In which ASoIaF stops pretending to be a low fantasy setting when all the magic comes back, thanks to a misplaced demonically corrupted Silver dragon. Its lack will no longer be an issue for anyone. Or anything. Good does not always triumph over Evil. What has been lost can not always be reclaimed. What has been forgotten cannot always be remembered.

Some decay is irreversible.

Winter is coming, but it will not do so alone. If the world doesn't end in fire, salt or shadow first?

It will end in ice.


Rust

The Wall III


The dungeon-like library sparks an ember of want for her own collection, hoarded away in similar rooms. It even smells similar. If she wanted a book published by the industry that had sprung up around the 'printing press,' then she could visit a library. Her books were old. Misshapen leather, poor glue, the pungent smell of tannic acid, ink, mold, parchment…She looks at the old, broken and occasionally crumbling books and scrolls of Castle Black stuffed from floor to ceiling into every rack and shelf, and at times, barrels and sees the had been instead. Maps of every kingdom and country on Avistan. Treatises, almanacs and encyclopedias from every scholar she knew of. Scrolls and wands of magic she had no intention of ever using - I am the magic - but they had been comforting to own, all the same.

She prefers not to think of the utterly - infuriating - predicament that was a dragon that is poor and she likes to think of her missing armory even less.

It is her banners that she misses the most.

Colorful, proud heraldry on breastplates, shields, tabards and surcoats and tall banners still on their poles had been the pride and joy of her collection - and it is all gone.

She knows Lord Commander Desmond Qorgyle believes she is staying at the Wall to make him squirm.

That is not the reason - that is a bonus.

The truth of the matter is that the Wall is perfect - lair lair lair lair! Spoiled for choice of a half dozen abandoned keeps under the purview of an order that kills oathbreakers with a mission statement she approves of?

Where it is cold year round?

She had settled on the Nightfort after two weeks of deliberation for the low hum of ambient magic. It kept the snow off her head, the wind off her scales, gave her hands and magic tasks to do fixing it up - and gave insight as to my enemies.

The only way it could be better was if the Night's Watch had a sigil.

The disappointment had stung. It still does. Theirs was a noble cause with a noble oath. To be given nothing in return but black clothes and disregard is galling and it just made the longing for her banners even worse.

She is embarrassingly still tempted to fly to every keep in the Seven Kingdoms to demand tribute - on the Watch's behalf. Mostly. A chest of silver moons or stags and a shield or cloth emblazoned with their house sigil - as proof of receipt. Any overpayment of coin will be donated to the Watch - and there will be an excess she knows. She has much to say about the alterations this planet had put her body through - murdering drakes is now a mission of mercy, putting them out of their four limbed misery - but she can admit it is more physically intimidating. She will not miss any of their other coins or colored jewels. Their 'gold dragons' are charmingly named, but silver shines.

Of course, she asked several black brothers if such a price could be comfortably afforded first. She was assured that it was. From their expressions, she believes it was well known that upsetting a dragon tended to be very uncomfortable.

As it should be.

It is a combination of caution and intelligent pragmatism that makes the Lord Commander inadvertently kind. She acknowledges the debt. The Watch has received the benefit of spontaneously healed injuries, repaired clothes, additional food, snow removal - I am not an ungrateful guest.

She is aware the red cloth embroidered with the three black scorpions of house Qorgyle was only given to stop her from raiding the kingdoms.

It changes nothing.

The spark of hate within her coils.

It would be nice to just - fly and receive my due.

At times, it is difficult to tell where her own draconic instincts end - and the corruption begins.

She steps lightly through the shelves and barrels of parchment. There is a candle burning in the metal handheld flat sconce, burning with a low light on the long table instead of the brazier. Her nose crinkles at the pungent scent of smoke.

Maester Aemon Targaryen has his nose in a book.

It is a familiar sight - has it only been a month? She knows he has searched high and low for any and every scrap of information on Old Valyria in Castle Black's library - for information on me. He will not find any and it is none of her concern. Not that she is unsympathetic to his need for information.

It is simply - what in Father's scaly buttocks do I tell him?

This was a new world that had yet to map out its own planet, let alone find any others. Explaining the various planes of existence and their inhabitants is also a daunting task. It is a situation she knows requires a great amount of tact, sensitivity and patience.

She spent the last century of her life fighting demons and avoiding Prelate Hulrun.

She is out of practice.

