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 II
The solar of the Great Keep of Winterfell is cozy, built for function over ceremony. The throne room was the same, she recalls. A simple long hall with a simple tall chair, the only nod to decoration the snarling direwolves carved as armrests.
There is room enough for three chairs to sit without feeling hemmed in before the large desk. The back wall is full of old tapestries, faded with age but recognizable. The desk itself is a dark wood craft, wide set with a small stack of books and parchment on one end and the table legs had been carved to resemble the legs of a wolf. The fur is painstakingly detailed and the legs end in paws tipped with wooden claws lacquered black. A large hearth burns with a low fire making the temperature edge upon humid.
The entire keep is far warmer and far less drafty than she had anticipated, wrongly assuming the works of the Shadow Tower and Castle Black were the standard.
Magic thrums through these walls.
"Please, be seated," their host tells them.
She allows the prince to sit first before choosing her seat on the right by the fire. She is present only as support for now. When she suggested she could wait, she received aghast responses. Rhaegar in particular resembled a kicked puppy. It was apparent courtships held far more meaning than she thought.
The prince's guard takes up a guard position on the left, angled to keep an eye on both the lord and the door. It is what she trained her own guardsmen to do.
"Allow me to apologize for my visit's lack of announcement, my lord," Rhaegar begins with a bowed head. "I require no feasts or entertainment. Let me do what I can to not impose on you more than necessary."
Terendelev has noticed that the prince holds an odd form of humility. He is willing to eat crow. He seems to hold no resentment for doing so either. He offers to make amends with thoughtfulness, sincerity and with absolutely no hesitation, which she could not help but to approve of.
That his consideration meant he was aware that his actions would require reparations, yet did them anyway baffle her completely.
Lord Rickard Stark raises a dark eyebrow. "I am wondering how you managed the secrecy. A prince traveling by Kingsroad is hardly inconspicuous."
His gray eyed gaze flickers to her for a brief moment and she suppresses the urge to cringe.
'The dragon is not subtle.'
"Under the usual circumstances, you are correct." Rhaegar nods easily. "I have just come from visiting my kinsman, Maester Aemon at Castle Black and the decision to travel back by way of Winterfell was sudden."
She frowns slightly.
That is not a falsehood.
She can think of many reasons why one might want to obfuscate the fact that Lord Stark had not known about the dragon in his backyard. Those reasons do not matter. It is not a falsehood. It is also not the truth and the omission grates her scales.
"Maester Aemon extended the offer of protection with Lord Commander Qorgyle when I found myself north of the Wall," she says, turning away from the fire that burns merrily in the solar's hearth at the right side of the room. "He invited the prince to entreat with me."
Stark glances between her and the prince before smiling wryly. "He must have made quite the impression."
She cannot help glancing at Rhaegar as he blanches. She fights to keep the smile from forming. She has forgiven him, of course, but she has certainly not forgotten.
"He was curious as to how true my current guise is and was rather…" She searches for the word as the prince sinks low in his seat, shoulders hiked up to his reddening ears. "Indelicate in the questioning."
"Indelicate," Lord Stark echoes with some amusement and she allows herself to appreciate the silvery steel color of his eyes, of a brightness she associates with Aasimars. Curious. "...did he ask if he could personally test his assumption?"
The laugh bursts out of her. "As good as!"
Rhaegar palms his face and groans. "I apologized for that," he mumbles into his hands, muffled such that she doubts Stark can hear him clearly. She squashes the urge to pat him on the shoulder. Tactile responses between sentients that are not close are not done here. She does not care if she will be 'allowed' because of the courtship.
The courtship is reason enough to avoid it.
"You will find it difficult to offend me, Lord Stark." It is as much advice as it is a warning. Difficult did not mean impossible. "If any of your household must ask me a stupid question, as long as they are honest about it, I will not mind."
"Honest about asking?" Stark tests her immediately.
"About being stupid," she replies.
The Kingsguard, Arthur Dayne barks a guffaw and then glares at her as he smothers it, as if his sense of humor is somehow her fault.
"In my defense, Lord Stark," Rhaegar speaks up, cheeks red and a hand raised pleadingly. "I come by my stupidity honestly."
She curses her light laugh even as it comes out - and then he does things such as that.
She had not known it was possible to be concerned, wary, frequently exasperated and just as frequently charmed by the same person at the same time.
What was wrong with him?
"Apology accepted." Stark huffs. "Now then," he says as he settles back into his own chair in a relaxed posture, leaning on his left armrest. "A matter of courtesy." Stark turns to her. "You are a guest in my home and have yet to introduce yourself."
She blinks. She has not? She thinks back - I must have forgotten!
The oversight galls her.
There are Silvers she knows that would shun her for a decade if they witnessed this.
Half of her annoyance is her appalling lack of manners in running away and half of it is that she now cannot avoid the title even death could not rid her of.
