
Robert: I said I was sorry!
Eddard: If you really meant it, you'd help me figure out how to kill a demigod.
Elbert: What?
Robert: What?
Eddard: What?
Melina: I do have experience with that, actually.
Robert: Hey now -
Eddard: Yes.
Robert: I said I was sorry!
Eddard: If you really meant it, you'd help me figure out how to kill a demigod.
Elbert: What?
Robert: What?
Eddard: What?
Melina: I do have experience with that, actually.
Riverlands I
"Lord Stark."
"Your grace," Rickard acknowledged, getting to his feet as his tent sagged mournfully. Wisps of silver light were still fading from the newly clear sky like the blue-green veil that shimmered over the Shivering Sea at times. He tilted his head towards that bright horizon. "I apologize for not consulting you first of my intentions, I saw an opportunity to reduce some tension and took it."
Prince Rhaegar smiled wryly. "She is not my wife yet, my lord. And I well understand what your purpose was."
The prince finally looked the part of a Targaryen king rather than a Black Brother. Fine boots and breeches with the black doublet the dragon had made for him.
He was not quite sure how or why his daughter got into a sewing contest with the dragon, but he could not argue with the results. It was intricately embroidered with red dragons perched on his arms, their heads resting their chins on each shoulder and their tails winding down his wrists showing black fabric between the coils. Each red scale was outlined in gold thread with yellow cat's eye gems set in their heads and their wings meeting across his chest. The air of the Riverlands had a chill, but it was a wet cold full of water and the hazy steam barely visible gave the boy a mystical look.
His father's crown was made of red-gold, large and burdensome with the points fashioned like dragon heads with gemstone eyes. The crown of Aegon IV, called Unworthy, a testament to opulence. Such a crown, he could not see fitting the boy at all.
Black iron, Rickard thought half-heartedly. Set with rubies much like the crown of the Conqueror was said to have been. As for the consort's crown…
A quick glance over the camp revealed one less head of silver than there should have been.
(...)
He sighed. "Scouting or hunting?"
"Hunting." Rhaegar shrugged helplessly with an equally sheepish smile. "I will accept some blame for that, she does not do well with attention when already under some stress."
"And so disappeared into the mists without informing anyone."
Again.
"She told your son," Prince Rhaegar said dryly. "With instructions not to move from her claimed location."
Good.
That meant she was not likely to have gone far nor planned to take long. She expected Benjen to obey and she was not wrong to do so. He would say it was a surprise how closely his son cleaved to the dragon, but he would be lying.
"He's not a three week old pup." Rickard still muttered, folding his arms with a quiet 'hmph.' "Or a kitten."
"Don't," Rhaegar warned, his lips twitching.
"Would not leave Mikken to figure out the use of magic runes on wagons," Rickard complained, ignoring him. "And yet the moment I give her permission to oversee the project, loses all interest!"
His royal audience nodded agreeably, a spark of mischief in his purple eyes. "From what I understood, there was a threshold understanding where she no longer fears your craftsmen will hurt themselves, just…failed to relay that information."
Rickard raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "As she is too preoccupied with keeping her own counsel on what she deems trivial until it is a problem."
This produced a grimace.
"She also hid in the godswood from her lessons for three days straight."
The prince dutifully came to the defense of his lady. "Winterfell had been invaded by not a small amount of Northern lords and Umber is a menace. She can only tolerate so many at once."
"Which explains why she only sought the company of Ser Dayne, her sworn shield, or Benjen while throwing Mors Umber into a tree."
"I…yes."
"Hmm," Rickard made a thoughtful sound as he rubbed his beard, smothering the smile. "Mhmm. Hrmmmhmm."
From behind the prince, Ser Oswell Whent snorted quietly. "You just described a fucking cat."
"Hush, ser." The boy looked defeated. "Please explain that you have a plan for how to move forward now that we have exposed her."
"I have half of a plan," Rickard admitted, folding his arms defensively. "I am familiar with Brynden, if he is convinced of the merit of your suit, Hoster best agree or he'll never hear the end of it."
Hoster Tully tried to marry his brother off once to Bethany Redwyne and earned himself a decade of little peace. If he knew the Tully brothers at all, they would still be squabbling all the way to their graves.
"Whether by true merit or wariness of offending her, though I am wary of using the latter approach as it would reflect my father too much," the prince rightfully pointed out, proving once more that he had a mind. It only needed to be coaxed to remain within the boy's skull more often.
If he had forgotten to inform his late wife's father of his intentions until his courtship of her had been near done, Lyarra would have gelded him.
"We have a day or two still to make your intentions and her nature plain, your grace." He agreed with a wave of his hand. "The latter, especially."
All had been in agreement that no good would have come from waving a dragon under Aerys' nose. Even the dragon herself. Reluctantly, although he got the feeling it was less from fear of the response and more a removal of temptation for her.
There was no benefit in hiding the dragon's presence entirely, if nothing else, a Valyrian lady in the company of the prince would give the king pause in arranging betrothals his son would have to discard. Tales of witchcraft, blood magic and sorcery had followed Valyrians since the times of the Freehold, as long as she was subtle about it, there would be few questions.
She was not subtle about it.
Prince Rhaegar's smile was a grim curve. "She does not wear the pretense of mortality well."
"No." Rickard replied, voice becoming tight with displeasure as the missing silver gilt head became glaring. "No, she does not."
For all of their jests about felines, it did not take much to remind them that she was a far, far more dangerous creature.
She had taken to disappearing into the Riverlands' foggy banks and the mists that rose above the creeks for long stretches of time, reappearing without sound like a haunting wraith with her feet forgetting to touch the ground. Often carrying a very dead large animal, full grown harts, aurochs and black bears torn apart with her bare hands. After the first sennight on the road, she began to shun the cooking fires. Enough respect for their peace of mind remained for her to take her bloody meals elsewhere, but the restless appetite, the eagerness of the hunger in her eyes as if hoping for a fatal mistake was beginning to remind Rickard of a hunting dog kept on a leash for too long.
