(The sky lights up with fireworks of a dozen colors and types. Some are good old end-of-year fireworks, others are blasts of plasma that detonate in multi-colored- strips of fire, while others are kaleidoscopic, living fire pushed for by magics of a dozen kinds. The night sky is bright with what technology, ingenuity, and magical skill can bring together. Above a long stone balcony that stands above a great marble plaza where hundreds of individuals dance and celebrate, heroes and villains from a hundred places united in celebrating another year ending, and a new one beginning. On this balcony stands one simple man in a black tuxedo, that turns, amber eyes smiling to treat you all)
Primarch Amaranth: "Ah, my dear readers! Good evening!" (He gestures for the display of pyrotechnics) "Quite the sight, is it not? This is what happens when you mix so many egos, they all want to outdo each other in displays of skill! The Mechanicus in particular, felt the need to show off. And do not get me started on the Klingon and the Mandalorians! Warrior cultures have an ego the size of the Death Star!"
(As if on queue, squadrons of fliers, some starfighters, other flying beasts, strife past in beautiful aerial maneuvers. The crowd beyond the plaza lets a massive cheer, only maximized by the furor of titan warhorns.)
Primarch Amaranth: "First, my dear reader, I owe you an apology. It took me some time to get this chapter ready for two main reasons. First, I have started a common-life job, for saving the multiverse seldom gives one enough money to live, secondly, I got a bit stuck with this chapter, but I finally did it! Actually, I went so overboard that I wrote more than 25.000 words, so I had to divide the chapter in two! By the end of this week, or by the end of the time it will take me to spellcheck it, and you will have another chapter up and ready!"
(Behind him, another volley of explosions ripples the sky with earthshaking force. Amaranth frowns, downing the cup quickly, and offers an apologetic smile, as the roar of the ordinance is heard, and something strikes into teh heavens, blossoming the sky with rippling explosions)
Primarch Amaranth: "And there is the end to our festivities. New year, new foes, it would seem!" (Behind him, figures fly up to the battle, ships rise to the sky, weapons systems and titanic forms rise from where they patrolled to engage the new enemy as the Stranger of crimson eyes arrived to the balcony, carrying a box with him.)
Stranger: "Here you are. Are you done gallivanting with the audience? Poor souls must be tired of enduring your ego".
Primarch Amaranth: "You wound me, old friend! I was being cordial and apologizing for-"(Another explosion makes the whole balcony tremble) "Seriously, who is it now?! Two days ago it was the dammed Tyranids. Before that, Amon and the Hybrids, and the week before that mess with the viltrumites, it was that bitch of Atalantia! Don't they ever tire?!"
Stranger: "I have reports of Burning Legion forces. And that we just felt was Legio Invicta. They made a bet with the Autobots and the Blacksmiths of Harnassus to see who could kill more titanic-class enemies."
Primarch: "Then we better go, or we will be left without a fight to enjoy! Well folks, hope you like the chapter, and I wish you a merry start of the year! Take care, and may the Lady be with you all!" (The Stranger throws the small box at Primarch, who with a small floriture, waves goodbye, and then both men jump over the edge of the balcony, and fly upwards in streams of energy, to join the fight, as the audience is directed inside by Spartan-IVs, to enjoy some peace and quiet as they read).
{DRAGON OF STARFALL}
He is running. Running so hard. His boots smash the ground as he sprints, his rent armor falling into pieces that seem to never end. Everything burns, his face, his heart, his lungs, his legs. And it is not fast enough. He pounds on, in full plate, down the carbonized stone halls, strings pulling him back, trying to anchor him to this immaterial place and tether him to the harrowing moment he is relieving.
He shatters the strands and keeps running, like a pouncing dragon, desperate to rewrite a past that bears on him with the might of a glacier. He cannot alter something that has happened with such force and certainty that it has etched itself on his very soul. But who was going to stop him? Wisdom? Reason? Maturity? Intelligence?