"Your opinion, maester," Terendelev calls out as she steps closer, remembering at the last second the need to actually announce her arrival. "If you would."

Aemon startles and looks up. His aged face creases into a broad smile and her sharp eyes detect the wet sheen of stubborn tears welling up in his purple eyes.

"Please," the old man says with a quiet hope. "Will you not come into the light?"

Her heart aches. As it always does when forcibly reminded of the mortal frailty of the lesser races. He has cataracts - he cannot see me clearly. The void in her chest where Iomedae's light once dwelled throbs.

She steps forward. On a whim, she twirls and her dress flares out with the motion. Aemon chuckles, smiling so widely his eyes are almost crinkled shut. The customary curtsy of this land was just different enough in just the wrong way to grate her scales - this is not respect, this is subservience. She pulls it off - naturally pleased that her efforts in practicing this shape seem to finally be coming to an end.

Aemon reaches with both hands as she rises from the deep courtly curtsey. Hands still capable of bending castle forged steel gently take them.

"You grew your hair long," he whispers. She has. The once shoulder length strands of spun silver cascade down to the small of her shape's back. It is expected of women here and she has no preference. Her current guise is intended for the comfort of others.

"Your grace." Aemon squeezes her hands with all the strength his frail form could muster. "You are a vision."

Terendelev smiles. "Always."

It is not arrogance. It is barely even pride. A simple statement of truth.

Silver dragons were made to be glorious.

"You have a talent," the former prince says quietly, greedily devouring the details of her gown to refresh his memory. "That you could make this with nothing more than my - my inane rambling…it is remarkable."

"It was not inane," she chides him firmly. Reverence she will accept - not if it is tainted with the belittling of others. "I learned much and had the aid of your well worn and well loved memories."

Aemon sniffles very quietly. He hesitates, but she allows him to touch her. His fingertips brush her loose sleeves as if he is afraid they - she - will disappear.

"This is silk," he says in muted surprise. "However did you get the material?"

"I created it."

With a vexing amount of trial and error.

She personally does not care for clothes. She very much cares about having to relearn her instinctive polymorphing capability because her body was changed. The magic she uses to light the softly glowing orb that dances around them before Aemon's awed eyes is not the same effect that created her clothing, but it gets the point across.

The gown she wears is a recreation of his mother, Dyanna Dayne's spring dress.

From his memories, she is able to recognize that it is a blend of fashion from the Crownlands and Dorne, of the Dornish layered fabric overlapping to give the appearance that she is wrapped in large ribbon, but with conservative adjustments such as the high collar. The slashes in the hem and her loose sleeves are made false with linen showing through, alternating between the lilac shade attributed to house Dayne and black to go with the vivid crimson of the dress and house Targaryen. The ribbons forming the gather in the back were - complicated but she is pleased with it and the silver.

"I forgot she wore those chains," Aemon whispers sadly. He brushes the silver and ruby set ouches shaped like stars keeping the sleeve slashes from gaping and the one closing her high collar, at the side of her neck where fine silver chains fell from it, looping under and around her left arm.

"No, Aemon," Terendelev says very gently and raises his hands so that he looks up into her eyes. "You remembered everything."

His breath hitches.

She does not need to extend her magic into the recesses of his mind to see when he realizes that she was capable of that very skill. The apple of Aemon's throat bobs when he swallows. The familiar mix of disbelief, confusion and awe swirl in his partially cloudy eyes before he lowers them.

"Thank you," he says in a voice filled with tears. The silver chains make musical clinking sounds as he runs them through his fingers. "Thank you." He says again. "This…is a priceless gift, your grace."

She does not understand why she keeps being addressed as such - surely my name is not too difficult - but she accepts it. To gaze upon her is always a gift, but she does not mind the extra effort. Her reply is honest.

"It is one I am glad to give."

"And it is a farewell."

She inclines her head in agreement. "It is your custom to give a gift of appreciation to your host before departure."

"The Lord Commander is your host," he says quietly.

"I am not unaware who truly extended the offer of protection to me. Nor am I unaware of the reasons."

Aemon's face falls. She studies his resigned, miserable expression as the man curls into himself and pulls on her gentle grip. She lets go. Freed, his thin, wrinkled hands flutter about his black robes and the chain he earned from the Citadel with an anxiousness - that betrays guilt. Eventually they turn to the small stack of books on the table. He straightens them and checks over the few scrolls and organizes letters. Amusement bubbles in the back of her throat as the tension in his shoulders ratchets higher and higher under her quiet gaze. Halaseliax had used silence against her frequently as a wyrmling and now she lets this one linger.