"You are right, of course. My apologies." He is a lord asking in a formal setting and she responds in kind. "I am Terendelev of Mendev, Lord Protector of Kenabres and heir to Queen Galfrey of Mendev."
Rickard Stark's eyebrows fly up into his hairline as Rhaegar's head snaps around to stare.
Arthur Dayne gurgles. "You are a princess?"
"The legalities." She sighs. "Are complicated."
"Of that I am certain," Stark muses out loud with some humor. "I have not heard of these places. Do you speak of cities?"
"A kingdom like your own, my lord. Nerosyan serves as the capital of Mendev, from which the queen rules. My city guards our border from a magical disaster we call 'the Worldwound.'" Her throat constricts and she falls silent.
Guarded the border.
She knows not what became of it in the event of her death. Did the city still stand? Did its defenders?
"I am not here as a representative." She manages to keep her voice even. "Feel free to address me by name and not by title."
"I cannot be overly familiar." Lord Stark rejects her suggestion out of hand. She quells the disquiet. Another land. Different rules. "Although, I will admit 'Princess Terendelev' is a bit unwieldy."
She is unsurprised. The lesser races usually find dragon names such. However, hearing 'Princess' before it again after a full decade and a half of that nonsense finally dying out in Kenabres makes her scales itch.
"I will answer to any variation of Lady Teren Mendev." It is the name her guise is known in the neighboring nations of Ustalav and Brevoy. Her nose wrinkles. "And by your customs, 'your grace' is appropriate if you must."
"Well met, Lady Teren." Stark nods to her and then returns his attention back to the prince. "I assume this is not just to give apologies or to ask for the hand of a daughter of Stark."
"Beg pardon?" Rhaegar's eyes grow wide and then dart around the room as if looking for an escape. "I - I am not looking for - " He waves a hand in her direction weakly as he flounders, wrong-footed. "I am certain your daughter is lovely?"
"She's a ten year old hellion that broke her fast confined to her rooms for bringing home a shadowcat to ride like a horse," Stark says dryly.
Rhaegar's mouth opens. Then it closes without a word.
The lord snorts and gives her a pitying look that she returns. She takes a leap of faith on Stark's disposition and adds, "The boy needs help."
Stark snorts again. "I can see that. I fail to understand what aid the North can provide. We are far away and rarely thought of down south in King's Landing."
"It has been too long since there has been a royal progress," Rhaegar says, eyeing the man warily as if expecting to get slapped in the face with a betrothal. "It is as you said, the North appears to stand alone. I mean to give you the means to judge me by my merits and for me to familiarize myself with the Seven Kingdoms."
The prince's mouth twists slightly.
"Not just through what I have been told."
"Hm. You mean to have my support," the lord deduces wisely, steepling his hands before his face. "If not my support, then my neutrality. I would ask what for."
She feels as though the fire beside her had blown out - what for, indeed.
Rhaegar straightens almost to straining in his seat. He crosses his arms, uncrosses them, knuckles his silver stubbled chin and then miserably, painfully chokes out, "My father just burned a man alive!"
Gray eyes flick from him to her grim mein and then to Arthur Dayne's solemn face.
"Burned alive," the lord says.
"I received the news on Dragonstone." Rhaegar's voice shakes. "A petty thief, barely a man grown who nicked a buttered roll of bread and was caught. Executed as an assassin by fire."
Rickard Stark stares at him mutely.
"Burned…alive," he repeats slowly, before his right hand finds his forehead as the Lord Paramount of the North sags in his seat.
"I did not want to believe," Rhaegar admits quietly and her heart aches in sympathy. "Then Ser Oswell Whent of Harrenhal was assigned to guard me and he had witnessed it in person, by the king's side."
"The other Kingsguard you brought?" The lord looks up. At Rhaegar's nod, the man runs his hand down his face and lightly tugs at his dark beard. "Send for him." It is said in a tone that brooks no argument. "I would hear his testimony."
She is prepared to be disappointed when Ser Whent steps into the room, brown eyes searching. She does not begrudge the man his wariness of her. It is the notion of honor in this land that is twisted and broken. She will respect that he tries to keep righteousness the only way he knows how.
She expects to be disappointed with a perfunctory response that says nothing incriminating.
Ser Whent looks at the misery on his prince's face and his shoulders slump under his proud white cloak. "This is about the burning, then?"
Ser Dayne straightens so suddenly, he almost falls over. His violet eyes wide with shock.
"Aye," Stark says grimly. The Bat Knight holds firm. He raises his chin in a mixture of defiance and shame. "What do you know, ser?"
"A servant of the Red Keep was tried and found guilty of one count of petty thievery of a buttered loaf. It was decided -" The man's mouth briefly twists into a sickening version of his dark, mocking grin. "That the theft was a front to distract from a poisoning attempt. He was put to the question until he confessed and was then burned at the stake alive in the throne room."
His words hang heavy in the air. Rhaegar's eyes fall to the floor as if it is the most interesting sight in the world. She clenches a fist.