Those fickle mistresses cannot help him here. Here he is mastered by his heart and his wrath alone.
And they serve him just as right when the shadows of things long dead detach from the walls and attack.
He has no blade, so he uses his fists. He pummels them, kicking and tearing like a wild animal in the furor of the fight of its life. He tears the head clean off from the first one and shatters every bone of the second with a kick. He uses the third as a battering ram, before stomping the fourth's head into paste. He tears them apart, petty shadows of his darkest dreams. They cannot slow him down. He has slayed them all before.
He reaches for the flaming door, knowing what awaits inside, only for his way to be barred. Towering in dark plate and blade in hands, his foe steps forth from the shadows to offer him a warrior salute. He does not speak, much like the thing the dreamer had killed that once bore the armor, and unlike the man that it had once been. But that is fine. After all, he never got to beat this one.
They clash, fist against blade, dark ruin versus primal hope, first-born against adopted bastard. Dead versus alive. Light against darkness. Dreamer against nightmare. Fury-borne skill competing with darkened, tortured power. Failing man of virtue confronting a corrupted paragon of honor.
Monster against monster.
His fists catch roaring flames, as the black armor rents itself apart. Fire blossoms from his heart, and he spreads his wings. Size loses meaning, hell roars in his breast and his skin thickens until he is covered in amber, diamond-hard scales. He opens his jaws and roars a primal cry in morning-clad fury. His opponent is also changed, mutated into impossible slabs of muscle and bone, leonine head reigned by antler horns, discarded and broken, claws extended and skin breaking all over. Its legs wide open, and its tail grows into a scaley monstrosity to match its counterpart.
There, towering over the ground and reaching for the stars, much like they had done more than a century ago and would do so again, they tear each other apart, claws rending flesh and bone, biting each other's neck. Where the leonine abortion spews lighting, the draconic dreamer unleashes scouring flame. Scales and fur rain all around them, each piece giving birth to malformed imitations of the slaughtering titans. And much like them, they rise to continue the bloodletting.
Above them, the moons bleed, the gods laugh. Then, a voice, hated, reviled, and despised, echoes, making the dreamer's heart ache with chained hatred. It drowns all of it, flattening it to waters of deep crystal light.
"Awaken"
{DRAGON OF STARFALL}
His eyes felt like lead, like broken castle gates he needed to pry loose with his bare hands. He was on a bed, soft, gentle, almost warm. He relished the easiness of breath, the soreness of muscles that were healing from the strain, and the slight tiredness that caressed his mind. They were all sensations he could appreciate, the telltale of a post-battle morning, the realization of victory and survival. It felt good. Truly did.
It made him smile, eyes still closed. There was a scent, one he did not know…. No, one he did not remember. He had smelled it before, a long time ago. He wondered about that smell, on the buried memories it tried to dig from his mind and the places it wanted to bring him to. But it was then he managed to force his eyelids open. He blinked once, then twice, until the room stopped spinning. It was not his room, which made him frown.
'Damnation, love, where did we end up sleeping?' It was not a strange occurrence that his wife would end up dragging him to some unused room of the Den for them to be alone. Nor was it strange for him to wake up staring at an unusual ceiling he did not know. What was unusual was waking up alone. He let his hands roam the bed, but found nothing in it, empty, a bit cold even. He frowned. It was not Arts style to run on him like this. He slowly turned his head around, flinching at sore muscles. By the Lady, what battle had he fought to end up like this? Or had it been his wife's ministrations that had left him so sore? He could not tell.
Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a banner that made his eyes go impossibly wide. It was a stag in black over yellow, beside a lion of gold over red. He stared at the symbol as the rushing tide of memories of the last few days reassured him he had not been, in fact, dreaming all the madness he had been thinking. He let out a silent sigh.
Sirius wasn't entirely sure where his quarters were. He was only certain the bed was entirely too welcoming and entirely too clean for him to get up from it. The sun was high, and yet he barely remembered anything apart from arriving at the Keep and getting into bed. Someone had had the decency to change him into a set of simple clean clothes, which to his surprise, sported his orange dragon on the breast.
