Rust
"Great Apsu, the Fresh Water, Maker of All, the Waybringer and Exiled Wyrm, greatest of all dragons, god of Kingship and Glory, I humbly beg for an audience."
The statue continued to snarl at him, unimpressed.
Rhaegar sighed, dropping his hands.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Arthur suck the inside of his cheek as he ran a cloth over Dawn's milk glass white blade. No doubt arguing with it again. Ser Wendel Manderly of White Harbor meditatively folded and unfolded his white cloak, lined in Mendevian blue along the edges. The jingle of silver buckles and enameled scales played through the still air as Ser Oswell shook out his leg and resumed standing guard.
The Riverlander sighed. "Am I the only man still baffled that asking a god for a bride can be done now?"
Arthur shrugged as he peered down Dawn's edge. "Durran Godsgrief and Elenei?"
"History does lay precedent," Rhaegar intoned before giving Arthur a sideways glance. "Of gods attempting to murder their daughter's suitors…"
His sworn brother shrugged apologetically.
Oswell looked pained.
"We fought an evil tree five days past," Wendel said simply as he folded his cloak once more.
They all turned to stare at the second born son of house Manderly in his plain boiled leathers.
Wendel raised an eyebrow as he met their gazes evenly. "The Seven." He repeated. "Let me smite. The Seven Hells. Out of. An evil tree."
"That does not make this any easier to swallow," Oswell sighed.
Arthur snorted. "Swim with the current, fishie. Glub glub!"
The knight kicked snow at him.
It was a strange clearing within the godswood.
The oiled leather covered windows of the Stark's Guest House were dark pits in the moss covered gray stone of the walls. Beneath it, the small forest of the Old Gods lay sprawled. Three pools, red Weirwood leaves floating on their placid surfaces and the wisps of steam drifting off the water had given the clearing an otherworldly look long before Terendelev thought to ask Lord Stark for permission.
'In the Name of my Father, the Waybringer,' the dragon's voice ever so softly floated among the rustling of leaves as a memory. She had been radiant, the wind playing with her silver hair and eyes bright with a joy that made his heart ache. 'I, Terendelev, declare where I stand to be hallowed ground.'
A gentle, silver light lapped at Rhaegar's boots and broke into silver ripples. It welled up from the snow and moss and mud and stone as if he were standing in a shallow spring. Between the pools, a perfect silver orb bobbed in the air on unseen waves before the carved wooden shrine of a dragon and a direwolf keeping an unceasing vigil.
'Through his grace, may the dead find peace and trespassers their just reward.'
It was unsettlingly lifelike. Shaped with the meticulous precision of a master at her craft with each scale, tooth, claw and strand of fur carved into the light wood. One could see the wolf bristle in warning. The dragon had a claw raised and its weight shifted, as if it had paused in the middle of walking on by.
The wooden wolf held a proud stance with its head lifted above a broad chest, sturdy legs ending in sharp claws and a low hanging tail. Its head was raised and turned with watchful ears, a hint of fang and hackles raised. The dragon of the shrine radiated strength in its powerful chest covered in thick plates, feathered wings that ended in bone spurs, a segmented crest like a knight's helm around his skull parting for two vicious upward horns. For all that it was the larger creature, the dragon did not overshadow the wolf. Positioned behind on four legs, not looming over, a challenging gaze and a long tail wrapped protectively around them both.
The statue was lightly varnished, just enough to deepen the shadows and protect it from the ravages of snow, wind and time.
As he stared up into the dragon's exposed teeth, he pondered.
'Maybe He does not wish to speak to me, a lowly pilgrim unknown to Him,' his mind whispered, up to its usual tricks once more. The unwanted, intrusive thoughts. 'What is one mortal, one little prince, one petty king to a god?'
He lowered his gaze and clasped his hands together.
His daughter accepted reverence, but never demanded it, preferring to be called by name instead of by titles. Would selfless Terendelev hold her Father in such high regard, were he so callous towards lesser beings?
He would not believe that to be true.
'Then why am I addressing Him as if I do believe it?' was the faint reproach, always sniffing within himself for signs of irrationality, of weakness.
Of madness.
Rhaegar closed his eyes.