The lesser races are ever as children - from beginning to end.

Worrying over the utterly inconsequential.

"Get on with it!" Aemon spits in a harsh whisper, almost physically crumbling in his seat. "What's done is done. I will not apologize."

"I would think less of you if you did," Terendelev says simply. "I am not angry."

The maester stills and then lets loose a heavy sigh. He risks glancing up at her, searching her expression. She allows her lips to quirk upwards.

"No," he murmurs. He passes a trembling hand over his face as the letter he held fell from numb fingers back onto the table. "I imagine your anger would be difficult to mistake?"

"You would be correct." She says dryly. "If you ever managed to truly offend me, Maester Aemon, rest assured that you will cease to do so post haste."

It is not a threat.

"Can you blame me?" He asks quietly, fiddling with his chain. "For fearing that I had overreached, for daring to move you as a cyvasse piece on the board without your knowledge or consent?"

"You sent a letter to a family member," she says with a laugh in her voice. The peculiar tendency for the lesser races to believe the regality of her bearing means she is overly sensitive, petty and fragile is very, very strong here.

The sudden surge of want/possessiveness shoots through her like a strong Dwarven ale. For Halaselix and his understanding. Elethiel and Braganon, the angels that had fought at her side proudly and kept her humble. For her age-mate Iomedae, the goddess who shared the same doubts and fears and treated her as an equal.

For the crusaders who learned to look at her and see 'comrade in arms.'

And then she remembers the ambush that killed them.

Rage flares in her chest - I failed them but she swallows it down. She claims the rickety looking stool at his table and wills the folds of her dress to settle as she wants.

"Aemon, look at me."

He does so. The way his face has sagged with age makes his eyes seem large and sad in his face.

She tilts her head towards him silently and a lock of her long silver hair escapes the pressure of the silver circlet on her head to fall forward. She raises an expectant silver eyebrow, letting an exasperated half-smile cross her lips.

Aemon sighs. "Dragon?"

"If I do not wish to be moved, I will not be." She tilts her head away and looks at him out of the corner of her eye. "If I need something, I will take it. If I witness an injustice, I will stop it. If I am threatened, I will remove the threat."

Terendelev is a simple creature at heart, as all dragons are.

She spent an entire day beyond the Wall doing absolutely nothing else than attempting to get her new wing-arms to cooperate enough to let her write again.

She failed.

On an entirely unrelated note, the trees of the Haunted Forest closest to the Wall have been smashed into toothpicks and then encased in a solid block of ice.

There is no suspect.

"Petty princes," she says slowly. "And petty kings do not concern me." And they never will. "They are men. They command only men and wield only steel."

She picks up the candlestick from the table and lets the ice creep in. The next soft exhale is a cloud of vapor, glittering with ice shards as Aemon holds his breath. The candle she puts back down before them both is frozen over, steaming in the damp air of Castle Black's wormways.

Even the small fire glows orange on the wick, still, completely trapped in ice.

She strove to avoid being too overtly other for the men of the Watch. Magic is unknowable and feared, so she is subtle. Women are desired, so she lets them. She served in an army. She has heard worse - from Braganon, mostly.

Dragons, they understand.

She lowers her voice into a gentler tone. "I trust I do not need to explain further?"

"No, your grace," is the overwhelmed response.

Aemon leans against the table like his chair can no longer be trusted to hold his weight, staring wide eyed at the frosted candlelight and she is briefly distracted by the sound of talking men entering her hearing range on the stairs. He has struggled, she knows. He took it upon himself to welcome her and teach her and found that she both exceeded and failed his every expectation. The man has decided on beast, on woman, on weapon, on witch, on fear, on disbelief, on hope - on dragon - and she watches him settle on another category for her, for the last time.

On god.

She knows arguing the point would backfire.

It is the absolute truth that all Silvers receive the divine spark of duty while still in the egg. The progenitor of her race is the same as it is for all Metallic dragons, the dragon god, Apsu. They are all his children. She knows this - I have heard Him call me Daughter and Silvers are favored especially.

"I - I must ask that you do all you can to avoid a 'field of ice' if any take up arms against you, however," Aemon says with strength in his voice. It is clear he expects his request for mercy to be a bold one. "Most are just smallfolk levies."

