In which ASoIaF stops pretending to be a low fantasy setting when all the magic comes back, thanks to a misplaced corrupted Silver dragon. Its lack will no longer be an issue for anyone. Or anything. Does Good always triumph over Evil? Can what has been Lost always be Reclaimed? Can what has been Forgotten always be Remembered?

Is some decay irreversible?

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

Then it will end in ice.

Rust

Winterfell

"You are accompanying me," the dragon said slowly.

Her silver eyes peered blearily out from the newly rebuilt central keep of the Nightfort, gleaming in the darkness like twin full moons. Even knowing how the beast was did not keep him from remembering what she could be. Even though he was seeing a dragon woken far earlier than it would like, resembling one of his brothers sleeping off some heavy drink, the shiver still ran down Mance's spine when he saw her pupils narrow into fine vertical slits.

The primal reaction to coming face to face with a large predator in its lair.

"To Winterfell?"

"Yes," the southern prince nodded agreeably. "I intend a royal progress starting with the North. If I am to be king, it would be best for my lords to know me."

The silver eyes slowly dragged themselves towards him next. First Ranger Brenn Flint stepped forwards as he brandished his own leather satchel and what he fucking hoped was not the legendary Horn of Winter within it, "Lord Commander thought it best that we avail of Winterfell's library and knowledge as well. Three heads can't be fooled as easily as one, aye?"

The dragon's gaze fell on the young heir to Driftmark, Monford Velaryon last. The boy was bundled in so many layers of clothing that if he climbed up and then fell off the Wall right now, Mance wasn't sure he would even feel it when he hit the ground.

Two woolen hats underneath the black cloak hood, outer furs, two coats, two pairs of under breeches, two pairs of socks, the only part of the boy's face even visible were his lilac eyes and pale blond brows. He was pressed against who the Watch had taken to calling the Bonfire Prince, staring up at the dragon looking like he was seconds away from either screaming in joy or pissing himself.

"C-c-cannot sail my b-boat by mys-s-s-elf."

"Understandable," the beast nodded sagely. "I am not carrying anyone, however."

It disappeared back into its lair.

There was a moment of awkward silence before Flint snorted.

"What was that?" The Morning Sword demanded of his prince. Mance shared a bewildered look with Flint. He thought southerners had made a sport out of kissing noble ass. "You had an entire speech memorized about asking it to come with us!"

The Batguard sighed loudly. "Where you got the impression our prince can think straight around the creature is anyone's guess."

"I am thinking straight!" The southern prince looked hunted. "I…can always broach the subject at a later date. When we have not interrupted her rest?"

"You turned tail!" Morning Sword said with glee. "I thought you said the lessons went well!"

"I ended up talking about my markings!" The prince cried in frustration. "A full hour of her attention and I babbled like a half-wit about my pathetic attempts at inventing a musical language - " He crushed the palm of his hand into his face in embarrassment. "It went well as I am now certain she has no wish to murder me."

The Morning Sword stared incredulously. He raised a finger. "There is something to be said about you not knowing that for true before - "

Flint cleared his throat.

"Well, you could always trip into fortune, like Mance here - "

Mance loudly cleared his throat. "Trip into fortune? I did not forget you dared me to swindle a scale - "

"Pah!" Flint waved a hand in front of his face like he was blowing away a pungent smell. "It turned out well, didn't it?"

"I was thrown off the Wall."

"You got better, didn't you?" Flint asked with a shit eating grin. "And look at you now, first dragonrider in a century - "

The southern prince's head snapped in his direction. "She flew you?"

"It was a recompense for almost getting me killed," Mance replied sharply. Then he had an evil thought he only felt a small amount of guilt for giving voice to. "If you want my advice for getting favor with it, all you really have to do is acquaint the beast's face with your fist - "

"Don't!" The Morning Sword barked and the prince froze, hand in his travel bag. "You were about to reach for your scrolls on dragon lore, weren't you?"

"No!"

"Y-yes." Velaryon threw the prince under the apple cart without an ounce of hesitation, making Flint bark with laughter.

"...if you think up some mating dance from your texts I will…" The Riverlander pursed his lips when his fellow Kingsguard turned to him with expectant raised eyebrows. "...I will challenge you to a bout in the yard so I can legally wound you."

"Disappointing," his compatriot commented lightly. "But I will accept it."

"Please stop encouraging my companions to strike me," the prince sighed. "I am well educated, perfectly capable and put a great deal of thought into my decisions." The Driftmark heir chose that moment to flick his ear. The prince ducked away, hand clapped to the side of his head. "Monford! What was that for?"