The room was decent. After having slept on some of the most impressive castles, cities, and fortresses of the New and Old World, King's Landing and the Red Keep were a welcomed step down. The smells of a reawakening city growing out of its stupor rose to welcome him back to his waking hours.
He remained on the bed as he fully awoke, feeling for the first time in days the absolute wreck his body was, and the hundred pains that adorned it. He let out a pained sigh, just as he felt something leaning on him. He smiled as he looked down at his daughter, her head on his chest, asleep and hugging him tightly. The hounds remained outside with his Men-at-arms to guard the door, but Bellicose was beside the bed, lying down in the spot he had made for himself after silently moving a table and a set of chairs out of the way.
It had cleaned itself of blood and guts, and he almost shone with the seawater dried on its feathers and fur. Sirius petted the great creature as he gently rolled Igraine onto her side of the bed. The girl barely stirred and eagerly embraced the silks. Sirius smiled at his sleeping daughter, her black hair still a mess. His mother's handmaidens had made their greatest attempt to clean her up, but his little fairy had not been comfortable around strangers. Thankfully, Ashara Dayne has been more than happy to bathe her own granddaughter.
That line of thought made Sirius see something in his daughter's hair. The roots of her hair, normally as dark as his own, were now much clearer, almost silver-like. He frowned at that. While it was not uncommon for Bretonnians to sport strange hair pigmentation thanks to the many lineages that had added Fay blood to it, it tended to be from birth, not a sudden change in coloration like this. Then again, magic such as the ones unleashed by his daughter could very well have affected her in a quite fundamental way, and awakened the blood that she most certainly had in her. While not bad per se, fay blood brought with it a host of problems, complications, and possibilities that made the Duke worry. And that he did not want to deal with right now.
Gently, he let her down on the bed as he got up, making Bellicose open one bright eye to look at him with a question. Sirius scratched the beast behind an ear and simply nodded. Questing Beasts, creatures of the Lady herself, were smart things. While they did not speak common tongues, they had a way to understand each other and their riders. One low, rumbling squeak was all Sirius needed to understand what Bellicose was asking. He might not have Her Blessings anymore, but he could still understand his mounts.
"Watch her." He whispered softly to him. "If anything tries to harm her, kill it." Another rumble as an answer, and Bellicose closed its eye. Sirius strode into the bath, taking some water from a clean basin and washing his face, and the tiredness in it. The cold bit at him, but it was a welcomed sensation. He felt his throat clench as his heartbeat hammered into his ears, and he remained there, grasping the brass of the bath, teeth clenched, as his thundering, burrowed heart roared into his ears for a long minute. It was almost deafening to him, and he felt pumping through his blood the sheer anger and rage of a creature much mightier and greater than himself. He groaned, a sound that came out more as a growl than anything else. He had forgotten what a curse it had been. Her Gift had been such a balm for that fury, but now it fell to good-old willpower and discipline, two things he had never had in too ample supply, and that now were ground to a near-translucent state.
He raised his arm and opened his hand, before clenching it, projecting his will. From a corner of the room where it had been resting, still gore-stained, Arondight flew to his hand silently. He took the blade, examining the runes on its edge, muttering to himself their meaning and powers. The Light of Wrath, or Wrath of the Lake, as Bretonnians called the blade, hummed to him. It was still spent from using it to overload the Ley Lines of Avalon, but slowly, the Blade was healing and charging. It would need time.
'And since when is time a resource I have in ample supply? Or any supply, to be honest.' Thought Sirius sullenly. Time was a conniving bastard. But still, one had to make do. Divitas was not just generosity, but to use what one had to the best of one's abilities.