It is not.

Not for the reasons he believes.

A Silver of honor would warn them, hold the line and destroy invading armies until their morale broke and their leaders were discouraged - what is going on out there?

She does not trust her appetite for carnage would run out when theirs did.

Not anymore.

"Hm. Reference to the 'Field of Fire' by Aegon the Conqueror and the extinction of house Gardener?" Terendelev recalls. Aemon raises his thin eyebrows and she raises hers. Teaching herself to read is not difficult.

And if the king proves to be that disagreeable to her presence, she will simply bypass his armies to kill him - and shame the color of my scales.

"War is coming," Aemon says, exhausted. "My nephew, Rhaegar is my last hope for - "

"I will ask," she hears.

"Prince Rhaegar, wait!"

The vault doors to the library swing open with the irritating high pitched whisper of bronze hinges she thinks she can hear from a mile away. The small adventuring party she met earlier almost literally tumble in. The tattered prince that shares Aemon's sulfuric scent layered with ash and the acidic tinge of magic she did not recognize. The staggering knight to the right that wore the impractical looking white armor of the Kingsguard - adventurers - and the one with the white sword and wide panicked eyes that positively stunk of the arcane. She had been reluctantly impressed that he actually drew a sword on her.

It would have been ineffective, but the point remains.

At the sight of the tattered prince, she notices Aemon light up in her peripheral vision with joy and pride. She feels a pang of longing, but all who would have looked at her like that would have learned - I died.

"Uncle." The prince smiles quickly.

"Nephew," Aemon welcomes.

"Your grace." The prince addresses her next and his smile falls into a grim mein. "If I may ask a rather vital question?"

She nods, curious. "You may."

"Are you capable of having children?"

Aemon's smile freezes. The two Kingsguard go still like aurochs that had just seen her shadow fall upon them, hoping she would choose another target.

Terendelev blinks slowly.

She squashes the instinctive flash of concern - do I not smell fertile? Her eyes slide off the prince to the left and the arcane mage with the white sword has the sense to blanch under her stare, staggering a few steps backwards.

"If you are asking because you want an egg," she says very evenly. "The answer is no."

She is nine hundred and seventy three years old.

Not a single decade has gone by where a question that stupid was not the wizard's fault.

She returns her eyes to Aemon's nephew as Aemon himself groans, covering his face with both hands in despair. "Inform your friend that I am not giving away any scales, that he may not have any of my blood and that I will not consent to any experimentation."

"Understood!" White Sword squeaks out.

The prince coughs. "I…was referring to the ability to bear a man's heirs. Mine, to be clear."

Bear a - ?

"I - " Her mind blanks.

It takes an entire fifteen seconds for her to actually process what the man is asking her.

Rhaegar Targaryen waits patiently.

"Please, your grace," Aemon raises his head to beg as she finishes processing and is just beginning to realize - Tiamat vl'stixki, he cannot mean - what she thinks he means. "He is not mad," the maester cries. "He's just a fool!"


"I am not!" was his prince's immediate response.

"Yes, you are!" The son of King Maekar I roared back, saying the words Arthur Dayne, Kingsguard could not say but the very ones Arthur Dayne of Starfall very much wanted to. It was what he hated most about the Kingsguard:

Having to stay silent while Rhaegar was being stupid.

As his oldest friend, Arthur could get away with butting heads with the prince every now and again in private, but that was not nearly often enough.

"You need to build alliances -" The maester gasped. "What has gotten into you?"

"Nothing!" Rhaegar's back stiffened, defensive. "What good are a house's promises and swords against a dragon?"

Said dragon was sitting there watching them silently with gemstone eyes. The dress it wore felt like a mockery as he recognized the star pattern of the silver ouches from his sister's jewelry and he knew that shade of purple. He can see the Dornish influence in the clever cut of the fabric just like he saw the silver circlet. Smallfolk to queen. It was a mockery. Arthur's gut churned. Had their meeting out in the snow been planned? Bait to set the trap and lead Rhaegar to his doom or was it merely taking advantage?

If the guise had been true, Arthur would have simply wished Rhaegar's courtship well and said they made a handsome pair, a Silver King and Queen to be the envy and awe of all.