She could simply…take care of the problem.
She forces herself to relax her hands and puts the thought out of her mind as unworthy of the color of her scales for what must be the third time. She will not act on it. That will have to be enough.
Lord Stark's eyes close as he leans back in his seat. "Was there a poisoning attempt?"
"Prince Viserys had a case of the sniffles and slight cough," is the Kingsguard's bland response. "He made a complete recovery within two days."
Just a cruel paranoia.
"I see." The lord opens his eyes halfway and the color in them has darkened from silver to the blue-gray of freshly forged steel. "Are the Kingsguard not sworn to keep the king's secrets?"
Her lips curl into a sneer.
Twisted, broken, perverted honor. There was nothing just in the defense of a tyrant.
Ser Whent smiled the sick smile again. "It was the king's wish that all may know what becomes of those who would dare strike at a dragon."
Stark breathes heavily through his nose. "With Fire and Blood, I reckon."
There is a tantalizing pulse of rage in her chest. All should know what becomes of those that dare to strike at a dragon.
But not like that.
She looks away and focuses on simply breathing. The flames of her corruption are searing, welling up, begging to be set free. She denies it with a heavy force of sheer will. She will not assassinate the king. She will feed his presumptuous delusions down his very throat until he chokes on it.
The hatred cools, satisfied.
"Thank you, ser." Ser Whent bows hastily and nearly stumbles on his way out the door, face drawn and pale. "A royal progress," Stark manages evenly. "Bold move, but the right one, I think. It is to be another Grand Council, then?"
"There is precedent. Aerion called Brightflame was attainted for… madness."
"Posthumously for he died drinking wildfire," Stark rejoins. "It was his son that was passed over for his madness."
"I hope to acquit myself adequately," Rhaegar says in a hopeful, but small voice. "Hence the royal progress."
"Hence the progress," Stark intones. The man visibly thinks it over, drumming thick fingers on his desk. "I will admit that in the usual circumstances, I would weigh Steffon Baratheon as an experienced lord with three heirs over you."
Rhaegar nods as if that is to be expected and she cannot keep silent any longer.
"Elevating a lawful heir in place of his tyrant father has conditions in this land?" She asks tightly, flattening the snarl from her voice.
Rickard Stark smiles, but there is no joy in it.
"The grandfather of this current king was chosen by the very Grand Council we speak of. Consider how it seems." His eyes hold a dire look. "Aerion Brightflame's line attainted for madness. Aegon called Unlikely calls his family and pyromancers to him and then most die in an unexplained conflagration at Summerhall." Rhaegar flinches, but the man is not done. "Jaehaerys II is weak and sickly, holding the throne for a mere three years. Aerys II burns men alive."
His head inclines.
"Four generations, three kings were mad enough to remove themselves or are better to be removed."
Rhaegar slumps in place, turning a plain gold band on his fingers.
Lord Stark regards him pitilessly. "We are not so far removed that we do not still suffer unfit Targaryen kings, the Ninepenny Wars but the last gasp of Aegon called Unworthy's rule."
The fire sparks within her again, this time of frustration and impatience. She is agitated enough that she forgets herself, snapping at the air. "The Others are on your doorstep! We do not have the time to prevaricate over this - "
"Hold!" Stark booms the command.
She does.
"The Others?"
Oh.
Rhaegar is staring at her with wide eyes in complete bewilderment matched by Arthur Dayne's flabbergasted face.
She sighs, dropping her face into one of her hands.
It is a natural inclination to be…gentle. To ease the lesser races into their responsibilities.
A Silver's wont is to observe, to advise and guide, prepared to step back and away as soon as the children find their footing. The evils that the fragile, mortal peoples could not handle would find a shining Silver standing in their defense. They are the vanguard. They protect so others do not have to. They inspire only if and when that fails.
She does not remember telling the future king of the Seven Kingdoms that there was an existential threat on the horizon.
"The cold terrors in the far north your legends tell of," she murmurs. "They are real."
She let her failure to protect her city hinder her confidence. She let her avoidant nature cripple her. She is too rusting old to be getting this flustered over the impulsive decision to accept the silver stringed harp.
Xsio.
Did she not realize that she cannot do this alone - this is not working. Standing beside cannot work. She must stand in front. This is the formation of a crusade against a coming darkness. Distant support will not be enough. She knew that.
It was why she traveled to Mendev when the Worldwound opened in the first place.
She reaches out and gently takes Rhaegar's hand. "I am sorry," she apologizes. "I have done you a great disservice in being overly secretive and disregarding your opinion."
"Forgiven?" He whispers, staring. She squeezes his hand and then lets go.
This land is barbaric in new and foreign ways.
There is an entire continent rife with open slavery without the technology scavenged from a ship that fell from the stars like Numeria protecting them. The world has yet to even be fully mapped with entire landmasses known only by its horrors. No one knows what is west of Westeros. Honor has rusted away to a dull pitted rot. The black brothers on the Wall even now are more comfortable with the power she holds than with her kindness.