He chuckled, before examining the brass bacinet. It was small, but perhaps enough for this to work. With a prayer on his lips, he lifted Arondight and slowly submerged the blade. It should not have gone a few inches before it stuck the brass bottom, but the blade continued into the bacinet until Sirius only held the pommel and the handle over the now murky and bloodied water. He finished the prayer, kissing the pommel of his blade, and then drew the blade from the impossibly deep bacinet. Arondight came away clean, gleaming, and singing to his heart in an amused tune. And more importantly, in its scabbard.
Simple and yet robust, it was made of simple leather and silverite, with even more runes etched on its sides, and a beautifully crafted image of the Lady rising from the waters to handle the blade to its wielder. Her Image shone with almost inner light as Sirius fastened to his belt, and the Duke let out a sigh of relief at the familiar weight and gentle cold that spread from the weapon, like a soothing balm. Merlin had once told him the scabbards of such powerful weapons took many times on fractions of the power of the blades they held. It was both their suspicion that the scabbard of Arondight was, somehow, assisting in his healing every time he wore it.
He smiled, and armed and cleaned, left the room, knowing full well anything that got into that room with dark intentions would exit it in several, bloody pieces.
As he closed the door, he caught a surprising, but welcoming sight. Several of his men, with his blazon on their chest, were seated next to the door, eyes on the winding corridors of the Red Keep, talking in low tones with several Dayne Star Guard. The trained swordsmen of his mother's house sported proper northern armor, not the light clothing most Dornish soldiers and skirmishers wore, and their messers, two-handed, one-edged curved blades they were extremely proficient with. With the bright sword and star in silver over their purple tabards, they were more than a match for the Sunspear Royal Guard or any other battle formation from Westeros.
The Bretonnians were no run-of-the-mill Men-at-arms, but the elite of the low-born warriors under the Duke of Avalon, the black-armored Gendarmes. The Gendarmes were almost as well armored as their Dornish counterparts, sheathed in black brigandines with plated shoulders and arms, a contrast to the laminar banded mail and plate of the Star Guards, but lacked in such class of weapons as the messer, with an assortment of halberds for cavalry and beasts, while sporting thick maces and hand-axes on their belts to fight enemies of their equal size. Not as disciplined as Imperial State Troops, Bretonnian Men and Sergeant-at-arms compensated with ferocity, faith and the inspiration they drew from their Lords. A battalion of State Troops might have taken longer to rout and break, but with a knight at the lead, no Bretonnian Man-at-arms would flee till their lord was dead or they were ordered so. And his Gendarmes were roughneck veterans that cared little for honor, and only pursued the killing of the enemy and protecting their lord.
He had had another dispute with his wife on such a topic. His Lioness had insisted that Imperial officer training and discipline would greatly assist their infantry in battle, while Sirius had been much more supportive of spending more on equipment and using his knights to mentor and train the men. In the end, a mixture of both ideas, to his chagrin, had been employed.
On the floor between both groups of soldiers, Cavall lay on the ground, head scanning for any threat. The Bretonnian Wolfhound, a hunting breed used by knights all over the land, was a common sight in most of Fair Bretonnia. While the truffle hound was the preferred breed of the common peasant, nobles chose the wolfhound as their companion. And in war, they were quite effective things, to track, hunt and kill. More than once, Sirius had seen such a beast tear open the neck of an unsuspecting greenskin or a gor.
Cavalls head spun back to stare at his master's beloved, and quick as a shadow, moved to him. Sirius kneeled in front of the hound, scratching under the jaw as it licked his palms and rubbed its head on his legs. Almost all creatures that lived on the Menagerie had developed a bond with Sirius over the long years. Cavall was not his, but his wife's, yet the animal seemed more than happy to see him. He was certainly missing its mistress.
"I miss her too, my friend. I miss her too." He whispered to the hound, scratching behind the ear. He listened to the men speak then.
"Big bloody storm it must have been, then." Said the Captain of the Star Guard unit, leaning on his weapon. The men were all Stony Dornishmen, sporting brown and dark locks of hair and bright eyes. None of them purple, as none were Daynes themselves, but men raised through the ranks by skill and experience.