"Lying."

"My prince, you were not certain the dragon was disinclined to kill you?" The Batguard mocked.

"You can always ask me for assistance?" The Dornish Kingsguard offered loudly to rescue his liege lord.

"Y-you know how to talk to dragons?" Velaryon shivered through his dryly spoken question and then belched an acrid smelling cloud of yellow smoke before shivering harder.

"He means to ask the Dornishman for help with women," the other royal guard scoffed. "Because that can never go wrong, is your trail of broken hearts only women or are there men too?"

The prince gasped theatrically, hand over heart.

The Morning Sword stiffened. "And what? All Dornish swing with both sides of the blade? That is slander, ser. I won't stand for it!"

The two Kingsguard stared at each in a tense standoff, eyes narrowed and jaws stubbornly set.

And then the whole lot of them broke into raucous laughter.

'What the fuck?" Mance mouthed to Flint, who shrugged and gave him the long face of long-suffering before rolling his eyes.

Southerners.

"Hold a moment," was all he heard before the dragon snagged the back of his armor on a tooth and dragged him yelling back into the dark lair like an evil monster from a milk babe's tale. He was tossed into a far corner. Only the sudden puff of white feathers kept him from hurting anything when he fell in a heap. The dragon rumbled the start of a word, coughed and then there was a brilliant flash of silver light as he bounded to his feet.

"What in the Seven Hells - " The dragon shushed him frantically, casting an almost frightened glance back towards the opening.

"I - my apologies. I get impulsive when I am tired." She rubbed her face, clad in her guise wearing a dress of blue, red and gold. " I would beg your assistance with an important matter and would ask you to let me finish explaining before you respond."

What the -

Mance studied the beast's usual patient and polite expression, then asked in a low voice, "What did you do?"

The dragon blanched.

"Wha - how do you know - rusting Light!" She raised her hands, fingers curled like claws and shook the air as if acting out strangling a neck. "You and Braganon were born from the same soul, I swear - " She cut herself off by snatching him again, shoving him into an icy chair at the long ice table at the back of the hall. "Sit." She turned away and then as an afterthought turned back just long enough for, "Stay."

"I'm not a hound - "

Mance's words caught in his throat when the dragon near reverently placed a beautiful, masterfully crafted high harp on the table before him. It was carved from a near black wood, three snarling dragon heads reared from the frame, sparkling clear diamonds as their eyes. There was a well worn patch where it was meant to be held, betraying it for a well loved piece. He almost reached for it, but the sudden subtle tension in the dragon's frame when he leaned forward warned him off.

"Where'd you find this?"

The dragon hesitated.

"You were at the Shadow Tower for the late meal and so are not aware." Her lips twisted into a pained grimace. "It is the prince's courting gift."

Oh.

Mance palmed his face. "Let me guess," he said sympathetically, muffled by his hand. "The silver strings?"

"I cannot help it!" She hissed back. "I need - do you know how hard it is sleeping without a coin bed? I spent far too long setting up a spell loop to play this - " She plucked a note and the harp chimed as soft and sweet as he had imagined it would. "Through the night as a substitute!"

He was unable to explain why sounding like she came from the nonsense tales you'd hear from a tavern's minstrel after a few too many beers was getting him.

"You sleep on a coin bed," Mance said numbly.

She waved a hand at the shallow pit by the cold hearths lined with a paltry number of silver moons, stags and a few lost scales. "Not anymore!"

He started to laugh.

The dragon rolled her eyes. "Your sympathy in this matter is much appreciated."

"Well, if you don't want the harp, can I marry the prince?"

"Mance."

He waved the bristling dragon down, still chuckling, "Do you at least like the man?"

She wearily closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. "...he is not unintelligent," she admitted begrudgingly. "I like his hair color." Of course she did. "I have no intention of going through with this courtship, but I do have the urge to lick him."

Mance choked. "Licking - "

"Extra sensory glands in the tongue and mouth," she said quickly with a cool affronted look. "He has some kind of magic I cannot even begin to identify. That is troublesome and it has gone on long enough that it is beginning to upset me."

He snorted loudly.

"I assume you are not going to give the harp back." That suggestion seemed to physically wound the beast. She picked the harp up from the table and held it close as if to protect it from repossession. "You are fortunate a courtship is not a betrothal! Tell me that you didn't give him anything in return - oh," he said, laughter withering at the beast's flinch.