By Rickard Stark's words, this is a nation on the edge of breaking apart.
This is what she has to work with. If they are not enough, it is her duty to make them enough.
They have to be.
"I will start from the beginning." She allows her eyes to glow with her silver light and sets all discomfort aside. She is not ashamed of what she is. "I am Terendelev of Mendev, Lord Protector of Kenabres, heir to Queen Galfrey of Mendev and godling descendant of Apsu, the Dragon God of All."
"Dragon god." Rickard Stark stares at her mutely for a long moment. She watches him look around the room lazily as if cataloging that every item was in place and had not up and walked out from right under his nose.
Then he raises his hands to his temples.
She smiles wryly.
"You will support Prince Rhaegar because I chose him. Your gods told me Winter is Coming, Lord Stark. I will see that Westeros is prepared to face it."
She wonders for a moment on the nature of tyrants, but only for a moment. If she does good, it will not matter. Her Father answered her prayer with warm sunlight shining off mirror polished silver scales. He does not ask much of her.
Only to be glorious.
"Ser Dayne." The dragon smiled with a quick flash of teeth. "I will be with you in a moment."
Arthur bowed his head and stood guard.
The courtyard was bustling with far more people than he would have thought for the middle of winter in the North. These people had been bred to withstand the cold with far fewer layers of cloth and furs than he thought reasonable. Dawn was almost dizzy with excitement and it did well to push the worst of his own anxieties away.
"I will not presume to go myself," the dragon spoke modestly. "However, there is a great deal of odd magic in those crypts that I would recommend investigating."
The steward of Winterfell, Vayon Poole, marked it down in shaking hand. "Messengers have been sent to Wintertown for craftsmen to arrive on the morrow, my - my lady." Sweat beaded the poor man's forehead, his face slightly sallow when the dragon returned her hungry gaze to him. "Maester Walys wishes to make his protests known. The North's fields are too precious for untested solutions."
The dragon's eyes narrowed and the man trembled. "Who is the boy in gray and ten white wolf head livery?"
"...Jory Cassel, son of Martyn Cassel," the man answered like he was naming a potential hostage. Arthur bit the inside of his cheek.
It was not funny. It was not as if they knew the dragon caved like a gold breastplate before a child's tears. A few pointers from Monford Velaryon and the boy would rule the roost.
The dragon nodded imperiously. "Assign me one field for testing, then. Proceed as usual with the other fields and I will see that Jory Cassel will be able to offset the maester's deficiency."
Arthur bit his cheek again.
The 'moment' stretched into several as the steward, mayhaps emboldened by the Sword of the Morning's presence, took the time to take care of the rest of his list of responsibilities. He listened silently as plans were made for the dragon and some Northern knights to seek out a star that fell in the Wolfswood and investigate strange animal behavior, some form of organized sorting of magical individuals and the rebuilding of the partially collapsed First Keep, struck by lightning a century ago it seems.
An event the dragon seemed to believe should not have happened because Winterfell had protective magic woven into every gray stone.
"That will be all for now, thank you." Arthur watched Poole escape. The dragon had an exasperated half-smile on its face. "It is as if he believes I will become peckish at any moment and just eat him."
Arthur snorted.
"You were eyeing him like a snake eyes a plump rat."
The dragon made a thoughtful sound as it held out a hand. "Is it my fault that he stinks of fear?"
"Its quartered blue and red cloak emblazoned with the gold sword lifted itself from a barrel into its grip.
"Do you want an answer to that question?" Arthur considered the creature as it snorted, wrapping the cloak around itself and the blue and gold dress it was wearing.
"Rickard Stark is considerably more poised."
"Rickard Stark has ice in his veins."
The dragon turned to him with a gentle smile. "Are you afraid of me, Ser Dayne?"
I would be a fucking fool if I wasn't.
He did not need Dawn to tell him that.
It was no longer about the dragon being a big scaly flying beast that breathed ice. It was demonstrative with the powers it possessed even in its guise. It readily confessed to detecting the magic around it and in others. Of healing injuries that would shortly and surely kill a man. The beast had simply conjured the mid meal out of thin air so as to not interrupt the research and bother the kitchen staff.
It called itself a godling.
"I fear you with that harp in your hands."
Its startled laugh drew curious gazes. "I am improving, surely?"
"Surely," he said dutifully and it shook its head. The dragon did not look any differently from before. The same silver spun long hair and fair face. It still stood nearly as tall as a man in its guise and still moved with a predator's grace.
There was a new bite of ice in the air as he moved to a guarding position behind its left shoulder as it headed for the entrance to Winterfell's godswood, expecting him to follow. It did not have to say anything to be noticed by all it passed.
That was the difference.