"You have no idea, my goodfellow." The Ordinant of the Gendarmes, a big man with a dark mullet and shaven hair who Sirius recognized as Morien of Tintagel, one of his own hard-forged veterans, sat on a chair, eyes on the corridor. "It looked as if we had fallen down into Mannans very arsehole. Beloved Lady, I lost count of how many times I had to puke."
"Least six, Ordinant." Piped up one of his men. "Only Guy puked that much, and he had his entrails on the wrong side."
"Poor Guy. Fucking northern whoresons." Grumbled the third Gendarme, tapping his halberd against the tiles on the floor three times in frustration.
"Happy the Lord sank the island with them on it. I hope they drowned slowly." The second man spit into the nearby window. The Star Guard eyed each other, before a woman in purple leather armor, one of the Starfall Outriders the Dayne liked to use as their eyes and ears, spoke up.
"Is it true then?" She asked, her dark eyes dancing from one Bretonnian to the next. "Did he sink the Island? I have heard tales from the docks, but…"
"Oh, you can be certain of it, m'lady." Morien growled, followed by an ugly smile. "We saw it sink, filled with carrion and chaos-worshipping cock-suckers."
"Chaos?" Asked the Captain of the Star Guard, messer dancing on his hands. Sirius could not place his name. A long line of curses and prayers for protection run down the lips of the Bretonnians at the mention of the Archenemy. Sirius found himself mouthing one as well.
"The fuckers that got loose on this pretty castle of yours?" The soldiers all nodded. "Chaos marauders. Raiders, rapists, and scum that worships demons and fuck goats for entertainment."
"Also heard they like to chew obsidian and piss vinegar." Piped back again the second Bretonnian infantryman. "And the women are as ugly as the men. With lots of hair too."
"So, like the lasses at Bear Island, eh?" Interjected another of the Dayne soldiers, earning amused snickers from his fellows and a glare from his commanding officer.
"You sure you are not half-norscan, Bert?" Said the third Bretonnian to the second by the window. "I know your pa, and so you must get it from your ma's side…!"
"You fucking asshole!" The second Gendarme punched his fellow in the shoulder, earning laughs from the rest of them, and some Dornishmen. "You are giving me bad fame with our new friends here! How am I going to get a lass from here now?!"
"Oh, do not worry." Said the Outrider smiling. "In Dorne, what we don't kill, we fuck. Sometimes both, so we are not judging!"
"Oh, jolly!" The third man quipped back again. "Looks like I can finally ask your sister out, chief, without worrying about being executed for bestiality here." Frowning, Morian got up, and rounded on his subordinate like a bear being disturbed from a wonderful meal.
"Are you calling my sister a bitch, you cock-limped, shits-for-brain, son of a whore-loving fisherman?" There was silence for a moment before the third man shrugged.
"Nah, just a cow." He stated. "She is thicker than me!"
Silence for another second, before Morian patted him on the shoulder, nodding sagely, and said.
"And that is saying something!" And all of them burst out laughing, as Morian hit the quipping man over the helm and turned to sit, shaking his head, only to find his Lord leaning on the doorframe, smiling at all of them.
"Not proper to insult a lady, even if she is not here." Sirius said, not hiding his smile. The reactions were mixed. From his Gendarmes, they all dropped to one knee, weapons held up. He groaned internally at that. Could people just stop kneeling to him? He understood it was a matter of etiquette and drilled instinct, but he still found it bothered him.
"My liege!" Morian said, bowing his head, as his men mirrored him. Sirius gestured for them to rise, as the Star Guard were a bit slower to react.
"Lord Dayne!" Said their leader, bowing his head. "Apologies, we-!"
"Disregard it, men." He waved his worries away. "I enjoy seeing good humor and jesting between such warriors."