Dawn had a frightened stranglehold on his spine as the shadow of the great beast's horned head loomed over them from behind its false visage. Blackened horns lined the ridges of its eyes and flaring fins of its face. The molten silver eyes burned into him as it bared its teeth in the grotesque grin of murderous teeth mirrored by a woman's faint, distracted smile.

"Everything!" Maester Aemon spit. "Do you believe the Faith to be so complacent - the lords who have never understood our customs to be satisfied with you taking the throne like this? You would force her to be kingmaker against the entire realm!"

Arthur saw the truth in the old man's eyes. He was not concerned for Rhaegar, but for the realm.

"It was dragons that made the Faith bend, uncle," Rhaegar argued and Arthur almost winced. It was the tyrant Maegor that made the Faith bend with dragons. Jaehaerys I had negotiated. "The very reason - "

"The very reason behind Summerhall," the maester dared to interrupt the prince and his prince's head rocked back with the blow. Rhaegar had been born during that tragedy. Arthur visited the ruins with him every year.

"Egg believed dragons would solve his every problem," Aemon lamented. "It would have forced the issue. The wounds would fester, not heal. I had hoped you saw the need to build strong foundations for your reign, for your son's reign, not to tear it down."

Arthur risked acknowledging the dragon was in the room. The shadow of the truth had faded as if it had never been and the amusement on its face made his blood run cold.

"Our house was built on those foundations, uncle!" Arthur recognized Rhaegar's frustration for all that he tried not to show it in his voice. "We have ruled for centuries because of dragons."

"If you truly believe yourself able to keep her," Aemon Targaryen said in a dangerous, low voice. "You are not the man I thought you were."

His prince paused. Arthur had a bad feeling when Rhaegar then nodded agreeably. 'Agreeable' for Rhaegar often meant the concession of 'If I am not allowed to drown myself, how about hanging?'

"Very well, if being king is the obstacle, then I will abdicate."

Arthur closed his eyes wearily as Oswell squawked.

"Viserys is healthy," Rhaegar reasoned aloud. "I could be his regent - "

Maester Aemon threw a book at the prince.

Dawn cut it in half.

Arthur cringed as sheared sheaves of parchment flopped pathetically in the air before falling to the ground, the book in tatters. Books were expensive. He could have hit it with the flat of the blade, at least?

Dawn.

She was unapologetic.

"Why?" The black brother moaned. "Why are you so set on this?"

Rhaegar had a grave look. "You know why. The song - "

That was when his prince abruptly burst into flames.

"What in the seven hells!?"

Arthur was vaguely aware of Maester Aemon falling back into his seat, pale with shock at the sight of the prince turning into a bonfire. Oswell was spewing a unending stream of curses as he attempted to smother the prince with his white cloak, Rhaegar was choking as if the fire was burning his lungs and Arthur himself kicked away a nearby barrel full of scrolls, acutely aware that they were in an underground vault full of very flammable materials and if anything caught ablaze before he threw Rhaegar out the room they were all going to die.

The cold was sudden.

Arthur felt as if he had just broken through the ice of a frozen lake, the involuntary gasp at the deep chill and to his terror, he saw ice frost over his hands on Rhaegar's shoulders. He wrenched them away, the ice shattered and drifts of steam wafted off where flames had once burned. His prince fell to his knees, heaving great breaths.

The dragon spoke.

"I believe I have heard…" Its voice turned. No longer human, but the cracking, grinding and rumbling of ice. "Enough."

It rose from its seat and Arthur forced himself to step forward in front of his prince.

"Your grace," Maester Aemon ventured quietly, but fell silent when it turned its head towards him. It stepped forward, but before he could meet it with Dawn, Rhaegar's hand snapped out for him to hold.

Fuck, shit, damn it - !

Oswell was almost vibrating out of his armor again. Arthur was similarly on edge when it gazed down at Rhaegar with a blank expression.

"You will tell me why you asked," it said simply. "And do not lie. I will know."

Rhaegar had barely opened his mouth when its expression shifted to a shocked horror.

"I see," it said tightly, leaving them all stunned as no one had said a word. Arthur glanced at the maester behind it at the table and the man looked grim. "You are very fortunate, Rhaegar Targaryen." To Arthur's ears, it sounded like it meant he was anything but. "When I return from the far North, I will make you king."

"What?" Oswell blurted out, hand flying to the hilt of his blade.

The dragon's eyes never wavered from the ashamed prince. "What is the maximum punishment for stealing, ser?"