"Apsu," he pleaded softly, hoping beyond hope that he was not making a mistake. "My name is Rhaegar Targaryen and I would ask for your daughter's hand in marriage."
A bitter cold wind blew.
It cut right through the fire in his blood, sending an unfamiliar chill down his spine as he opened his eyes.
The weak midday sun cast a harsh, moving shadow behind the dragon's horned head. It loomed over him, seeming ten feet taller. Its wings were no longer protective, but threateningly flared as it silently growled with grinding wooden teeth. He was pinned to the spot beneath its narrow eyed glare.
"I - " Rhaegar's voice cracked as every instinct begged him to run. "Please, I…I am not a dragon, but surely a prince or - or a king - "
A memory overtook him.
He was in the library, as was his wont, but he was not truly reading. He had been staring at the same page for an entire bell, because he had not been there to read.
But to escape.
His father had an innocent woman beheaded, as if the wet nurse had aught to do with little Jaehaerys' death. Then he had been overcome with paranoia that his son had been poisoned rather than dying of a weak heart. He imprisoned his mistress. Rhaegar had overheard the news that her family was being called to account for her 'crime.'
He had been five and ten and knew well what that meant.
'Behold,' his mind hissed. 'The worth of a Targaryen king.'
"I am not my father," Rhaegar pleaded with himself. "There - and there was nothing I could do."
'Did I even try?'
Even if he had failed, had it not been worth trying? The King had them all put to the harsh question until they broke, confessing to everything and nothing at all just to make the pain stop.
It did not stop.
Not until they died there in the Black Cells under a torturer's skilled hand.
He had still been his father's only son and heir. He would have been safe to try, risking only humiliation, perhaps the stocks or being confined to his rooms. Even if he could not save them, even if he had only managed a noose or a headsman block for them, it would have been kinder.
He did nothing.
Shame curled in his chest.
The dragon statue snarled at him in disdain.
More memories began to surface, of his father's black rages and his mother's tears. Never focused on any grand suggestion, but the little moments.
On what he could have done.
When he could have stayed to comfort a servant, a hedge knight, a dock worker. When he could have volunteered his help for a courtier, petty lord, messenger, Kingsguard. When he could have made his position clear instead of disinterested ambivalence, letting men he knew did not have the best interests of the realm at heart do what they will.
Tywin Lannister tarried in the attempt to free the King from the dungeons of Duskendale. Underneath his words of false concern for the King's safety and Darklyn's threats was a bitter, petty satisfaction.
Rhaegar knew.
He did nothing.
The King sat in Duskendale's dungeons for half a year.
Once freed thanks to the bravery of the Kingsguard, Ser Barristan Selmy the Bold, the King took the heads of not only Lord Darklyn, but the man's family. His wife, Serala, Aerys had burned alive after cutting her woman parts and tongue out. The Hollards, who kept faith with their liege lords, were executed one and all save for a single boy Ser Barristan had begged clemency for.
He had told himself that he was not responsible for the sins of others.
The statue agreed.
His sins were his own.
'I tolerate evil,' was the insidious whisper of his mind. 'I would commit evil if I thought I had reason. Is a crown enough to make a half-mad apathetic boy worthy?'
"No," he croaked. "I - I amtrying, but I need - "
'Need?'
The shadow shifted on the wooden dragon's angry visage.
'I need the loyalty of lords. I need to be king. I need men. I need coin. I need answers. I need to learn my magic. I need dragons. I need that dragon. I need. I need. I need. I want.'
Rhaegar swallowed thickly. He could have been earning that loyalty. He spent seventeen years as the prince of the realm. It's only prince. He squandered Dragonstone. He chased prophecies while the North and its legends of the Long Night were right under his nose! Terendelev would help him. She wanted to help him.
Because it was the right thing to do.
He still wanted more from her.
Greed was unbecoming.
'Why do I want these things?'
To save everyone.
Rhaegar dropped his gaze, unable to look at the dragon's terrible visage any longer.
Why was he so invested in being the savior of the Seven Kingdoms when he proved disinterested in saving one person right in front of him, countless times? Could the people of Flea Bottom eat the music he played for them? Did the city stink less for his victories in jousts before cheering crowds? Were the laws any more fair for his niceties to the common folk?