"By your will, sire." Morian seemed much more at ease now, knowing he hadn't somehow provoked his lord's ire. While Sirius considered himself among the kindest nobles in Bretonnia, men who saw his wrath unleashed tended to hold a modicum of fear for it that he was not fond of. But he could not blame them for the fact. Everything thinks a hound is a cute pet, till that hound tears someone's throat out. Next time someone pets it, he might think twice. "We were instructed to inform the Lord Seneschal the moment you woke up, sire…"
"Give me ten minutes to ponder by myself, Ordinant." He gently cut him. "Then do warn the Seneschal."
"Sire." He bowed his head and moved aside to let him pass, calling to another of the men and whispering in his ears. Before Sirius could listen to what was being spoken, the Star Guard Captain stepped forth and bowing once more, he spoke in a tentative tone.
"I have orders from Lady Ashara to send a runner the moment you wake up, Lord Dayne." Sirius nodded slowly.
"Do so. But please, instruct the runner to tell my mother that her granddaughter would benefit from her attention more than me." He favored them with a guilty smile, burrowing the strange feeling of being called Lord Dayne. "Tell her I need to think for a moment." They slammed their fists over their chest, as the Outrider disappeared down a corridor.
"Morning comes, sire!" They spoke the words of their warrior brotherhood and returned to their vigil.
With that, and gesturing to Cavall to remain on watch, Sirius walked down a nearby door and began to stalk the corridors of the Reed Keep like a shadow. He needed to walk, to do something. Sitting in his room would drive him insane, but dealing with nobles was even worse. And so, he stared into the rising sun as the city began to adapt to an almost midday they had not believed would come. A small smile came to him when his banner fluttered from a nearby wall, the bright dragon in amber on a sable field. Kays work, most certainly. It would not have been proper for his banner to be missing from sight after such a victory. He leaned onto the balcony, undisturbed and untroubled. People were too tired and too busy now to wonder about a simply dressed man on a balcony looking over the city. Especially when the most characteristic parts of said man were turned to the horizon.
Plus, there was also the slight detail of the mass of nobles that would want to speak to him, lick his boots and were all certainly waiting below with his Uncle, most likely to ask and offer favors he did not have the mental strength to deal with right now. The time would come, of course, but now, he needed some desperate peace to think. Think of the future, the war beyond the horizon, and what he would need to win it.
"You were always one to hide from an overeager crowd."
Sirius turned towards the voice, and his heart stopped for a moment. It was not the same delay as when watching his wife come from the fury of an explosion in the middle of battle or seeing her appear from nowhere, lance in hand, or to see her slide into view with the moonlight on her back on a calm night in their bedroom.
It was closer than he felt comfortable admitting.
Standing upon the corridor, leaning on a wall, and wearing a dress that would have made a Druchii Witch Elf salivate, Sirius stared down at his childhood friend, and to his never-ending chagrin, crush...
And Arianne Nymeros Martell stared back.
While his wife's beauty had been heavenly, kind, and proud, the beauty of a living saint, Ari's splendor was fire and sand, fresh sunlight carved in the sea. Her eyes bore into his skull like eagle-claw bolts. She was… much more than he had ever remembered in the dark cells of Balon Geryjoy. And standing, right in front of him, it felt like a dream, all over again.
Arianne had been pudgy and flat-chested when she had been a child, and Sirius remembered her praying to the Seven nightly, hoping that she would be given beauty when she was older. While he was beyond reticent to give any gods any credit apart from Her, they had delivered in ample supply.
Now a woman in her, what Sirius could somewhat safely assume were her twenties, Arianne was much like the desert of Dorne, voluptuous, dark, made of sinuous dunes and beautiful in the morning light, with olive skin, large dark eyes and long, thick black hair that fell in ringlets to the middle of her back, like serpents of the Far East. She had full lips that seemed capable of only speaking in hushed whispers and soft words, and even in her unimpressive height, which Sirius towered over by almost half a meter, there was a shadow of power to her, an essence of fire to her eyes that revealed slivers of her indomitable spirit.
It was a different thing entirely to his Duchess. Both women had impressive beauty, and bodies to match, but while his wife's had been forged in battle and divine gifts, Ariannes was naturally alluring, like a secret temptation laid bare by a midday mirage upon the sands of Araby.