"Not yet," she said painfully. "I am unfamiliar with your customs. I am assuming giving Dark Sister to him is a declaration I do not wish to make, but I cannot keep the blade."

"Why not?" He said sharply, an envious pinch in his belly. "That harp would beggar lesser lords and then you give him Valyrian steel?"

"Not yet," she repeated.

"But you will."

"It is not mine," the dragon said quietly. "It is an ancestral sword of House Targaryen. Brynden Rivers had no right to suggest that I take ownership of it. The House has living members and I am not a thief."

Mance pressed his lips together tightly. Then sighed. "You and your queer notions of honor."

The chivalrous knight of tales and songs would never avail themselves of another family's sword, no matter what he had to go through to get it, so the dragon wouldn't either. Quick to offer aid and held fast to oaths. She had a cruel sense of humor and he wondered at the effort it took to keep it from becoming a malicious one. He dismissed the thought of suggesting a mummer's farce solely for the gifts. The dragon would keep her own counsel, but never had the thought to lie. A true knight would never play a man false.

A pity knights like those could only be found in tales and songs.

"You might be the only being in the Seven Kingdoms that would just return a prize like that."

"I doubt that is true," she replied with a weak smile. "I cannot keep it."

"Very well," he muttered, thinking. "Give it to Rhaella Targaryen, the queen," he offered. "She is Targaryen by birth as well. It's said Dark Sister was made for a woman's hand, anyhow."

Her face flooded with relief. "I did not realize she did not take her husband's name?" Mance winced. Rhaella and her husband Aerys were siblings. The dragon winced then too. "...that would be acceptable. I would have to sit on the blade longer than I would like, but it is preferable to reciprocating in truth - "

"Would it be so bad?" She blinked as he gave a small, little shrug of resignation. "Any other woman would kill to be in your position."

"Dragon, not woman," she said simply. "I am superior to every mortal being you know to exist and I have no desire to debase myself."

It still stung to hear it from her own lips, even when he already suspected that was the case. It took her curse acting up for the beast to acknowledge the beauty of her guise, rather than her customary polite dismissal and feigned ignorance.

Even had it been otherwise, he was a brother of the Night's Watch. He made his peace with that.

Mostly.

The prince was earnest, at least. That harp was well cared for.

"That's it then?" He asked. "Your objection is that you are just better than him?"

The great beast's eyes widened slightly. "I - yes?" She replied helplessly. "I acknowledge your worth, but a half-dragon with one of a lesser race is - " She looked as if she was about to become ill. "An embarrassment," she finished firmly. "A scandal even. It might be understood given certain circumstances, but never justified."

"So you never thought about it," he concluded. "Not even once."

"No," was the immediate response. "Unfortunately for the prince," her smile was wry. "I used up my allotment of poor decision making centuries ago on my Red dragon of a mate. My first mate, that is."

"First?" He said dumbly, stunned at how it never occurred to him that her long years meant she was likely a widow. "My condolences."

"Spare them. I was the one who killed him." Her smile sharpened to show teeth. "There were irreconcilable differences between us." Her head tilted like a bird. "I forgave him the murder of two of his other mates as they were awful, but he knew Halaseliax was to be left unmolested."

Mance's mouth worked. His mind hitched through every part of what she just said. The self-inflicted widowhood. Wife murder. Multiple wives. She did not see anything wrong with the wife killing.

"...I see," he managed weakly.

She inclined her head. "There are a few races we consider equals and they all can change shape naturally, just as I can. It is still uncommon, but the progeny will be strong and will still be considered dragons." She averted her gaze. "That is all that matters."

"Have to keep the 'blood of the dragon' pure, aye?" He muttered. The beast's face scrunched when she understood his reference to the Valyrian practice of incest. It was why the prince's grandparents had been siblings and so were his parents.

"The Valyrians were disgusting," the dragon said bluntly.

"Might be something to it," he said, just to be contrary. "House Targaryen has this thing with those dead half-dragon babes sometimes - "

Mance jumped when the dragon's eyes snapped to him with the sharp intensity reserved for prey before a meal.

"What did you say? No," she cut him off with a raise of her hand, the other clutching the harp to her chest. "Do not tell me - he does stink like a Red," she interrupted herself thoughtfully. "Aemon as well. Is it a separate scent from his magic? It cannot be. Can it?" She made an aggrieved noise. "Licking him to find out will give the wrong impression."

"You like red dragons and you like his hair," he pointed out. "You are courting."

She looked at him, aghast. "Yes, but - "

"I am certain he would not mind!" He grinned widely as the dragon's eyes narrowed.