It was not enough. He knew it was not enough.
He did nothing.
He scrabbled in the dirt for purpose when a treasury of worthy causes were refused for no other reason than their mundane nature. Worthy of a prince. A king. Not a legend.
Simple hubris.
(Jaehaerys - they all knew! Vipers, all of them, vipers! He would have been a worthy heir, he would - not this - this useless craven - I will have justice! I will - )
He shoved his father's bile away.
(Viserys. He will be Viserys! A good, strong name for - a strong son. For one that will live. A kingly name. I named my first after his mother, a woman, you see, that - that was the problem.)
It lingered.
( - playing at war when you do not have the stomach for it. The piss and the shit, gutting the other man before he guts you - that's what war is, you fool -)
Half-wit.
Fool.
His father alternated between callous indifference, momentary pride and jealous, bitter disdain of his eldest son. He could never be enough to dry his mother's tears, no matter how hard he tried.
The dead child was always of more importance than the living one.
Eventually, he stopped trying.
Deep down, deep enough that it bled, was the childish desire to be able to make someone like Terendelev happy. It selfishly grew every time she seemed startled by how much he paid attention to her, as if she expected him to be blinded by her scales forever.
Startled and - he did not believe she even knew how it made her smile.
If a dragon deemed him worthy of her affection, then he was not broken.
'And then what?' His mind sneered.
Shadows played along the grooves of the dragon's wooden scales, giving it the appearance of having shifted in place.
'A happy ever after? As one of my precious songs?'
She was lost.
Alone in a land she knew not, surrounded by unfamiliar faces with strange tongues and customs. What could he give her?
'To whom would she turn to for friendship?'
Only Mance Rayder had ever drawn a full laugh from her.
What foreign queen could find true companionship in King's Landing? She already had friends. A beloved mentor. Comrades in arms. A mortal mother. Her kingdom was out of her reach. And the jealous twit that he was could only be glad to see the back of the man in black.
'With whom shall she share the skies?'
There were many things she did not understand about their ways. Refused to. Too much, too fast and she would disappear into the Wolfswood or simply…
Fly away.
She was alone.
She learned High Valyrian with ease. It did not compare to the way she spoke the dragon's tongue for the youngest Stark, Benjen.
Like it freed her soul.
Magic was in his blood, but he did not breathe it the way she did. He did not look at a broken blade and think it a simple task to will it whole. He did not see gathering storm clouds and think a coming blizzard to be a matter of preference. He could not comprehend Death as a condition that could be cured.
he almost lost arthur
No one did.
'I would have her fall down from her clouds to break herself upon these rocks -'
'No,' he thought then, horrified.'I just want her to be happy.'
'So do I,'was the miserable whisper.
Rhaegar's head shot up.
The statue was just a statue. A stoic, protective wooden dragon only a little taller than himself with its wings tucked in against its sides behind a wooden direwolf. Its expression was placid. Its jaw was closed, showing no teeth at all.
Rhaegar turned, disoriented.
"My prince?" Arthur called. His brows furrowed with concern as his purple eyes flickered to the others. Oswell was alert, but confused. Wendel was looking up at him from the ground. Had they not seen - had they not heard him speak - ?
Rhaegar's mouth opened. Then closed.
Of course.
He had asked a dragon god for Terendelev's hand in marriage.
It was not like her to carve the visage of her beloved Father as aught but strong and welcoming. The anger, the threat had not been another conjuration of his diseased mind. It had been a sign that he was unworthy.
The answer was no.
The prince walked away from the shrine on unsteady legs.
To his credit, Arthur realized what had happened immediately, rising to his feet. "We leave for the Vale on the morrow - "
He knows.
"With Lord Stark to seek the support of Lord Arryn passing through the lands of Lord Tully," he called at Rhaegar's back as he marched out of the clearing. Away from the cold gaze of dragon and wolf. "Dragons do not even wed so it might mean nothing to her, Rhaegar, you do not have to - don't be rash - !"
He knows.
He was painfully aware that he could do nothing at all.
"And our prince lost a bard battle against a Black Brother," Arthur quipped among the books and scrolls of Winterfell's library. Maester Walys was in his quarters, scribing records and letters, leaving them with the impressive collection of parchment already deemed irrelevant for the coming Others.