There was also the fact that his wife had always been uncomfortable out of armor, in her long dresses. Arianne seemed at home with the least amount of clothing possible. And he wasn't stupid enough to think she was wearing this particular dress by accident. It was both a lure and a challenge. How much had the shy boy she had known changed? Who was the man now in front of her?
He was so thankful he had asked Arthur for a little rundown on her before. Hadn't he, he would have been in ample disadvantage.
Arianne had always been calculating, adventurous, and fierce-tempered. When she saw something she desired, she had always strived to obtain it at all cost, never shying away from using her looks and body to get what she wanted, nor from seducing men to get them to do her bidding, more akin to her uncle Oberyn's ways than to her fathers. Arianne had always thirsted for adventurous romance, for the breaking of rules and shattering of the limitations around her, chafing at the lack of challenge.
Which was a brutal contrast to the ever-dutiful son of the most stubborn and hard man in Westeros. Their friendship had been a peculiar one, of extreme opposites. And yet here was his childhood friend, dressed in alluring robes, almost exposing herself to him, her eyes a mask of seductive shine. He wasn't sure if this had been planned by Uncle Doran in some strange maneuver, or if Arianne herself had prepared this little ambush.
So he did what came naturally to him. It was easy with Arianne, always had. Almost as much as with Art...
"There wasn't a dress in the whole of King's Landing that showed more skin, was there?" He raised an eyebrow. "Please, tell me at least you paid for surface area. It should have been a cheap affair then."
"You should see what Nym bought." Her mask did not waver, her lips rising into a small smile. "It would make me look like a Silent Sister."
"I find that… entirely on Nyms line," Sirius admitted. If there was a woman who relied on her looks to kill, that was Nymeria Sand. "You are angry because she got it before you did, aren't you?"
"Oh, you do remember me." She almost purred, which made Sirius in turn, almost frown. He was not used to this sensuality from her. Not at all. It made him feel foreign. "I was planning on sneaking into your room with it, see what reaction I could rip from you."
"A poor one." He said in a bored tone that elected a slight furrowing of her brow. "Seeing as I would have been sleeping beside my daughter," Sirius added with a dry tone. Arianne's face rippled for a moment with surprise that almost instantly permuted to a kind smile. If it was genuine or not, he could not tell, but what he could tell was that the message had gotten across.
'You may toy with me, play me like a fool, dance me around your fingers.'
'You. Do not. Play. With my daughter.'
"She is a beautiful little thing. So pure. So kind and smiling." Sirius was almost tempted to believe that had been earned and true, he wanted it to be true, for Ari to like his little girl. But years of being a completely useless waste of breath at politics had taught him to be cautious. "Tyene spoke with her."
The Duke felt his nervous tick return and his brow tremble in place.
"Oh, for fucks sake, already?" He massaged the bridge of his nose, exasperated. While Nymeria and Obara were easy dangers to spot, Tyene was not. "I need to tell Gaheris to watch out for young-looking septas getting too close to Igraine."
"It could have been worse. Could have been Nym." Sirius snorted at that.
"Nym hides too many daggers in her person for Gaheris not to notice." Although, it would have been fun to see fiery Nymeria try to work her many charms on his Lord Executioner. "And Obara… she is more likely to challenge him to a duel than anything else."
"Would she win?" That almost made him frown again. Arianne was not one to question her cousin's skill. But was she doing so? Or respecting that of newcomers she knew nothing about? It could have been both with her. It tended to be both sides of the coin with her, for better or worse.
"No." Sirius answered carefully. "Lord Executioner, it's not a court title earned by licking boots."
"And what about Dragon of the Mornigstar?" Now, did the glint on Arianne's eyes turn violent. He was almost glad. He had been waiting for it. He would have been shaken if she had not prepared her venom to her honey. "So you do have a bit of Targe…."