"I would mind."

"How else would you find out?"

"I can live without knowing. I do not just lick things - I have more self control than that!"

"Lord Stark. There is a dragon licking the walls outside."

Rickard Stark, Lord Paramount and Warden of the North slowly raised his eyebrows as he just as slowly put the letter back down on his desk. He looked around his solar placidly, taking in the dark wood furnishings, the fire crackling merrily in the hearth and old tapestries of his family's glory hanging from the stone walls. Those were the days, he thought fondly. Just ruling the North, preparing for winter…

Killing some Andals.

Then he turned back to Rodrick Cassel. "Come again?"

"Dragon," the man said in a strangled tone of voice. "Licking the walls."

"...it is going to be one of those days, I see."

"Hail, Lord Stark!" Terendelev booms from the other side of the Kingsroad Gate. "And well met."

The yellow haired man in robes by the lord squeaks. "It talks!"

She is determined to ignore that, but her eyes narrow slightly in spite of herself and she cannot quite muster up the regret for his hasty steps backwards.

Lord Stark mutely stares up at her with solemn gray eyes. The man is nearly bare chested in the winter chill in just an unlaced tunic, breeches and boots while everyone around him were wearing layers and furs. His gaze passes over her closed maw and her hardened, tough silver scales. She tries not to fidget. The guardsmen attempting to hide without looking like they were hiding before the walls and large wooden gate doors kept drawing her attention. There is a 'thwip' sound. Her and the lord watch wordlessly as the stray arrow pinwheels in the air passed her.

It is then that she remembers where she is.

She ducks her head. "I come in peace?"

"...I have been told you were tasting Winterfell," the lord drawls calmly.

Oh for the love of -

She draws herself up in affront. "It was only once!" And she had not thought anyone had been watching. That was the only reason why she gave in to the temptation in the first place! "You have interesting magical wards on your home," she attempts to explain. "Very complex and old and …" it did not like her. At all.

She is disappointed, but unsurprised. If Winterfell had been constructed by the same people who built the Wall, then it only stood to reason.

"And how did it taste?" Stark asks mildly.

"Sour," she admits in a rumble. "A hint of spice tells of worn patches and holes, but nothing to be concerned about yet." She would like nothing more than to put this entire conversation behind her, but she is the picture of chivalry and courteousness - as always. "It tastes fine?"

Stark turns to the robed man. "I do not suppose that could be considered an offered guest right," he says with an undercurrent of humor. The maester just gapes at him. The lord's expression retreats back into a quiet dignity as he faces her again. "Are you willing to stomach bread and salt?"

"Yes, of course." She shifts on her hindlegs and shuffles her wings in embarrassment. She was no longer on Golarion. She cannot just fly to a random castle and expect the people to know what to do with her. The black brothers of the Wall taking her mostly in stride had given her a false sense of security. The fact that 'mostly in stride' included two separate poisoning attempts, one attempted stabbing and the accusation of being a demon…

Her earlier bravado finishes dissipating - this is not Golarion. These walls hold an entirely new, unfamiliar population and she feels her scales itch with their stares. A building pressure to flee back to the Nightfort wells in her chest as Stark tosses the bread encrusted with salt crystals at her. She snaps it out of the air.

The smell of urine immediately assaults her nostrils from one of the guards.

"The prince is coming to Winterfell," she blurts out. She towers over them all. If she were so inclined, she can peer right over the outer wall and would just about be even in height with the second inner wall and yet.

She feels so inexplicably small and lonely standing there before them.

She does not know these people.

"What?" Stark blinks. "What?" He barks. "When?"

"In two days?" She guesses. She does not know how long it takes to travel from the Wall to Winterfell. Was it a week? A couple of weeks? A month? She always has trouble with land travel estimates. She can speed things up, her spells are versatile. "In one day," she decides. "I will return then."

She spreads her wings and flees.

She flies back over the foreign snowy land towards the Wall. She had ignored the strangeness of it all on the way down, consumed with making meticulous lists and plans of action. Now she is left with herself and the final realization that she is in another world. Not just a foreign nation. Not a far off corner in an unexplored continent. Not another plane where a simple Gate spell could see Halaseliax or Braganon coming to get her.

If they even knew she was alive.

Her teeth grit as she acknowledges the one advantage her humanoid guise has over her natural form.

Humans could cry.

Her sharp vision spots their camp long before they see her in the sky. She lands heavily and coils within herself, retaking the form that has just begun to not feel as constricting as before. She could be a dragon with them - but will it hurt more later?