It was hard to believe those words. Those were the sort of words that a man could drown if he dwelled on them.
So he did not.
"If that can happen, there is little that cannot," Arthur continued.
It was Rhaegar's turn to sigh. He knew what Arthur was doing. "Please stop calling it a 'bard battle.'"
All three men around the table waited.
"And I did not lose," the prince continued peevishly from behind his book, because knowing your older brother was trying to vex you did not mean he did not succeed.
"We see fire all of the time," Wendel mused, running a gloved hand through his auburn locks and scratching at one of his sideburns by the door. "Jory's dancing plants were rather novel."
Oswell smiled nastily. "Much better than being evil."
Wendel glared at him. "Why was it evil?"
"Any tree that gives men the runs is evil and the Seven agreed," Whent said shortly.
"I'll not argue that," Arthur said cheerily. "Which is why someone should have thought to scout out the creepy tree before burning it."
Rhaegar dragged a hand down his face.
"In our prince's defense," Wendel attempted to rescue him. "The last thing a reasonable person would expect the diseased tree you just set on fire to do is reach out to kill you back."
"Yes!" Rhaegar waved a grateful hand at the Manderly knight. "Thank you!"
Oswell jabbed a mailed finger at Rhaegar's nose. "We were told that the grove was cursed - "
"When was the last time you took such a warning seriously as aught other than wives' tales?" Rhaegar hissed back. "When has anyone? A century at least!"
And Lord Rickard Fucking Stark had not even batted an eye!
He completely understood why the Andals burned down all the Weirwoods south of the Neck. He had no trouble imagining they suffered through that nonsense, marched up to Moat Cailin, discovered spiders the size of horses and wolves the size of bears and wisely gave up.
What kind of arse-backwards region was the North?
Why did they not know this sooner?
Heavens wept.
And no one said shit about the North's underground caverns! He would have liked to have known about the underground caverns evil trees grow evil roots in before he fell in one!
"You have been courting a magical dragon for the past moon!" Oswell cried, throwing his hands in the air. "There are spiders the size of horses with - " The Riverlander clawed at the air around his head. "With a face that can appear out of thin air! The Sword of the Morning can enchant his sword with the elements - "
"Lightning," Arthur volunteered.
Wendel raised a finger. "Can you not bespell multiple effects - "
"Lightning."
Dawn rattled in its sheath menacingly and that was enough of that. Dawn was now strong enough to overtly disagree with events, much to Rhaegar's chagrin.
Getting bit by a sword hurts.
"You undermine your own argument, ser," Rhaegar sniffed. "If I should have known a cursed tree was truly cursed because magic, then - "
"No," Oswell said.
So trying to sing the plant to sleep did not work. And he did not appreciate crawling back to Winterfell, vomiting every ten steps, only for the dragon to patiently remind him that trees did not sleep.
Or have ears.
But what was he supposed to do?
Set the enclosed space they were all in on fire?
"Strike it with a sword like the rest of us," Arthur's smart mouth answered. "Or a fist," he amended with a befuddled grimace. "In Lord Stark's case."
Rhaegar crossed his arms with his best disappointed stare.
The Dornishman ignored him.
"That Willam's illusions were impressive," Arthur continued. "Rayder was able to break a boulder in half, so perhaps there is truth to the horn of winter bringing down the Wall."
"And what would you call near setting the Wolfswood ablaze?" Rhaegar asked snippily. It was a reasonable question, because all the judges being Northerners meant they were sadly biased, and there was no legitimate reason why singing badly enough that rocks break to make it stop was better -
That was his jealousy talking.
Arthur slowly raised an eyebrow. "Not winning."
Older brothers were awful.
Or mayhaps that was just Arthur Dayne.
"Do you think Lord Arryn is doing the same thing?" Wendel spoke up, looking around at them with ocean blue eyes glimmering with rainbow light. "Not the - " He circled a finger in the air. "Contest."
"Bard battle," Arthur supplied, earning the Northern knight's exasperated look and Rhaegar could strike him, by the Flames -
"Is Tully?" Oswell froze in his seat with realization. "If the Seven are blessing knights in their name throughout the Seven Kingdoms…" He looked at the Manderly knight, before softly finishing, "It could cause chaos."