Asking her to banish the winter storm this close to King's Landing had been a risk. If being forced to use her woman shape was like being muzzled, restricting her magic must have been like being smothered. There was the young Lannister proving that the phenomenon of sorcery was widespread, but one had a walking dead horse and the other was encroaching upon the realm of gods.
But if it prevented a giant magical talking dragon from swooping in to take Benjen hostage, it would be well worth it.
The South's expectations of their ladies fit the dragon like a mammoth fit through the eye of a needle. No matter how well suited she was to individual pieces, the whole was still dragon shaped. Her mother ruled in her own right, led armies by the sword and expected her daughter to do the same. The less said about her father, the god, the better.
In hindsight, expecting the dragon to allow herself to be overlooked until the time came was a mistake. He appreciated that she was trying, but even her attempts were drawing attention from everyone. The new Lord Reed had been asking what she was, in different ways, at least once per day and he was surprised the dragon didn't have a bald patch on the back of her head from Catelyn Tully's suspicious stare.
"Our plans for appealing to Lord Arryn will have to change," he warned the prince in a low tone. "Any insight to share on how best to use her disposition would be appreciated, your grace."
"Any insight," the boy repeated, purple eyes near dark enough in the dim sunlight to seem black as he looked to the sky. "She expects to live several thousand years, a favored child of her father."
(???)
Several thousand?
"And what is a king to a god?" The young man asked no one. "She is here to champion our cause because He asked it of her, but we have naught she wants." Even when standing guard, blank faced, Ser Whent's faint grimace could still be made out. "Visenya conquered the Vale by flying to the Eyrie atop her dragon Vhagar and with a word, she can do the same."
"That would spark war."
"One she would expect to lose?"
Rickard hesitated.
The prince accepted silence for an answer, a grim cast to his face that aged him beyond his nine and ten years. "She understands our concerns of politics, but struggles to comply as by her thinking, they are beneath her, my lord."
Ignorance and fear would be her constant companions in court. "She will have to learn otherwise."
"I have faith she will. However, for now her nature is simple. Give her a wall to defend, an army to break, an evil to vanquish and she is content enough."
She learned like she was weaned on books with an uncanny wisdom that saw to the truth of matters, but gods forbid she did not agree with the proposed solution. The very concept of taking a son hostage to guard against his lord father's ill behavior lost her to the clouds for a full day. Could that truly be it? That for all her wonders, the dragon was little more than a naive blunt instrument? Then again, if said instrument could be wielded with enough skill to crush a stone or crush a kingdom, did it make a difference?
He did not know yet.
And if the dragon needed an opponent…It only took Rickard a moment to find a possible solution. "The mountain clans."
A blank moment of incomprehension, and then realization sparked in those purple eyes. "The mountain clans," Rhaegar breathed. "A stubborn plague on the rule of house Arryn, but what use are the hidden mountain paths they use when one can fly?"
He knew all too well that the dragon walked a fine line between compassion and condescension. "We would still need to make some manner of common cause with the Warden of the East."
"And she need not participate," the prince said quickly. "She would not thank us for it. Aegon the Conqueror did not send Balerion to give terms, only to burn."
"Very well," Rickard allowed. "However, you can be the one to tell her that."
The boy gave him a pleading look, but he stood firm.
So.
Half a plan.
As long as no one did anything stupid.
"Rhîsskha is planning to kidnap me," his son informed him primly the next morning.
Rickard sighed.
So he took a risk for nothing. This is why he rejected the title of Hand of the King. Let it be someone else's job to handle this nonsense. They were welcome to it.
Benjen bounded up to him, in black like his new hero, First Ranger Brenn with a strip of a rich blue-purple on the right side of his collar. The direwolf cub ran in circles around his legs with the energy all young children had that made old wolves feel tired just watching them.
"Why is she taking you this time?"
His youngest peered around suspiciously for any eavesdroppers, before whispering, "Her skin is too small and without a akxsinar to defend me, she can't leave me alone for long until I can hunt for myself."
He would be nearly a man grown then! "You wouldn't be alone."
"You and Ser Dayne are too weak."
Rickard stared for a long moment. The Sword of the Morning being inadequate was a first. Besides him, there was a combined force of fighting men thirty strong sitting in this camp.
Benjen shrugged helplessly. "...I think she forgets everyone else are people sometimes?"
For the love of all the gods, Old and the New - "Just as she forgets you did not hatch from an egg."
"Her head knows!" Benjen protested. "Her skin is just really tight right now and she knows you wouldn't like it so she asked."
He blinked. "She asked if you wanted to be kidnapped?"
Benjen gave him a narrow eyed look then, as if suspecting his father to be some kind of idiot. "No, how she should kidnap me. After late meal when everyone is asleep? Before we sight Castle Darry during the dawn mist, matters such as that."
(...?)
"...and your answer?"
"I said she should wait until we leave the Crossroads and part ways with Lord Tully's men?" The boy said, rifling through his small pack as if discussing his own kidnapping was a reasonable thing to do. "I need more time to help Lord Jaime with a spell so he owes me a name day present. We could hide her better in the mountain passes if she summons mist so you don't have to be mad at her too much."
(..!!)
Rickard let out a long exhale through his nose as he took the wrapped loaf of bread sliced in half around cheese and sausage and the red apple his son handed him. Fresh fruit in the middle of winter thanks to the dragon's magic. As breathtaking as the sunrise, as irritating as the pox on the arse. He had been forewarned, he supposed.
"That…was well negotiated." If he squinted, it almost looked like early lordship lessons, ones that assumed sorcery as just another tool. A thought for furthering Brandon's education. "Your studies for the day?"
"Draconic tongue, sums, houses of the Vale and ice spiders."
(!!!)
"Ice spiders." Rickard repeated.