Arthur's stomach sank when Oswell Whent staggered back. It sank further when the knight sputtered weakly in protest, "...he could have been an assassin."

The dragon smiled coldly. "And I suppose it is appropriate that assassins and traitors burn."

Arthur's mind emptied in shock.

It was Dawn who raged.

"You didn't tell me!" Arthur snarled as he turned on Rhaegar, who didn't meet his eyes, staring down and away at the floor as if he was going away inside and leaving nothing but a pathetic shrug for his Kingsguard.

Dawn.

He had served loyally! He had served proudly! He had been at Rhaegar's side through thick and thin, he had thought that after years of companionship he would be trusted with the truth of it!

Dawn.

The black leather hilt shuddered in his hands.

I know.

Arthur's smoldering anger abruptly became his own. Before he was driven to commit an act they would both regret.

"He is the king," Oswell offered up and his words were brittle and thin. He looked a man doomed. "The Kingsguard swear an oath."

The beast raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "You swear an oath as knights, ser. If the Kingsguard are honorbound to act dishonorably, then the king is better served by common brigands."

"We are honorbound as knights to obey our liege lord," Oswell rejoined, stronger in voice.

"And an honorable lord would not be such a burden and betrayal to obey," it said simply and Arthur felt as if he had been kicked in the gut. "All Kingsguard are knights. It should be apparent that knights will be expected to act as such in the face of injustice."

It was House Martell's duty to deal justice to the lords sworn to them. For another lord to do so would be to not only infringe on the authority of Sunspear, but to rob the offending lord of his own rights to be judged by his superior and only his superior. That was how the laws of the Seven Kingdoms were written and had been for thousands of years. The thought that any and every knight, whether he be a lord's son or a bastard would be expected to bring his own sworn lord to justice if there was cause made Arthur feel dizzy, as if he were a leaf tossed about in the wind.

"That is…not how it is," Arthur managed to say.

He wished it was.

"A pity." The creature laughed lightly without mirth. "And so you find yourselves with an unworthy on the throne and are honorbound to keep him there."

"He's the king." Whent repeated, straining the entire history of the Seven Kingdoms, their honor, the consequences that would follow, the shame and anger of their families, their name being cursed throughout history such as the Kingmaker Criston Cole and the traitor Gyles Greycloak all through that one word.

Aerys II is the king.

"And the knights of this land must be poor ones, indeed," it said in a gentle tone but with pitiless cold eyes. "If even the best have the luxury of blind obedience."

It stepped towards them. Arthur and Dawn tensed, ready to act, and remained tense still as it walked past them.

"Maester Aemon."

The old man startled. "Your grace?"

The beast paused at the doors, glancing back over its shoulder and the waterfall of silver that was its hair. Its fair face was set in the mimicry of a solemn expression, but it could not or would not hide the malevolent, predatory gleam in its deep purple eyes.

"Thank you."

The man bowed his near bald head. "...It was an honor, your grace."

Its lips turned up slightly. "I know."


The prince had been greatly subdued since the encounter in the library, wandering listlessly through the wormways of Castle Black, asking idle questions of any black brother that seemed amenable to answering until dinner was called. The food was bland, but nutritious and Rhaegar ate little.

The dragon made its nest in the Nightfort, an old broken castle with a cursed history.

Fitting.

It was not Arthur's place to demand what the creature had somehow gleaned from his mind and if there were any lingering effects. It was not his place to reprimand the prince for keeping the news that his father burned a man from him, no matter how much he recognized the prince's melancholy that had once seemed to arise from nothing on Dragonstone after taking his letters.

It was not his place - it was not his place!

It was not his place to question how Rhaegar intended to use the beast to take the throne, only to guard him. And if the king demanded it, that would not even be his place either, but Arthur had already made his choice.

Was there a difference in the honor of a man who held one oath, but discarded the rest and a man who broke them all?

He cursed the direction his thoughts were leading.

A Lord Paramount judged for his actions by his lessers? Those who did not have the full measure of things or the breadth of loyalty? A first son barred from his birthright for no other reason beyond his character? Who would follow him? His younger brother? A nephew? A distant cousin? And who would decide such?

The dragon was a beast that did not understand how society functioned and was unlikely to recognize or care about the chaos that would follow such edicts.

Arthur was ashamed to realize he did not think it entirely wrong.

the luxury of blind obedience.