At some point between their first meeting and the second, the dragon's commanding presence had diminished. Dimmed. It had left to go to the far north as a beast that did not think twice of ignoring or admonishing a prince and returned hesitant.
Shaken.
He had not noticed until whatever pall that had ailed it had lifted, leaving it as it was again.
He closed his eyes briefly.
Fuck, shit, damn -
The beast had encountered the fucking Others in the far north. Twice, by its account and both occasions could have ended in its death.
'Winter is Coming, Lord Stark.'
The creature could braid castle forged steel with its fingers as if it were rope.
Seven preserve us.
"I did wish to speak to you, Ser Dayne, but you seem to be doing more than waiting for conversation."
"I have been assigned to guard you, your grace," Arthur answered politely as he stepped around a patch of ice. "As Ser Whent guards the prince."
The dragon slowed her sure steps and turned to him, vague, gentle amusement on its face. "Should I take that to mean Rhaegar feels optimistic about this courtship, then?"
Who the fuck knows what his prince was thinking anymore. After the shock wore off, he had been nearly giddy with 'I was in the right!' and then after that wore off was overcome with the dread of 'I was in the right.'
He responded to the news the same way he always had, by burying his head in books.
"Does he have reason to be?" Arthur asked instead. "You have begun to treat him more fondly."
"That assumption is why I was distant," the dragon said, but not unkindly. "This is not fair to either of us. He has done nothing objectionable." It averted its gaze for a short moment. "I accepted his gift in good faith. I will act as I wish and if it does go well, I will accept that outcome."
He was…
No longer as against the notion as he once was.
Mostly because he was half-convinced that if Rhaegar hadn't been courting the dragon, after today, Rickard Stark might have given a dragon Lady Stark due consideration. He did not want to think about how much more likely others were to consider it knowing that the crown prince of the Seven Kingdoms already had.
Rhaegar's stupid idea was quickly turning into a nightmare.
"...dare I ask the children question?" Arthur said, resigned.
"I can," it admitted, grimacing mightily. "If it progresses that far, I would greatly prefer he find a second wife for that."
His mind ground and stuttered to a complete halt. "...I beg your pardon."
The creature sighed. "Dragon?"
What in the Seven Fucking Hells kind of answer is -
Arthur spent the rest of the walk into the godswood in blank silence as Dawn laughed at him.
The dragon's destination appeared to be a Weirwood grove. It was a quiet, idyllic location with chestnut, ash and oak trees forming a thick, snow covered canopy above them. Three still pools were in the distance beneath the windows of the Great Keep and in the center was an ancient gnarled Weirwood. It was carved with a craggy frowning face and as he watched, the pitted eyes began to weep blood red sap. In the far distance in the other direction from the pools was a reflective glint experience watching for assassins trained him to concentrate on.
Was that glass?
Surrounded by tall pines and oaks of the godswood of Winterfell, was a glimpse of a house with both walls and roof of yellow and green panes of glass against the backdrop of the hundred foot high inner wall of the keep. His mind boggled at the cost. He had never thought House Stark in the North of all places had the coin to build something so fanciful.
The dragon made its eerie considering hissing hum as it surveyed the area, a critical eye on the Weirwood. "You do not like me, is that correct, ser?"
Arthur froze in place.
It turned to him, a wry smile on its face. "Do not be concerned. I am not offended by mere dislike."
He forced his hands still, leaving Dawn in her sheath.
"I am wary of you," he managed. The beast presented itself as a civilized creature with proper patterns of speech and knowledge of etiquette. It seemed kind, but he found it hard to trust that kindness as true benevolence.
Over patronizing whims.
Aerys II Targaryen had been Arthur Dayne's object lesson in what could become of the latter.
"Do you dislike me personally or of what I represent?"
He felt as if his spine was about to shake out of his boiled leathers and furs. "I do not know you personally."
"You have a fair notion of how I am," the beast said gently. "But it is difficult to separate it from the rest, I understand."
"I apologize for my inability to do so, your grace." Its face fell into something resembling misery and Arthur shuffled uncomfortably. "I keep to my oaths, your grace. Regardless of my personal failings, I take my duty seriously and will guard you as best I can."
"We had an exchange about the worth of your oaths," it said softly.
Arthur's mouth went as dry as the Dornish desert.
The worth of my oaths.
He had cornered Oswell Whent about his testimony. The Riverlander had smiled his darkly mocking smile.
'I remembered why I became a knight.'
"You - " He gasped out, feeling like he was drowning. "You do not understand - " He could not find the words and fell into the comfort Dawn fearfully offered.
"You are correct," the dragon unexpectedly said. "I did not understand and for that, I must apologize. This is what you know honor to be and you adhere to it as best as you are able." Its lips quivered into a miserable smile. "You raised your sword against me at our first meeting, in defense of the prince. I trust you will readily do it again?"
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
"And you are trying to protect Rhaegar from himself currently."
Arthur's jaw clenched. He would give no response.
"You are aware your blade has a mind of its own."