It is an unhealthy form of compartmentalization. She is still a dragon, no matter her guise.

It does not feel that way.

Mance takes one look at her face and points her in Rhaegar's direction.

"I do not - " she starts to protest, because he knows the last thing she wants to do is encourage the young man. In her eyes, he was little more than a child clinging to myths and legends as a reason to even be alive.

All she can feel for him is pity.

"I know," Mance says under his breath as he steers her towards their main camp fire. "Consider this, I am a black brother of the Watch." Before she can respond that she is well aware, he continues, "After Winterfell, my duty takes me back to the Wall. I cannot go south with you."

Her words die in her throat.

She could not even say that she had hoped otherwise. She had not thought of it at all. It did not matter. Her lair was at the Wall. She will always return to it. The thought of preparing the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros for the Others by her lonesome was suddenly a crushing responsibility. The Mendevian Crusades against the demonic hordes hardly worked that way - I need more allies.

She will have to seek new ones out. Purposefully. With intention. With people she knows nothing about, not ones who have been in the peripherals of her small social circle for years to decades on end. She volunteered for this. Westeros is a nation that covers an entire continent. Not even the crusades reached that far.

She is frightened.

"How can I assist?" It is both relieving and concerning that Rhaegar does not ask what the problem is as he dumps his armload of scavenged branches onto the ground by the fire. "Terendelev?"

It is concerning for herself. Her maudlin state flickered her mind back to Elethiel, the stoic Iophanite angel that had been her right hand to Braganon's left. It is not a comparison she wants to make with anyone else.

Angels are equals. Their hatchlings would have been dragons.

"I - " she chokes.

"Play a tune on that harp," Mance orders, belatedly adding, "Please, your grace."

His dark purple eyes seek hers out. She swallows the lump in her throat and looks away, managing the barest of nods.

"It would be my pleasure," the prince says warmly.

She grabs two handfuls of snow on a whim as she sits by the fire, crushing it into a solid ball of ice in her hands. She then absently bats the ball around between her hands as the men continue to set up their camp. The one with the bat shaped helm sees her and lets out a sound of abject disgust.

"Cat." He declares and she stifles a groan.

"Are those your house colors, your grace?" The mage with the white sword asks with excessive politeness.

She glances down at her dress. It is what she wore at the last ball she attended, albeit she spent most of it discussing the kingdom with Galfrey's Aasimar royal advisor, Opaline. The dress was the royal Mendevian blue, breaking into the diamond checkered patterns of the blue and crimson like the kingdom's heraldry on the sleeves. Her false armor bodice is silver, lined with blue linen. A golden sword with a blazing sun behind the cross guard pointed tip down is emblazoned across the front.

"Yes," she says simply. She remembers too late that she already told Mance it was a royal house. She turns to him quickly, only to be met with a mocking smile and wink as he mimes sewing his lips shut.

She is inexplicably not reassured by this.

"Are there words?" Monford Velaryon is almost crawling into the campfire, absently patting out the embers that fall upon him. Unlike the prince, the heir to Driftmark has the briny, acrid stench of a Black dragon. She does not know what it means.

She stares into the fire as she softly says, "Valor is all."

"Good words," the Sword of the Morning admits, a chagrined expression of reluctant admiration on his face.

"The dragon belongs to a noble house," the Kingsguard she never caught the name of says into the air, as if expecting a god to come down from the stars to explain themselves.

"The legalities are complicated," she says dryly and there are snorts.

"Here we are," Rhaegar says as he sits beside her with her wrapped harp as he did during their first lesson on how to play the damn thing. "Do you have a preference?"

"The Dornishman's wife!" The Sword of the Morning jeers.

The prince balks, head whipping around. "No, I am not singing - " She watches his entire face turn purple. "I was not even asking you!"

The other men all boo at him and she chuckles. "Let me hear it then."

The purple turns white with a speed that is amusing.

The Sword of the Morning, Ser Dayne loudly clears his throat and holds up his hands. She can hear Rhaegar's teeth grind as he readies the harp just in time for his guard to belt out in a lovely voice,

"The Dornishman's wife was as fair as the sun,

and her kisses were warmer than spring.

But the Dornishman's blade was made of black steel,

and its kiss was a terrible thing.

The Dornishman's wife would sing as she bathed,

in a voice that was sweet as a peach,

But the Dornishman's blade had a song of its own,

and a bite sharp and cold as a leech."