"I will ask a question of you." Arthur cornered Rhaegar in their rooms in the King's Tower at Castle Black. He had left Dawn on his bed, for although the delay in calling it to his hands if needed was dangerous, he was unlikely to need it and it was far more dangerous for the prince for him to hold it right now.

"You will tell me the answer and you will tell it to me true."

"Ser Dayne," Oswell said sharply and Arthur sneered at the emphasis on his knightly address. "This is our prince. You overstep yourself - "

"He has the right to it, ser," Rhaegar mumbled, looking at them with lowered, sad eyes.

Arthur would have asked the prince's reasons for keeping the new depths the king had reached to himself, but Dawn had brought up another concern he would never have considered even with all the pieces in front of him.

"Was I encouraged to join the Kingsguard for your interest in a bleeding star and Dawn."

Oswell's eyes widened.

Rhaegar said nothing and that was answer enough.

"Well then," Arthur said thickly. "I suppose I should be grateful you did not demand it from me."

Rhaegar's head shot up, his eyes wide. "I would never!" The prince breathed, horrified. "Dawn is the sword of house Dayne. The thought never crossed my mind!"

Arthur believed him.

That just meant he was no longer sure what his friend was capable of.

"Nevertheless, that was ill done of you, ser." Arthur saw Oswell's eyes narrow at the lack of a royal address and found that he did not much care. "Tell me you did not spin a pretty tale about keeping an eye on the prince to get you away from King's Landing after a man was burned to death, ser."

Ser Oswell Whent flushed and averted his eyes.

Arthur turned back to Rhaegar. "You found your star elsewhere, but a Kingsguard serves for life."

Arthur Dayne had sworn his oath, believing that he would rise alongside one of the greatest kings on the Iron Throne. If the beast kept its word, Rhaegar would ascend for certain.

It was Arthur's circumstances that had changed.

"What else can I do?" Rhaegar asked miserably.

Arthur looked at the prince in his new borrowed clothes of the Night's Watch yet to be burned through. His shoulders slumped and eyes lowered. He was reminded that of all his sworn brothers, Arthur spent the least amount of time in the capital by far, accompanying Rhaegar on trips to Summerhall, to Dragonstone, to Flea Bottom, to about the Crownlands. In the two years since the tournament in Lannisport, he could count on one hand how many times he had been scheduled to guard the king, for lack of being anywhere near the man.

Rhaegar had done his best to ensure that little changed from the days when he was simply the prince's companion. Arthur had no doubt he would have loved the prince for it.

Protecting me from his own mistake. Or perhaps he truly believed that he could keep shielding Arthur indefinitely, or had planned to remove his father from the throne years before he told Arthur of such, assuring himself that Arthur's oath could handle the strain of only a few years.

He did not know.

"Am I your brother?" Arthur asked simply.

"Now and always," Rhaegar replied, tears in his eyes.

"Then grant me leave to act like it."

"Done," the prince said immediately.

Arthur did not wait to give him a chance to actually think the request through.

"Ow!"

He ignored Oswell's scandalized gasp as he slapped his prince hard upside his fool head.

"I will thrash you in the yard with Dawn if you ever pull that shit on me again, see if I don't, do you understand me?"

Rhaegar nodded very quickly, looking at Arthur like he had just hung the moon in the sky instead of having threatened him.

"Good." Arthur breathed out his nose like a bull, setting aside his lingering anger. The commons of the King's Tower was large enough. He was going to make Rhaegar drill on his forms until he begged for mercy. "The dragon." He despaired at how the prince perked up. "You do realize your 'courtship' offer was rejected?"

For however much 'can you have my children' is an offer for courtship.

He hadn't the faintest why it seemed to blame him for that question, he hadn't even done anything! And instead of taking the hint, Rhaegar decided to clarify that he was actually determined to be an idiot.

His little brother was an odd sort of fool.

"Worse!" Rhaegar said with a besotted smile, strangely cheerful. "It was ignored completely!"

Arthur Dayne was perfectly content not knowing if the dragon would squeeze out eggs or babes.

"It will be helping you succeed your father anyway."

Oswell grumbled. Earlier today, the Riverlander would have pulled a sword on them at the very hint of treason. It said much of how badly the burning had affected him that he did not do so now.

"I am aware."

Arthur studied Rhaegar's guileless expression and bright eyes suspiciously.

Whent let out a resigned sigh. "...you still want to take the terrifying dragon to wife."

"Gods, yes!"