Benjen's estimation of his intellect visibly fell further. "Spiders. Made out of ice." He held a hand over the ground, depicting a creature the size of his unnamed direwolf. "This big. For my next spell?"
"Why."
"So they could scout and hunt for me." A worrying glint shone in the boy's blue eyes. "And hide in places if I want to hear what is being talked about when you don't let me join you."
"I see."
Eavesdropping ice spiders that large was one way to ensure Rickard never felt comfortable speaking to a fellow lord again.
"It won't work on rhîsskha though," Benjen grumbled, head hanging. "She hears too good."
There was something about the word he called her that nibbled at him. He understood it was 'nurturing parent,' the closest her tongue had to 'foster mother.' A akxsinar was a 'defending parent,' but he might be forgetting some part of her explanation on the importance of those titles. It already afforded him the right to her house colors, which was rather unusual, so perhaps there was more to it?
"Her hearing is too sensitive," Rickard corrected and the exasperated look on his young face was all Lyarra. He was well practiced at swallowing the pain down with a bite of his meal. "I am…glad to see you thriving under her tutelage." He managed awkwardly. "You have no concerns on fostering with her?"
Benjen looked up at him.
There was a moment, with his hair bled silver and the midday sun hitting his burning eyes just right, when he felt the distance between them. Not like before, when he was aware that he could pay more attention, that he could take the time, that he could say the words, but the effort felt like building the Wall by hand and the absence at his side was just as cold.
This one felt insurmountable.
Fostering at Deepwood Motte with the Glovers if they would have him, wedding a suitable wife in the North, finding the coin for a small holdfast. The future he once held close imagining Lyarra's smile over his shoulder was so ill fitting, he felt it shatter. As if overnight, he had lost the flesh and blood boy she had given him with her life and the changeling that replaced him belonged to the Age of Heroes. More stardust and magic and half-forgotten tales of gods and monsters than a man. Bran the Builder come again. Raised by a godling and the Unburnt King on the Iron Throne, their son would look up to him as an older brother. He would play a part in the coming war against Old Nan's tales come to life.
Even knowing, it was still difficult to believe.
Winter has always been coming, but now…
Well now he supposed it had finally picked up the pace.
"No concerns." Benjen said softly, taking him away from his darkening thoughts. "She's my second mother. She loves me."
Rickard hummed. "She does."
After the agreement had been made, he had spied a scene that made his heart catch in his throat.
The dragon in her beastly form resting before the Kingsroad gate and Benjen's tiny form scrambling all over her back. He had rushed out, a sharp reprimand on his lips. The dragon had rumbled at him before he could say a word, opening a reproachful eye. He had gone back to his solar, the vision of her patiently tolerating those clumsy little feet on her shining scales, those eager little hands on her spines worth a thousand words.
He did not yet know how it made him feel.
"Ask for more information on her family background, her house, the lands and lords of her kingdom today, if you can." As if your name was not Benjen, Arthur, or Wendel, it was like prying teeth out of a wolf's mouth. He cleared his throat. "It could be of use."
"Yes, Father," Benjen dutifully responded. Then his brows furrowed thoughtfully. "But Father, if Terendelev is my second mother, does that make Galfrey Mendev my second grandmother? Does that mean Apsu is my second grandfather?"
(...)
(...)
(!!!!!)
"Damn," Rickard said with feeling. "So I was forgetting something."
The Blackfish had gotten grey since the Ninepenny Wars. Ser Brynden Tully was still in his grey ringmail under blackened steel armor. Under his arm, his helm with the black trout crest matching the embroidering on his overcoat. His cloak in the colors of his house was fastened with a dragonglass and gold pin of a jumping trout. Most of his hair was still Tully red, peppered with salt and his clean shaven face had earned a few wrinkles and crags in his cheeks. The only feature that remained the same were his laughing river blue gaze, watching his men as he leaned back against his horse's side.
Lord Sumner Crakehall of Crakehall in the Westerlands stood shorter than average, but of a stocky, barrel chested build much like the boar that is his sigil with thinning sandy hair liberally sprinkled with white and a closely trimmed mutton chop beard. The lord was richly dressed, half-plate as a concession to his poor back, but no less for it with gold embellishments and purple cloth. A Lannister must have been in his line at some point to give him those clear green eyes, but then all Westermen looked the same to him.
And for the sake of the boar lord's dignity, Rickard was fully intent on enjoying his apple and ignoring how the man was near hiding in his shadow, staring wide eyed.
But he couldn't help himself.
"She won't eat you, Crakehall," he said dryly. "Probably."
That got him the dirtiest look he'd seen since he told Lyanna that ten was not 'near a woman grown.' "What the Seven Hells have you gotten into, Stark?"
"A position of dubious authority over our future King Alysanne and Queen Jaehaerys," he responded dryly as he bit into the crisp fruit.
"K - King Alys…pardon?" The man sputtered at the unexpected reversal of Jaehaerys I and his queen.
Rickard tilted his head towards Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, who had just saved his fine black breeches from burning by throwing himself into the creek that ran alongside the Kingsroad. Rather than giving up, the boy had resumed the struggle composing songs on his lute that wouldn't set himself, his horse, or his wary Kingsguard, Ser Oswell Whent on fire with a bad note.
Then he looked pointedly in Lady Teren Mendev's direction.
Brynden snorted loud enough to startle his own horse.
Ser Wendel Manderly was still suffering.
The man began his day eating mud in the yard against either the Sword of the Morning or the dragon herself. The murmurs when the lady first picked up the sword before the Southerners hadn't lasted long. Given how she took it upon herself at Winterfell to beat Dayne into the ground until his legs forgot they had been crushed, he hadn't expected it to.
Then came the horse jumping.
A man in full plate vaulting over the back of horses before doing a series of rolls, short dashes, stopping to braid a piece of rope in the middle (??) before jumping over the next horse. The fat was being stripped from his face and belly the way a blacksmith hammered impurities from steel, followed by a tempering of his blessings. Rigorous study of his faith and doctrine to search for ideals or causes the Seven was calling him to embody as divine spells. Now he was doing a strange exercise of pulling his entire weight up by his arms, his legs folded up beneath him. The merit of the activity was simple enough to guess, a man in armor weighed more than stones.