It was not a question.
Arthur rocked back on his heels, reflexively dropping into a stance, stalling at the last moment at drawing the frantic Dawn because of his oaths. "I will guard you, your grace, but you will not touch her!"
The dragon smiled. An uplifting, joyful, almost relieved expression as a flash of silver light entered and left its eyes.
"A true Kingsguard. A man who will break and die before he bends. That is very good. I am in need of allies like that."
Shit, fucking hells -
It was ominous praise.
"You will do."
This dragon was going to be the end of him.
Rickard Stark could do naught but stare as the great beast landed heavily before the Kingsroad Gate and with a gentleness belying its form, set his son and heir Brandon down on his feet. The boy stood there like a stump, clutching his travel bag and a sword he did not recognize in a white knuckled grip. He was still in his riding leathers, no doubt expecting to take a horse home and he looked around with gray eyes so wide, Rickard was afeared they'd fall right out of his skull. His face was white as snow and his father did not blame him one bit.
"...please tell me you did not ask after my son looking like that."
The dragon shrugged. "I do not know what you were concerned about! Lord Dustin was very accommodating."
Oh, he knew there was a snowball's chance in Dorne that Dustin wouldn't toss his son and heir at the first dragon that came knocking. That was not the problem. When Terendelev said she would escort his son home when she came back from the Wall, she did not say that she would be flying with him in her mouth, carried like an unruly pup by the scruff of his neck.
Brandon took a shaking step forwards and his legs near gave out on him. Rickard crossed the snow covered road and hauled the boy up by his shoulders.
"Father," he whispered. "Dragon." The boy of five and ten looked at him as if he didn't know what to make of the world anymore, helpless and wide eyed like a babe in the woods. "I - dragon. Teeth." He gestured wildly towards the beast. "Lots of teeth. Big dragon. It said - I - it talks. I don't - Father." Brandon clutched at his tunic desperately. "Dragon."
"I am aware," Rickard said dryly and peeled his son off him.
There was a brilliant flash of silver light. The dragon prowled forward as a Valyrian woman in shining steel plate armor and cloth of gold and Brandon's words abandoned him altogether, eyes somehow widening even further.
"You are well? I do have the means to heal you." The dragon swept her purple eyes up and down the mute boy for injury. "You seem to have weathered the flight unharmed?" Brandon nodded, struck dumb. He then stretched out a trembling arm and hand with the new sword in his grip. "Thank you, Lord Brandon."
She was polite enough not to bring attention to her having to pry his cold fingers off the scabbard first. His son's mouth opened and closed wordlessly.
The dragon nodded as if he had managed the necessary courtesies. "Shall we, Lord Stark."
He hooked an arm about Brandon's shoulders to help the boy stop shaking like a leaf. "We shall."
He'd barely gotten through the inner wall of Winterfell when his daughter, Lyanna bounded up having escaped her minders. No doubt thanks to the shadowcat cub trailing on her heels like an orphaned duckling. On one hand, he had a hard time naming a man alive that wouldn't hesitate to lay hands on the girl with a cat as big as a goat and growing. She had no need of a sworn shield.
On the other hand, asking anyone at all to keep her inside when they had a reasonable fear of losing a hand to her pet if it insisted otherwise was proving impossible.
"They said there was a dragon!" His daughter burst out. "A living one! Why can't I see it, is it gone, will it come back, was there a rider, was it the prince - "
"Lyanna," Rickard said. "Breathe."
The girl glared at him before sucking in a loud inhale. Then she hiccupped, surprise plain on her face before letting it out in a wet burp. His daughter grinned up at him sheepishly.
He sighed.
"If I may," Terendelev stepped forward and the shadowcat cub dropped to the ground in submission, exposing its belly. "The dragon you seek is before you."
"Oh," the girl said with a disappointed squint. "I thought there was a real dragon, not a Targaryen."
Rickard pinched the bridge of his nose as Brandon's head swiveled between his little sister and the dragon, horror stamped and sealed on his face.
"You're in armor." Lyanna's attention drifted as it was wont to do. "Are you the queen?"
"I am a Mendev, not a Targaryen," the dragon replied with more patience than he thought it had. "And I assure you, I am quite real."
"Then where's your wings?" Lyanna challenged. "And your scales and fire breath!"
"Do you wish for me to show you?" The dragon raised an eyebrow and her eyes glowed silver.
(!)
Rickard tensed.
She flung out a hand. "Shall I retake my true form and bathe this entire courtyard with my ice breath to win your trust?"
His girl shrunk back.
"...no." She said quietly, staring.
The woman broke into a throaty chuckle. "I did not think so. I am as tall as that wall." She nodded towards the hundred foot inner wall of Winterfell. "I think if I walked everywhere as big as that, lots of people would have a great deal of trouble getting around, hm?"
"That's fair. Thank you for your consideration." Lyanna bounced right back, choosing now to remember her manners. "You're an ice dragon? Is that why we think you're all gone, can all of you change into people!?"