Ser Wendel, the dragon's sworn shield, smiled tightly.
The light of the Seven shone brightly on Ser Wendel Manderly after the Stars Fell.
His older brother, Wylis, their father's heir was unchanged.
Lord Wyman Manderly's second born came to Winterfell with disturbing, fractured rumors from across the Narrow Sea. Of Volantis in flames, abominations rising up from the mazes of Lorath, chaos in the Dothraki Sea, the silence of the Iron Bank as a blood-soaked madness descended upon Qohor…
And the quiet, unshakeable confidence of a man who knew he was blessed.
The Seven chose him. Another god's daughter had been thrilled to learn of his gifts and would see him trained in them.
Yet he would exchange his cloak for the white of the Kingsguard, or if he had been refused, the black of the Night's Watch before he threatened his brother's seat.
Ser Wendel Manderly had more honor in his little finger than many knights Rhaegar knew.
More than knights he had knighted personally.
More than himself.
"More than that," Arthur gently murmured. "What if it were not just Stark? The blood of the First Men kings runs through many a house. Mooton, Mallister, Bracken and Blackwood - "
"Hoster's heir, my nephew is a boy of eight," Oswell muttered into a hand.
Left unsaid was if houses that could boast more men, more wealth, more land, a longer history than the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands received sorcerous talents, monstrous beasts or blessings from the divine.
But Edmure Tully grew to be just a man.
"That would complicate matters, would it not?" Rhaegar murmured. "Merely promising to uphold Aegon the Conqueror's elevation of Lord Tully could be reason enough for other Riverlands lords to refuse me."
"There would have always been those grasping to improve their fortunes," Arthur said, but there was a troubled wrinkle on his brow all the same. "All the more reason for the progress to better know the situation. Lord Arryn has a strong hold on his lords, but the mountain clans…"
"Heavens forbid the fucking Freys…" Oswell moaned, adding a second hand to his face. "Please no fucking magical weasels…"
Wendel huffed and turned back towards the hallway as guard.
Rhaegar returned to his book.
Stark hardly needed his help to command his lords. A lord that needed such assistance might prove himself a constant thorn in the Iron Throne's side. Much as his forefather Aegon the Fifth needed to quell rebellions in the Westerlands under the weak rulership of then Lord Tytos Lannister. Mayhaps Tully would prove unfit to be Lord Paramount. Mayhaps the problem would solve itself by the time he arrived.
He could do nothing.
"Your grace," Ser Wendel simpered. "You are a vision of loveliness today."
He spoke the truth.
Most of her silver hair fell loosely save for twin braids that framed her face. She wore a slim gown of glittering silver scales with a Mendevian blue skirt, a sash of white crossed her center, pinned by her collar with a small golden sword pendant. What he would not give for the colors to be red and black, but she would be beautiful in rags.
"You wound me, ser." Terendelev answered coolly as she brushed past him into the library. "Has there been a day when I have not been so?"
Rhaegar smothered a smile.
Ser Wendel surrendered and turned to the prince with an exasperated sigh, "I was wrong. She is always this difficult."
"To compliment?" He gave himself a safety net. "Yes." She wore her vanity openly. "There is a trick to it, however," he pushed ahead before Terendelev could get a word in edgewise. "If you wish to flatter a dragon, tell her something she does not know."
There it was.
The startled, soft and nearly grateful smile.
It was gone too soon.
"Bards," she muttered fondly as she slipped into the seat across from him. The beginnings of her cruel smirk lifted the corner of her mouth as she addressed her knight. "You act as if I do not hear you cursing me to each of the Seven Hells in the yard, ser. I can make your training worse."
Ser Wendel flushed and straightened, turning back around. "That - ah, will not be necessary, your grace."
Arthur snorted.
He choked on it, pounding his chest, when the dragon's purple gaze sought him out with a raised silver eyebrow. "Yours too."
Oswell snickered.
"I… am glad to see that you returned, Teren," Rhaegar began uncomfortably as she picked a book from the small pile on the table. "Before we set for the Vale."