And the bar he hung from was the dragon's outstretched arm.
A full grown man in full knight's armor worn as easily as a summer cloak.
As they watched, Ser Wendel reached some count, dropping to the ground.
The dragon was also in armor, a shining steel mail shirt over a crimson tunic with black plate protecting her sword arm, waist and shins with plate knee guards over her boots. A long cloak, blood red on the outer face and that odd shade of a deep blue-purple on the inside was fastened over her left shoulder with a dragon made of silver with a tiny ruby eye. It was a noble image. One could almost forget she came back last night with a beast of a boar over her shoulder, head split from snout to skull as her hands had grasped each tusk and pulled.
She looked down at her sworn shield as he wheezed, arms trembling and her look much reminded Rickard of a hawk sighting an injured hare.
"If I catch you lowering your guard to take hits with your rib cage ever again," she began with a deceptively soft cadence. "I will break your shield into splinters and you will be eating them with your late meal for the next fortnight. Perhaps the taste of wood will remind you."
The young knight greedily sucked in air. "...my apologies, your grace."
"And?"
"I - I will not?"
"You will not what, ser?" The dragon's voice snapped like ice, silver hair tied back in dozens of braids brought into one and blue-purple eyes sharp as Valyrian steel.
"I would not think she takes after The Conciliator," Brynden mused, tickled pink as he absently whittled away at a chunk of wood with his knife. "Perhaps the Young Dragon?"
(...!)
"Aye," Rickard said evenly. Except instead of a war against Dorne, it would be against the godsdamned Others. "Mayhaps Queen Daeron is a better fit."
Crakehall closed his eyes, pained.
"...I will not lower my shield, your grace!" Ser Wendel barely got out before doubling over in a coughing fit.
"Good man." A single hand hauled him to his feet. "Begin your run."
And with a loud groan, the Northern knight began a light jog down the Kingsroad towards them. He grumbled and complained, but he complied as best as he was able.
The second Manderly son had his respect.
He would also much rather have the man in the Kingsguard or on the Wall before suffering through telling Oldtown that their chosen of the Seven would not, in fact, be inheriting the singular bastion of the Faith in the North. Wendel plainly saw the problem and moved to solve the problem in a satisfactory manner without Rickard having to lift a finger.
A true Northman.
He sent a raven saying just that to White Harbour.
Lord Manderly replied that he had been hoping that a lordship and an excuse could be quietly found to repair what the Seven broke. Also, one of his guards that escorted his son came back wearing an interesting icon, if Lord Stark had any insight to share?
The responding raven patiently explained that if he asked Wendel to break his oath to his lady and he agreed to do so, said lady was likely to kill the both of them and it would be well deserved. The guard that returned wearing a silver dragon pendant was not intended to cause panic. It stood for the father of Wendel's lady who had healed the guard of illness. There would be no conflict of interest regarding fealty as the man was some sort of old god. He fully intended on clarifying the matter with the Green Men at the God's Eye.
And as Lord Stark, he was officially assigning house Manderly with the task of taking the matter of not breaking things in his North up with the Seven-Who-Are-One.
Since Lord Manderly failed to reply before the time came to depart, Rickard was content to assume all was well!
(...)
And if it wasn't, Brandon was near of age to be the Stark in Winterfell. If the dragon's words on asking for advice before rushing off to do the fool thing didn't fly out of his head, he wouldn't burn the North down.
"Lord Stark." Ser Wendel Manderly puffed as he ran past, face red and forehead shining with sweat. Rickard saluted him with his apple. "My lords."
They watched him go, well aware that for the next hour he'd be running back and forth in both directions before the dragon would make him heal himself of aches.
And then defend himself in the yard once more.
"Rare is it that a woman can train her own sworn shield," Ser Brynden noted, a calculating glint to his Tully blue eyes as he watched after the running knight. "With little patience for recklessness, even if the Seven blessed him to miraculously heal himself. Wonder if the lady has any advice on squires that like going for the eyes."
"Everything about that woman is unnatural - " Crakehall paused, confused. "You've taken a squire?"
Tully huffed in open amusement. "My squire is the one that beat the gold off Lannister's boy at Riverrun."
The boar lord's mouth fell open. "Catelyn?"
"And he hasn't left her alone since," Brynden continued with a sly smile. "Made a jape offering her Casterly Rock while she was attempting to bash his head in."
"Well." Lord Crakehall said eventually, blinking owlishly. "He's Tywin's son, to be certain."
Rickard exhaled loud.
"Attempted to give her a tourney blade once," The Blackfish reminisced almost fondly. "More fool me. Little shit angled her swings against my own blade to sharpen it. Give her a club, she gets creative, but somehow cannot comprehend that shields are for blocking."
Crakehall's eyebrows bounced. "That explains the bastard sword."
"She took well to it." Brynden sighed. "All murder, no defense."
Rickard hummed.
He had been in some early talks with Hoster on the matter of betrothals for his eldest daughter. The man was prone to dither before making decisions and Jaime Lannister's presence explained why. If Tywin did nothing with his son's lack of self-preservation, perhaps Catelyn Tully would keep Brandon in line.
"From what I understand, this is standard training for knights in Mendev's land, meant to forge them into weapons in moons, not years. Warriors who fight monsters, rather than men."
"And what land is that?" Brynden turned to him too quickly, like as not waiting for an opening to question him. "If she is as Valyrian as she looks, her family should hold true power in Essos, their name on every man's lips."
Rickard shrugged his shoulders. "She's a godling who fell from her realm in the heavens along with the stars."
Both men stared at him.
He knew he sounded ridiculous.
Unfortunately, it was also the truth.