"Right." Rickard stepped forward and swept his daughter underneath his other arm. "That is enough of that. Lady Teren will be at late meal and you can ask your questions then."
"Your name is Taeren?" Lyana wriggled around in his grip to keep the dragon in her line of sight. "Are you going to marry the prince?"
The dragon laughed again. "He sure hopes so."
His daughter opened her mouth. He covered it with a hand and ignored her licking his palm as he passed the child to her older brother. "Late meal. Keep asking and you will have your meal in your rooms." He sighed again at her pouting. "This one should be in her lessons. Take her there, that's a good lad. Clean up and meet me in my solar."
Brandon gave him an unreadable look, but at least his steps were steady as he headed for the keep, Lyanna in hand with her cat behind them.
"Prepare to have your patience sorely tested."
The dragon scoffed. "It will be no trouble at all."
She raised the sword she held and beheld it with a skeptical eye. It was old and worn with cracking leather and tarnished bronze for its crossguard with dirt on the surface of the smooth dragon's eye ruby. He would bet his left leg the blade itself was Valyrian steel.
"Might I request permission to speak to your maester directly about your agricultural practices and food preservation methods?"
Rickard blinked.
"He is being difficult," she said blandly.
He had given her somewhat of a free reign pending his approval. He did not expect the dragon would choose to use it to help with farming.
It was a matter of importance for truth. The Others (!) wouldn't have to lift a finger if they all simply starved to death before the fighting ever happened. The tales said the long night lasted for an entire generation.
"Granted. Our main source during winter is a house of glass, however." He expected the dragon to be singularly impressed with the sheer expense of such. It was a major house's entire treasury worth of funds.
Instead, she nodded slowly. "Just the one?"
Rickard stopped in his tracks. He turned to her, narrowing his eyes. "Aye," he said slowly. "Just the one."
The dragon princess smiled sharply. "Then I will start there. Glass was a simple invention in the end."
(!?)
"You know how to make glass."
"Yes," the dragon said simply, as if the Myrish glassmakers wouldn't hire assassins on the spot if they overheard. "I will need assistance identifying your names for ingredients, but it is not difficult. In fact," she tilted her head, eyeing him like a wolf eyes a cornered injured doe. "If you are agreeable, I am willing to make two houses of ice today in a gesture of good faith."
"Two houses of ice," Rickard echoed. "Today."
The dragon held up a hand, scratched out a rough square with the toe of her armored boot and then breathed.
When the mist settled, there was a clear sheet of thick ice on the ground roughly conforming to the square shape.
"I will need frames of wood to form the sheets," the dragon said, a hiss of vapor glittering with ice shards escaping her lips as he stared. "It is no stronger than normal ice, but mine will not melt if I do not wish it so. Get me the plans for the house you have and I will construct you two more."
"I will see if we have those plans," he said calmly.
He had just come from hashing out the draft of a trading contract with the heir to Driftmark, Monford Velaryon's personal trading galleys to end his imposition on the Manderlys of White Harbour. With two more glass houses, Winterfell's reliance on imported grain from the Reach would vanish. The trading galleys would soon be trading for a surplus.
He was already drafting the letter to Olenna Tyrell through her son in his head, finally and unequivocally ending future shipments.
Good riddance.
Give that woman an inch and she would rob him of his small clothes if he let her.
"Thank you, your grace. It would be an immense boon."
The dragon inclined her head. "I accept your thanks, but I have no intention of stopping at just two houses of ice."
"No?" He asked mildly.
The dragon did not smile so much as bared teeth. "We are preparing for a long night, Lord Stark and Winterfell is not the entire North. I do not care about politics. You are the border frontier. There are methods I could teach, contraptions I could build. Your people will have what they need."
He marveled at the difference in demeanor from the dragon that licked his walls to the queen in all but name. "Bold claim."
"I am a - "
"Dragon!" Was shouted across the hall as soon as they entered. The Senior Ranger that came with his cousin was a slender man of average height with dark red-brown hair and was currently heavily laden with books. The dragon met him half-way, taking the entire stack from him with an enviable ease.
"Mance. I have finally ceased brooding."
"That explains nothing - Lord Stark." The black brother bowed and then shot the dragon a look that could melt steel.
He waved a hand at the Great Hall where a full score of people ushered to and fro from the library, ferrying parchment, scrolls, books and scraps of information to lay out as his desk was not large enough. Velaryon was pestering his steward with questions, talking with his hands as much as his mouth in a serene sea green doublet decorated with the silver seahorse. The prince had contributed the books and parchment he had brought with him to the cause, nattering away to an aggrieved Sword of the Morning who looked like he was having a splitting headache. Oswell Whent of Harrenhal stood guard, looking like a drowned rat for all the man was not wet, having removed his helm revealing a bird's nest of damp brown hair and his drawn face.