"I gave you my word," was the dragon's even response. "The matter of the Ironborn's slaves still troubles me," she admitted and he bit down on the urge to say they were merely 'thralls.' Her eyes flashed towards him, as if she knew what was on his tongue. "I will accept the need to handle that matter later."
"Later," he offered quietly.
The Lord of the Iron Islands, Quellon Greyjoy seemed open to compromise. And if he was not, a dragon had a way of changing one's mind.
"Once we have the legal authority." A tension seeped from Terendelev's shoulders. A ravenous gleam in her eyes tucked away as she smiled gently. "Later."
He let out a slow breath and listlessly turned a page.
"Your mother seemed a sad woman," the dragon murmured as she settled into her sturdy, ironwood chair, flipping open her chosen collection of Northern sagas.
"What?" Rhaegar looked up, frowning. "When did you meet my mother?"
She looked up from over the hard leather cover of her book with her eyebrows raised.
He backpedaled immediately.
"Not that I am doubting your assessment, or accusing you of aught - " He rethought his trajectory. "You certainly do not need my permission to travel wherever you please, I apologize for the presumption."
He crossed his toes.
"...she seems to be under a great deal of stress," Terendelev said slowly. "She has not been sleeping well and could stand to eat more. I suspect." Her head tilted towards him questioningly. "That there are some faded bruises she is very aware of."
"Oh," Rhaegar said.
The correct answer was asking after his mother's wellbeing.
"Oh," he repeated softly. "I…apologize, my mother has been sad for quite some time, so it failed to -"
Failed to matter?
Failed to deserve his attention?
"What I mean to say is that many have expressed that sentiment - " And what has he ever managed to do about it if so many were concerned about the queen? "My father has always - " Deflecting blame again. "I am sorry, I - "
There were no more excuses.
"I am sorry."
Terendelev closed her book. "Rhaegar. Why are you apologizing to me?"
"I…" His lips twisted into a bitter smile. "It is one of the few things I am good at doing." As was turning every subject to be about himself. "Is there aught I can do for her, do you think?"
"...she is a contradiction of pride and humility which leaves me uncertain," the dragon allowed with a sideways look at him. "I told her to seek you in the Vale if she had need." Her head tilted in that avian manner that did not necessarily indicate confusion the way he had once thought it did. It meant she was weighing her words. "I thought it prudent to inform her of our courtship." Rhaegar's stomach sunk down to his knees as the godling shrugged one shoulder. "She was supportive."
"Yes," the prince murmured. "She would be."
He sent the Starry Sept a letter of his renouncement of the Faith, but thought nothing of leaving his mother alone to his father's fickle mercies without so much as a 'by your leave.'
Faded bruises.
His eyes squeezed shut.
This was why her father thought him unfit.
A light touch on his arm opened his eyes. Terendelev's indigo gaze was eyeing him with concern as she pulled back her hand. "Rhaegar, what is wrong?"
Because he was.
"I believe - " He was speaking with shards of dragonglass in his throat. "It would be best…if our courtship was…" He swallowed and looked away. "If I released you of any obligation towards me."
Terendelev startled. "What?"
"I can explain it to Lord Stark!" The words tumbled out of his mouth quickly. He had to be able to explain it. He was good at apologies. "I can think of something - "
She held up her hand and he stopped talking.
"Arthur." Terendelev bit out with silver eyes and slitted pupils in a face full of lightning as she pointed at the prince. "What is this?"
"Prince Rhaegar asked your father for your hand," the Sword of the Morning dutifully replied, none of his misgivings on his face. "Apsu rejected the suit."
Terendelev sat up in her chair like she had been stung. Her silver eyes narrowed dangerously, a hard, violent glint in them that was shockingly ugly on her. Her gaze slid to the side, seeing through the walls of Winterfell's library.
"Oh, did he now?" It was a sibilant hiss. "Where did he get the notion that he has any right - " She stood up, smoke escaping her lips in a wisp. "Rhaegar, I did not tell you to ask, so you are being stupid. Consider yourself fortunate that I need to talk to the bigger fool that is my rusting Father first."
She turned on her heel.
Wendel shot them all a panicked glance as he followed her out of the library.