He munched on his apple. "I reached the part where her kingdom's hundred year war saw both dragons in service to her father and the personal companions of other gods serve as soldiers before my head started to pound and I begged her to stop talking."
Which she did, with a sheepish smile that didn't make him feel any better.
It was Crakehall who caught on first. "...the North has apple trees with fruit in the middle of winter?"
"No." He gestured with his eyes towards the horizon where the winter storm that should have overtaken them during the night raged impotently, unable to come closer. "We do not. Courtesy of Lady Mendev."
"Beg pardon. Godling." Crakehall blew out a sharp breath. "Stark, are you saying she's god get?"
(...)
He had not wanted to. Then that wooden dragon had nodded to him after his prayers at the heart tree and he fled from the godswood with his tail between his legs.
"Her father, aye."
Ser Brynden groaned aloud. "Seven bloody fucking Hells, this shit is worse than I thought."
"Ser!" Crakehall gasped. "You can't say you believe this?"
Rickard met the man's eyes as he deliberately took another bite of his fruit. This time it was Brynden who gestured towards the storm on the horizon with his knife and the Westermen looked as if he had swallowed a lemon.
"Extraordinary tales required equally extraordinary evidence," Rickard mused aloud. "Is that not what our maesters have taught us since we were boys?"
The Blackfish began to chuckle under his breath, helplessly shaking his head. "You old dog, only you could sniff out this shit."
Rickard's lips twitched in spite of himself. "I resent the implication. She fell in the far North beyond the Wall. The realm can thank the son of Maekar for bringing them together, I am innocent I tell you."
It had been Maester Aemon that bid the prince north, but this was his doing.
A soft encouragement for Benjen's admiration of his elder cousin, a Brother of the Night's Watch when it had been time to pack for the trip. Openly supported the prince's overtures towards his intended, well aware the dragon had a contradictory lack of modesty, but strict adherence to the presentation of propriety.
Finally got the damn beast to wear black with red.
Back to them, Rhaegar's short black cloak flowed next to the crimson of hers as she gave instructions to Ser Arthur Dayne. Both of the adults in black and red and Benjen, a young boy in black with silver hair clinging to the dragon's side with the prince's absent hand on his shoulder. Ser Oswell Whent stood guard in his white armor and cloak as his king playfully pulled on one of his queen's loose shining braids, who glanced at him in exasperated amusement instead of flinching away.
It was a powerful image meant for Lord Darry, who had a younger brother and a cousin in Aerys' service as Kingsguard and Master at Arms respectively. However, he was not above testing its use on Crakehall and Arryn.
Brynden cared little as a man who rarely let such things influence his opinion. Crakehall held a pinched, concerned expression.
Here lay his liege lord, Tywin Lannister's ambition to see his golden daughter queen in tatters. He expected Crakehall to fight it. A snide comment, a protestation, a bitter mumble about how little they truly knew about the woman and her family. If she was suited to being queen. He was prepared for those outcomes.
Instead, his answer was a watchful silence.
The boar lord would take his squire Jaime Lannister back to the Westerlands and then, he would expect a raven to fly to King's Landing to the Tower of the Hand of the King. Rickard bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood.
He had taken a risk.
Sometimes they do not turn in your favor.
Catelyn hit the frozen ground hard.
That was enough, she thought desperately, eyes squeezed shut as her back throbbed. The palm of her right hand stung fiercely and of course her ankle was sprained, but such hurts never lasted long. Please let that have been enough.
When she opened her eyes to Jaime Lannister's unsmiling face, she knew it hadn't been.
Cat sighed. "Fuck."
The word hung in the chilly air between them for several long moments. Jaime's golden eyebrows slowly crept up his brow just like the heat welling in her cheeks as she stared back. The combined Stark and Tully camp was a low murmur in the background.
A far off bird trilled.
The quiet shattered with the little lion's wild laughter.
"I said it aloud!" Catelyn cried in disbelief, burning mortification on the back of her neck and high on her cheeks. Jaime choked on his laugh as she threw her arm over her eyes wishing the ground would open up and swallow her whole. "I am becoming my uncle!"
These stupid men have infected her!
"Is that so bad?" Jaime teased her lightly as he gently poked her side with his blade. They both knew she did not fear cuts. "The Blackfish is known throughout the realm."
"Not for his foul language!"
"True," Jaime allowed as he poked her again. "You do take after him in other ways as well though."
"If you say black is my color…" she warned.
"It is," he quipped, but the smile he gave her was soft and sweet enough to make her heart ache.
He was one year younger than her, but already so pretty she could die. Their children would be a delight to behold and she wouldn't even mind if they looked all Lannister, with his long golden curls that shone like coins he had tied back in a bun and golden skin. Jaime told her his eyes had once been green, but now they were a molten gold with his pupils pinpoints of ink in the center.
The eyes of a lion, he had said.
"You're like my sister." Jaime shrugged. "Every color is your color."
Maybe he could love her.
Jaime offered her his hand and she grasped it firmly, letting him help her up from the cold ground. At the edge of the small clearing by the thick creek, the thin faced black haired boy looked up from the pauldron he was polishing. She knew already by the way his mouth twisted as if he bit into rotten fruit.
"Are you done playing at knights with the freak?"
Most of her squirmed, the familiar shame welling in her cheeks. She was a daughter of House Tully, who should be having lessons on womanly duties with her septa or seeing to the household of her father in preparation for her marriage instead of playing squire to her lord uncle. The call of the Warrior was not for well-bred ladies who had no need to wield her own steel, for it was only proper for her to rely on the protection of their lord father's men.
(they tried)
She forced her face to still and reached for the ember of spite in her belly.
"Better than playing squires with you, Frey." Cat said nastily. Jaime's smile sharpened the same way a sword did and the flush of victory moved her tongue once more. "Have you learned how to keep hold of your shield yet?"
Merret Frey's weasely face flushed an ugly puce color as Jaime barked a short laugh. "He has!" Lannister crowed. "And then he loses his sword. Aunt Genna was right about that, I think. Have a hard time doing more than two things at once, do they, these Freys?"