Brenn had drafted his youngest son Benjen under Maester Walys' pinched face. They looked to be sorting through the material, the boy on the big Flint's shoulders pointing at books. To his credit, his cousin seemed unfazed by the direwolf pup the boy got from somewhere and the ghostly cold lights that flickered in and out around his head.
"What did you do?"
"Informed Lord Stark and Prince Rhaegar of the stakes," the dragon said, seemingly oblivious to the man's ire.
"You agreed to follow the Lord Commander's lead on this."
Rickard made note of that.
"I will take full responsibility."
"We don't have the evidence."
The dragon's eyes flashed a brilliant silver. "I decided that I am the evidence." She looked towards him and nodded. "Lord Stark."
It was a dismissal of a Lord Paramount in his own seat, but he only felt bemused. That she was a dragon was no obstacle. He would call a pig in a dress 'your grace' if it had steel in its spine, a sense of honor and aided the North. If the prince didn't fuck this up, this woman was to be his queen in name as well.
He found he was looking forward to the day.
"Lady Mendev."
Brandon was waiting for him when he made it back to his solar. The boy looked up from where he had been sneaking looks at the correspondence on his desk, unashamed.
"Father." The boy waved his hands around. "Where the? Fuck? Did the? Fucking dragon come from!?"
"Well met, my firstborn son and heir," Rickard drawled. "I missed you as well. I am ending your fostering a little early. I have instructed Rodrick that you will be continuing your martial training as I will be instructing you on wielding Ice."
"I - what? Are you taking the Black?" His son's eyes blew wide open. "Are you dying?"
His heir was as a three week old pup at times. Put him in an unfamiliar room and within the hour he will convince himself the world is ending. He was going to have to consider how to break the news of the godsdamned Others to him carefully.
Best to leave him stuck on the dragon for a while.
"How was the flight? Did you piss yourself?"
Brandon gave him an incredulous look that turned ashamed. Then his grimace morphed into a familiar smirk. "And left an unbroken trail of yellow snow from Barrowtown to Winterfell as well!"
"That's my boy." He gave the young man a hearty clap on the back. "Take a seat. Much and more has happened and I would tell you of it - " His eyes caught on the Arryn seal on one of the letters. "Hold a moment, news of your brother."
He peeled off the wax already dreading the conversation when Eddard visited in the spring to find his home turned upside down. He read through the letter quickly.
(!?)
He read through it again.
"Father?"
Rickard Stark, Lord Paramount and Warden of the North had a new very large headache.
And its name was Eddard Stark.
"News from your brother," he said flatly. He cleared his throat and then in a falsely high voice said, "Well wishes, Father. I hope you are well. I am now blind -"
"What?" Brandon yelped.
His son snatched the parchment from him as Rickard collapsed into his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. Then he sat up straight as if stung, snatching the letter back again, this time reading between the lines and hissed through his teeth, "Why is my son writing this, Jon Arryn, you yellow bellied craven - "
"He doesn't feel cold," Brandon said, wondering. "The old gods speak to him?"
Rickard grunted. He was going to have to make a spectacle of Brandon receiving Ice early so no one got any clever ideas. "Part of what I wished to speak with you about. You've noticed Lya's cat and all of Benjen's nonsense, I trust?"
Brandon looked away. "I've got a snow eagle."
"Those are extinct," Rickard said blandly.
"Guess they're not." His shoulders hunched momentarily as if expecting a scolding, which he should because all his children liked to keep secrets from him, it seemed. Then Brandon straightened, lifting his chin. "Dragon out flew her, but she's on her way."
Eddard lost his sight, but his letter assured that he had gained the ability to pin Elbert Arryn's shadow to the ground and learned High Valyrian in a day with magic a possessed dire wolf was teaching him.
Lyanna did not seem to control her animals so much as instantly tame them. She knew somewhere in her head how to turn an ornery old horse, feral hound or wild shadowcat cub docile. He took breaks from his work more often just to make sure the girl hadn't disappeared into the Wolfswood looking for more "pets" to add to her menagerie.
Benjen's eyes began to burn like ice overnight. Cold lights formed around him and metal froze on his fingers. He had a young boy in his bed for nightmares for a fortnight straight after Old Nan thought it appropriate to tell him the tale of the Night's King.
(…)
He just realized that if the Others were real, he was going to have to look into that.
Brandon being a simple skinchanger bonded to a nearly extinct snow eagle was almost a relief.
"There have been strange happenings in Winterfell," he admitted. "Strange dreams and illnesses resolving into greenseers, skinchangers and who knows what else. Our blacksmith swears he can move steel with his thoughts, I personally feel stronger, yet have begun feeling overly burdened by my own armor - "
"Here too?"
Father and son stared at each other.
(...!)
Rickard dove for Eddard's letter for the third time. This time the words 'Robert Baratheon is recovering well from his illness' leapt out at him as damning.
"Brandon. What precisely do you mean by 'here too?'"