"You had to do it," Arthur said flatly.
"Let us ensure the godswood remains standing," he muttered instead of dignifying that with a response.
He was undeserving. This was for the best.
They caught up to her in that godswood clearing, having a staring match with the wooden shrine. With an outstretched hand, she called a muddy stone to her hand which she placed on top of the wolf's head.
"You are not getting a proper offering," the dragon said flatly. "I am rebuilding my hoard. I know you know how important that is." A thin, cold smile spread across her face. "And if my presence here was your doing, then you cannot complain because it is also your fault."
The weak midwinter sun slipped behind a cloud, casting a long shadow on the wooden dragon.
"Thank you for saving me," she allowed softly. "But the way you did it also makes you an ass."
Oswell spluttered behind him.
Arthur leaned in. "Is this a prayer or a whinging family - "
Terendelev turned her head, frowning.
Arthur shut up.
"That being said." She turned back to the statue. "We do not let you talk to novice devotees of the Platinum Band for a reason."
The shadows lifted for a moment.
"This is that reason," Terendelev growled and the wooden dragon was shrouded in darkness again. "You know if the boy was a dragon who knew he was discarding me, I would have torn his head off and shat down his neck."
Oh.
"I have not done so," she snarled, "Because he is not a dragon and you overwhelmed him taking liberties you do not have the right to!"
A cold breeze picked up, scattering a handful of evergreen needles across the shrine that suddenly seemed smaller against the moss covered wall of Winterfell.
The dragon of silver reluctantly softened slowly, the silver light fading from her eyes to return them to the clear, precious indigo.
"...Rhastwyr was my choice, Father. We may have failed each other, but my only regret is that I was not enough."
The sun playfully peeked from behind the clouds.
Terendelev blanched.
"I regret two things, you lecherous - why were you even paying attention to that?" She held up her hand. "Do not answer that. Claws off my things. You do not interfere with other dragons. We both know every color but Gold would have rioted if you tried. I do not understand why you chose to intervene with mine."
Some stray needles slipped off the wooden snout, catching on some of the scales in a crooked smile.
Terendelev gave the statue a suspicious look, but turned away.
"And as for you."
Rhaegar gulped.
"I believed we had an understanding about what our courtship meant," the dragon purred in a low, growling tone. "One we informed Lord Stark of when he was offered the position of Hand of the King. I agreed to foster Benjen in King's Landing in the Red Keep in exchange. Every lord that visited Winterfell was told. I just told you I informed your mother. Ser Wendel is to leave my service for the Kingsguard after the wedding, instead of the Night's Watch or risking Oldtown's grasp on White Harbor through the Citadel, did we not agree to that?"
Rhaegar opened his mouth.
The look she gave him could have melted castle-forged steel.
He closed his mouth.
"So I will be very, very clear." He took a small step back when she stepped in close. "I will be your queen. Your miserable little kingdoms will be mine to defend." She was close enough to kiss as her voice went quiet and threatening. "And you will never stain my honor by making a liar out of me. Do you understand?"
He nodded very quickly.
"Good." She stepped back and he felt like he could breathe again. Her head tilted to the side as she ran a languid gaze from the top of his head down to his toes. A flicker of amusement. "Ser Dayne. Ser Whent. My betrothed needs a moment to compose himself. See that he gets that moment."
"Your grace," Arthur the turncloak immediately answered.
"Ser Wendel."
"Your grace," the Manderly knight stepped behind her dutifully. Silence fell upon the clearing when she left, taking her sworn shield with her.
"If you had said no," Arthur began slowly as Rhaegar shakily breathed out. The prince sank to the ground and began to shovel snow over his aching cock. "I believe she would have beaten you to death with your own spine and then worn your skull as a helm."
"I know," Rhaegar sighed dreamily as the snow melted.
Oswell palmed his face.
The way the shadow of a tree branch fell on it made it seem as if both the wolf and the dragon were giving him a skeptical, side eyed look.
Rhaegar bristled. "I love her."
Rhaegar used a Hero Point! Gained Reluctant Shipper on Deck Apsu.
The statue gave up.
A globe of clear water appeared in midair above his and then fell, drenching the prince in ice cold water. He burst into steam.