She wiggled a toe beneath the hilt of her uncle's early nameday gift and with a quick snap of her ankle, she flipped it into the air. Snatching the hilt, flicking the blade to the side to rid it of dirt clods in one motion before sheathing it was second nature.
"He can embarrass himself, eat wet grass and still breathe through his mouth," Cat offered. She felt a little bad about rubbing her win against the taller boy in his face, but Jaime liked it when she stood up for herself and told her once that Merret bullied the other squires at Crakehall Castle, so it was fine. "Does that count?"
Jaime snorted.
"Don't go thinking you're any good because you got lucky against Lannister," Merret sneered.
She opened her mouth.
"It wasn't luck," Jaime said easily, so certain it wadded her words up in her throat. "She's been throwing our matches."
Catelyn's stomach sank.
"What?" Merret barked. "No she hasn't - "
"Ser Arthur Dayne said she had a gift with the blade."
Ser Dayne had not expected a girl of four and ten to actually try to kill him.
The man had no way of knowing that her gift with the sword was born of a much colder, crueler impulse to study what lurked in his veins. There was an unerring rightness in cutting down unnatural creatures that preyed upon others. That foulness was a poison and every fibre of her being screamed the need to burn it out.
It was also indiscriminate.
(it was not banishment, she was not banished no matter how much it felt like it, she just…could not go home right now)
She busied herself brushing the bronze fish scale decorations on her armor clean, but eventually, she looked up and met Jaime's steady lion eyed gaze. "How did you know?"
Jaime tilted his head back, lips pursed. "When you want to win," he began slowly. "You get a look in your eyes."
Merret made a small sound. "Like you were going to claw my tongue out."
"No one mocks my sister," Catelyn snarled at him and the way Old Walder Frey's mutton headed boy shrank back was satisfying.
Petyr could ably defend himself now, but Lysa…
"Like a cat that spotted a bird in the brush," Jaime continued without a care. Then that lazy, arrogant smile pulled at his lips. The one she was sure in a few years would be devastating to witness and she hoped he'd be hers by then. "Or Lady Mendev, when she forgets herself."
Catelyn shushed him fearfully, stealing a glance over her shoulder.
Monsters did not all look the same. They looked like harmless old women until steel was drawn. They looked like conjurations of the mind from fog and mist off the rivers. They looked like drowned, bloated corpses. They looked like their long dead mother, until Lysa promised them everything -
What would the false-woman look like while dying?
Catelyn breathed out the bloody thought. "It moves like a snake trapped in a woman's skin," she said. "She has a snake's eyes as well. Cold. Hungry. I do not want to win with that look you noticed. I want to murder."
Jaime shrugged. "Yes, and?"
Merret shivered and drew a seven sided star sign across his chest. An old custom, but she could see the merit in reviving it with the Seven's gaze upon them once more. "So the future queen is some monstrous Valyrian witch who is a hair's breath from murdering our future king, but it likes your Stark so all is well."
Jaime sniffed. "He's not my Stark - "
"And stop using Dayne as a mark of virtue - !"
"She's not Valyrian," Cat said firmly. "Her look is an illusion of some kind. I - I can feel it."
"You can feel it," Merret echoed dully.
"Of course," Jaime murmured softly with an equally gentle look in his molten eyes. "You are magic too."
Heat rushed to her face again. And she knew that Petyr always said she blushed prettily, but all she could think of was that it would make the scars on her face - three thin lines of the claw marks that tried to rip out her throat and missed, carving her jaw instead - red and angry.
She did not understand how Jaime seemed not to mind them.
"We can ask?" The question came out weak sounding and she cursed herself when the boys looked at her. Merret disdainful, Jaime thoughtful.
"Why not?" Lannister ventured. "My father would certainly approve of my diligence. Is the future of the royal family not of import? Merret is…no one cares, not even his father - "
"Sleep light tonight, Lannister."
"But I'm the heir to the West and you will be Lady of Riverrun."
And that too hung in the still air between them, as welcome as her profanity from earlier. If she had her way, she would never steal Edmure's rightful inheritance. He was the son, the heir as the Seven intended.
The Seven blessed the second Manderly son, not the first.
The thought itself felt like poison in her mind.
"Her brother is the heir," Merret said.
Jaime smiled then, pretty and false. "Right, there was a rather unremarkable boy I remember seeing, wasn't there?"
Frey's answering grin was mean. "Come to think of it, I almost thought that upjumped Braavosi was the heir until he opened his mouth."
"Edmure is six. He will grow into it," fell from her numb lips. She remembered Petyr's words then.
If her foster brother went back to his seat in the Fingers of the Vale and Lysa…recovered and both Tully sisters married away from Riverrun leaving Edmure alone once Father died, who was left to defend his claim?
Not even Uncle Brynden thought it worth fighting for.
She tried to banish the thought of inheritance. "We have a little over a day, perhaps two to receive our answers - "
"We?" Merret sneered.
Cat stiffened her back and her lips. "Lannister and I. No one cares about you, Frey."
Jaime didn't move as the big boy's face twisted in an ugly snarl as he threw down the pauldron, rising from his rocky seat. "Your father should have beaten that mouth out of you - "
And it was that more than aught else, that same sneering tone as when Frey had proclaimed Lysa mad that let the cold thoughts return.
Kill him.
Kill him. Kill him.
Killhimkillhimkillhimkillitkillitkillkillkill!
The blood drained from Merret Frey's face. "G - Going. I - I'm leaving. Right now."
"There you are," it breathed in triumph.
She glanced over it. Banded mail armor gilded in golden patterns. Short cloth-of-gold cloak. Dagger in left boot. Castle-forged steel blade. It looked like a normal boy of golden hair. Above average height. Right handed. The minute shifts of its shoulders and weight, preparing to defend its soft throat. Only the eyes full of hellfire gave the ruse away.