Within the first stanza, she knows what kind of song it is. A few words is all it takes for the rest to join in, making it clear that it is a popular song. There is a circle of smiles around the fire, save for Rhaegar who is almost rage playing, but even his foot is tapping with the jaunty tune.

The pang of nostalgia for crusaders drunkenly bellowing at the top of their lungs any and every bawdy song they could think of to celebrate staying alive, knowing the melody optional, nearly overwhelms her.

It still hurts. She suspects it always will.

But her squad of crusaders, her people, died a decade ago in that demon ambush. Desna, the Lady Luck herself, had recalled her azata, Braganon to Elysium some few years ago. Elethiel had volunteered for a secret mission over seven decades ago and she had not seen a feather of him since.

No one could replace them.

However, she could learn to like these people.

"As he lay on the ground with the darkness around,

and the taste of his blood on his tongue,

His brothers knelt by him and prayed him a prayer,

and he smiled and he laughed and he sung,

Brothers, oh brothers, my days here are done,

the Dornishman's taken my life,

But what does it matter, for all men must die,

and I've tasted the Dornishman's wife!"

Rhaegar's fingers strum in a complicated pattern and the campfire roars.

The bat-helmed knight falls over, Velaryon falls backwards, the Sword of the Morning leaps to his feet as Brenn Flint lets out a shout. At one moment, there were towering thirty foot flames and in the next it all gutters out, leaving just smoking embers and smoke. Mance is left clutching at his chest as the prince stares blankly at the coals, frozen in place.

"Ah." Terendelev lets out a resigned sigh into the silence. "You are a bard. It all makes sense now."

She does not understand the incredulous looks she receives.

"...bards are not magic," Flint says.

"Of course they are," she says, bewildered. "It is the same as skinchangers and elementalists. You cannot tell me you have never heard of people with the ability to use songs to direct their abilities?"

"We can tell you that," Mance tells her quietly, exchanging looks with the First Ranger. "The septon, my horn, the Others. None of this existed before you did."

Her mouth opens.

Nothing comes out.

"Wait - what's this about a septon?" The bat knight yelps.

"Oh." Rhaegar croaks suddenly. "I was missing the music."

He moves to stand and then topples over in a dead faint. She saves him from diving headfirst into the remains of the campfire. His heat is distracting, prompting her to quickly sit him up against one of the tent poles.

"That was not an accusation," Mance says.

"Should it be?" Flint is looking at her, the boisterous, jolly man replaced by a stern Ranger. "She appeared the night the Stars Fell."

"I did not cause that," she says sharply. The others are staring as well and she can feel the fledgling bonds of comradery between her and them dissipate. "I know no more than what I have told. I do not know how I came to be in this land either."

It still hurts.

"I died."

"Baratheon has been holding out on us," Rickard Stark murmured to his cousin, Brenn Flint.

"Eh, wha?" The big mountain Flint squinted down from the high table. "Whazzat?"

He did not hold the uncouth speech against him. The prince's entire party had a long night, that was plain to see from their bloodshot eyes and unsteady stances as if they all had tossed and turned the whole night. None but the prince seemed as if he had actually slept.

"Baratheon," he said again. "Last I heard, the king had commanded him to Essos to find a Valyrian bride for his son, only a moon hence." He tilted his head in the direction of where the crown prince of the Seven Kingdoms met a silver haired woman he did not recognize at the low tables. The prince in black and her in blue with both wearing patterns a matching color of red. "He found a girl that quickly? And there has been no betrothal announcement."

"Not betrothed," Brenn grunted before he rubbed a miserable hand into his face. "Courting."

Rickard made a silent 'ah' as he held his mug out to be refilled with strong Northern ale. "What of our future queen then? What house is she from?"

He then had the thought.

"Is the dragon hers?"

"Aye, in a manner of speaking." Brenn's face broke into a wide, twisted grin that concerned him slightly. "That is the dragon."

Rickard took a few languid sips of his drink, savoring the malt taste and burn of alcohol before chewing on a sweetmeat as his kinsman waited patiently. He swallowed.

"Come again?"

"The dragon," the black brother said, leaning in close. "Can bloody turn into a woman. It's a magical dragon."

Rickard mutely stared for a long moment.

Brenn stared back, utterly serious.

He glanced down at the tables again where two silver gilt heads were bent over a high harp. "The prince is courting a dragon."

"Aye."

"A flying, fire breathing dragon."

"Ice breathing," the First Ranger corrected him. "But aye."

"...I see. Not what I would have done," he admitted as he brought his mug to his lips again, muttering into the cup. "But I must respect the balls it takes to make that decision!"