Her scars burned.
Would its blood burn too?
Cat breathed out the bloody thought and it coated her tongue with the taste of copper and iron. "You should be afraid."
Jaime scoffed. "Perhaps you should stop concealing what we both know you are capable of though, you might succeed in offending me."
And she turned her face away, hiding her smile.
He could love her.
"You should not say such things about my inheritance of Riverrun," she said absently. She could feel the cold thoughts trying to return, but she couldn't marry Jaime if he was dead. "Father bade Edmure to pray to the Seven every day for their blessings, he could be as Ser Wendel when the time comes."
"But not yet?" Jaime asked lightly.
No, not yet.
When she left, little Edmure was praying until his knees turned red and swollen while third born Benjen Stark tossed colored balls of light without a care.
"If anyone would support your claim, Cersei would. My sister would adore you."
"If you are certain," Catelyn replied, half-heartedly.
"You would be her proof that she should inherit Casterly Rock," was the dry response, a golden eyebrow raised as he smirked like the cat that got into the cream. "She's older."
"She might not even have - "
"We're twins," Jaime said with a roll of his molten eyes. "Of course she has magic."
It wasn't the same.
She bit her tongue. "Introduce me to your Stark, Lannister. Before my misgivings get the better of me."
"Rhîsskha?" Benjen hisses quietly.
"Hm?" Terendelev absently responds, turning her head away from the cold horizon. She can just make out the shadow of Castle Darry upon it and beyond it rising from the fog are the peaks of the Vale mountains. Her skin itches as if sprouting scales, small muscle spasms along her shoulder blades betray the mounting need to spread her true wings and fly!
"You're my second mother," he begins as he twists in the saddle to look up at her with his bright blue eyes and she loses the will to correct him again. Silvers separated gender from role entirely, but to insist on accuracy to a young boy that never knew his own mother would be callous - and beyond hypocritical.
She clung to Vestariathix as much as she had been allowed. Called Sevalros 'brother' until they betrayed each other. Ignored the difference between a theological Father and a biological one with no intention of correcting herself until Apsu said otherwise and he hadn't for nine hundred years.
She understands.
He fiddles with the lesson book she made for him, hesitant. He looks towards his new friends that ride behind them and finds his courage to blurt out, "Does that mean my second grandfather is Apsu?"
"Yes," she answers immediately, a bubble of amusement rising in her throat. If her Father knew what was good for him, he would acknowledge her foster son and maybe she would consider forgiving him for sticking his large snout where it doesn't belong. "I will see about making a proper introduction when we reach the Vale, if you'd like."
His eyes widened. "You will?"
"Of course. Father is always glad to meet my children."
"And grandmother?"
It's innocently asked, but it still feels as if her gut had been carved out.
"A bit more complicated," she barely manages to choke out, pained. She could tell him that she doesn't even know who her own mother is, but just the thought of telling this bright boy that she had no lineage for him to claim aches.
It always did and now it feels even worse.
She almost said it.
Galfrey had been her usual aggravating self, teasing her about finally agreeing to give a speech at the upcoming festival in Kenabres, when they both simultaneously remembered Daeran.
Don't hurt him, Tee.
Worry not for your cousin, he won't feel a thing.
Terendelev!
She almost said it, in a joking manner just to test the waters, but she still hesitated. A dragon could adopt one of the lesser races, after all, it was their noble duty to care for and protect them - it does not go the other way around.
Then Lady Konomi caught sight of them and Galfrey had quietly groaned before turning away to face the Royal councilmember. The moment had been lost.
Galfrey fulfilled all the requirements to be considered a nurturing parent. Arranged her classes, answered her many questions, provided for her, offered comfort, a home, a lineage, a name.
But Terendelev was not a wyrmling in need of a guardian.
And Galfrey was human.
And yet, I almost said it.
"If he has caused offense with the question…" Lord Stark's rough voice gently murmurs and with a start, she realizes her eyes are burning with tears.
"No," she says quickly as she wipes her face. "I was not prepared for my reaction, is all. I was…not able to say goodbye and I…miss her," she admits guiltily. "Forgive me, I am too old for - "
Not for grief, but a large part of her insists that she is being childish.
"Do we ever truly outgrow the need for our parents?" Stark asks when her words fail her. "I've wished for my father's counsel plenty these past days. And when my children are all grown with children of their own, when do I stop being their father?"
She gave her last clutch of eggs to their sire a little over two hundred years ago. He had been nearing the end of his natural life and wished for a strong female to ensure his last offspring could thrive if he was taken away from them too soon. Crippled in the back and two of his legs, she agreed solely out of curiosity just how he expected the logistics to work. She memorized the smell of each egg, if against all odds, she ever met them in the future.
She never did.
It does not hurt. At the time, she had been nothing but relieved that they would inherit their sire's lineage.
This was not unusual for Silver dragons. Rickard Stark would not understand, so she does not explain.
"I'm sorry," Benjen murmurs.
She runs fingers through his pale hair, mustering up a weak smile. "You have nothing to apologize for."
Prestidigitation creates the simple illusion.
There are surprised shouts and murmurs as Queen Galfrey in her weathered armor and steel crown rides out of thin air beside them. Her black stallion, Pride, prances with the arrogance of his name. If there were sound, he would be jingling in his steel armor and golden medallions hanging from his braided mane.
"My…mother." She tests the word on her tongue. A flustered embarrassment heats her face despite her best efforts. Halaseliax would never let her live this down if he knew. "Galfrey, the crusader queen of Mendev, Sword of Iomedae."
Her armor always looked battle tested, brass embellishments bent or snapped off until she remembered to replace them. A thick blood red cloak is clasped around her right shoulder, the royal Mendev blue underneath and hemmed with radiant gold thread designs. Blonde hair in dozens of braids, each made of strands of gold, wheat blonde and silver highlights with beads of jade, polished steel and amber interwoven in them in Ulfen fashion. She knows Galfrey was given the Sun Orchard Elixir at the age of twenty three, but there are stress lines around those sapphire eyes and around her smiling mouth that age her.
"She looks like you!" Benjen whispers harshly, shocked.
Her eyebrows jump at his surprise. "Yes? Somewhat. Nose, brow and jawline." She studies the illusion of Galfrey for a moment. "The shape of her eyes, but the color I share with…my grandfather?"
It comes out absolutely bewildered.
…she has a grandfather.
It feels like leaping off a cliff with her wings tucked against her side and she has to catch her breath.
She has a grandfather!
Her great-grandfather had asked her to be a neutral party to negotiations over border strife with some of the Kellid clans of Sarkoris long before Galfrey had even been born. A great aunt and uncle -
Oh.
That would make Daeran Arendae her cousin and she immediately regrets everything.
"That face has a story," Stark comments with a chuckle.
"My cousin, Lord Daeran Arendae." Her face pinches further. "A brash, but charming boy that grew into a piss stain of a man who defends his reputation as a rake and a rogue with relish."
Benjen stares at her, mouth open.
She grimaces and looks away from his father's large eyes. "I was supposed to wed him once."
"Pardon?" Rhaegar snaps his head towards her from his lute.
"Do not." She spits at him and he wisely turns back around on his horse.
"To unite the claims behind a male heir, I take it?" Rickard lightly questions, silver eyes sharp.
Not quite. An entire royal house just vanishing into thin air simply made things...complicated. "Of both Mendev and the Dragonscale Throne of Brevoy." She can see Rhaegar's ears perk up and she eyes the back of him suspiciously. "It does not matter. He chose to accept the betrothal on the condition that the crown asks the church for their official opinion on bestiality."
Someone chokes on their tongue behind her, but when she looks, Arthur, Wendel and Oswell all look unconcerned.
"So now he has no claim," and she had been this close to ending his miserable life were it not for Halaseliax literally sitting on her.
She almost hopes the demons ruined that rusting party of his.
There is a flicker of what feels like air pressure and her eyes snap up to the mountains in the distance.
"Rhîsskha?"
"I…thought I felt - "
Eddard Stark rolls a 20!
Terendelev rolls a 1!
T̷̡̨͓͇͙͇͂̍͒̃̀͊̍͐̔̒͆̕͘͠ḧ̶͎̬̱̭̬́̋̐́é̴̙͕͙̬̼̱̰̯̰̝̼̲̖͍̻͗̐̇̅̀̓̆̾͋̉͆̈́̔̈́̚͝ ̵̛̺͉̏̆̒̾̓̏͆̀̐͛̈́̕͠͝Ò̵̯̄̋̇̚̕ţ̴̦̞̜̫̱̬̯̼̣̥͕̹́́̋̍̋̋̎̇͑̔̎̔͊̚̚͝h̵̟̏͑̔̅̃̉͝e̸̙̔̉̽̅ŗ̵̨͙̱̞̳̤͍̱̩̰̰͓͒̈̂͋́̀̌ rolls a twenty sided dice.
Terendelev rolls a 1!
T̷̡̨͓͇͙͇͂̍͒̃̀͊̍͐̔̒͆̕͘͠ḧ̶͎̬̱̭̬́̋̐́é̴̙͕͙̬̼̱̰̯̰̝̼̲̖͍̻͗̐̇̅̀̓̆̾͋̉͆̈́̔̈́̚͝ ̵̛̺͉̏̆̒̾̓̏͆̀̐͛̈́̕͠͝Ò̵̯̄̋̇̚̕ţ̴̦̞̜̫̱̬̯̼̣̥͕̹́́̋̍̋̋̎̇͑̔̎̔͊̚̚͝h̵̟̏͑̔̅̃̉͝e̸̙̔̉̽̅ŗ̵̨͙̱̞̳̤͍̱̩̰̰͓͒̈̂͋́̀̌ rolls a twenty sided dice.
Blood rips out of her throat in a wide arc of arterial spray.
She falls from the horse amidst a chorus of shouts.
Author's Note: The dice hate me. There is no other explanation. Rickard failed several important rolls and T rolled her first dud of the campaign. We'll see where this goes.
- Location
- Massachusetts
Man, I don't think I've actually played a campaign where one nat 20 took out a major character.
But also: cool that there was an update here!
But also: cool that there was an update here!
Shujin
M. NightShujinlan
- Location
- New York, New York
She's not dead!
- Location
- Germany
Keep in mind, Dragon.
She has a pool of HP that makes a high-end Barbarian weep with envy.
There's extremely few things that can one-shot a dragon.
Actually I can't think of any single spell or attack that deals enough raw damage. Even a critical hit from a level 20 character would need some really, really good cheese behind it.
Maybe withsome good buffs, Smite and a x4 Crit weapon.
She has a pool of HP that makes a high-end Barbarian weep with envy.
There's extremely few things that can one-shot a dragon.
Actually I can't think of any single spell or attack that deals enough raw damage. Even a critical hit from a level 20 character would need some really, really good cheese behind it.
Maybe withsome good buffs, Smite and a x4 Crit weapon.
- Location
- Massachusetts
Oh, cool.
I just keep thinking of our nat 20s even in ideal circumstances. Even if that were a Call Lightning or Moonbeam (which it clearly isn't) the damage roll could never ohko a dragon.
Also: Legendary Resistance lol.
Last edited:
- Location
- Germany
Not a thing in PF1.
Shujin
M. NightShujinlan
- Location
- New York, New York
Yeah, in WOTR game edition, it took the demon lord Deskari wielding a +5 x4 crit adamantine* Major Artifact scythe to one shot Terendelev and in the table top campaign, it took a +6 vorpal longsword (also a Major Artifact, both are remains of demon lords) in the hands of a powerful balor lord to actually behead her.
She took a very solid hit here, no mistake, but it takes a considerable effort from godlike beings to actually put the girl down.