"Do. Not." The growl was more violent than he had expected, and he hadn't realized he had pushed himself from the balcony and was now standing in the shadows of the corridor. He had to be a wrathful sight, covered by the shadow the wall cast over him from the sunlight, eyes flaring amber. Arianne was not impressed, yet at least, and wore an almost triumphant smile. She had been searching for something to break his calm. She had found it. "Compare me with those sister-fucking monsters."
"Since when do you believe yourself capable of telling me what I can or cannot do, Lord Amaranth?" The look in her eyes and the challenge in her tone, almost condescending, strained his limited patience even more. He would have, under other circumstances, prepared a witty and calm retort, or ignored the comment. But without her Gift and his patience ground down to almost dust, the Dragon came out more than he wished, as his heartbeat roared on his ears, pumping him full of liquid anger.
"Since I can take all your former lovers into the ring and tear them apart without breaking a sweat." He growled, crossing his arms, now barely a few steps from her, towering like a castle over a beautiful oasis. He chose not to idle on the thought that he was crossing his arms for fear of what they might do in a fit of anger. "Oh, I heard about it. Is that what this is? Has Dorne been left barren of proper men to bed you, so you must come to me? Or perhaps they have all fleed not from your legs but from that sharp tongue of yours that never knows when to stop cutting."
It had been a long while since he had to worry about fits of anger. And what an anger it had been. Long before Ulthuan happened, long before…
She falling, Heartseeker moving, time slowing down, his jump, metal breaking, pain, blood. Dying. Dying. Her eyes. Blood. Sky. Fire. So much fire. Inside of him. He was burning.
And then he burned them all.
"Oh, by the Seven, as if you had ever bed anyone like me." She sneered at him with more grace than anyone should have been able to muster, and yet not lacking ferocity in the slightest, pulling him from the dark memory that had left his hands twitching. "Perhaps this is it, then! Do you feel lonely, mighty dragon? Missing the warmth of the sand of Dorne on my skin? Is jealousy, what is this? Wanting to be added to the list of lovers? Has all that fighting awakened the head between your legs?"
"Is your wife," There was so much disdain in that word. "such a cold b-"
His hand shot forward, slamming against the wall with enough force to make his fingers ache. Blood began to drip from opened knuckles, as a spider web of cracks was born from the hardened stone. He did not speak words, but a low, wrathful growl escaped him. Arianne should have felt lucky, the last man to insult his wife before his Rising to Her Ranks had ended with fewer limbs.
"Am I supposed to be intimidated by the mighty dragon?" She spat at him, eyes venomous. Wrath beget wrath in Arianne, one to never know when to step back. "Do you think you can threaten me and push me around with mere harsh words and threats? Is that it?"
Sirius felt his anger rear its head once more, thundering in his eardrums with a promise of satisfaction if he would just shove this pretty flower into the wall. Tear off that excuse for a dress and teach her what a real man could and would do to such a piece of-
Arondight pulsed with icy tones of warning, counteracting his heart long enough for steely willpower to reign his anger in. Hands shaking with fear and slight disgust, he searched for the origin of that voice, extending his senses. Where was the demon hidden? Where was that abomination that was tempting him so? Where-
'No demon. No demons but my own. The realization killed his anger. He pushed the bile from his throat and took a deep breath, reciting a prayer inside of his mind, forcing the Dragon in him to sleep, crushing his darker impulses to bare nothingness. Goddess, he had forgotten what it felt like to be tempted by one's heart, and what a particular heart this one was.
Arianne's scathing look did not help, nor did her sneer or the remembrance of her words. They only seemed to fan the embers of anger, wrath, lust, and desire for dominance on his chest. But the more he looked into those dark eyes, the less and less her barbs mattered. He took a deep sigh, massaging the bridge of his nose.
"Why Ari?" He said in a tired tone, heartbeat wild. "Why are we playing this stupid little game? Have I ever proved dishonest? If you want to know something, bloody well ask me, and let's stop this dancing around."
"I don't know you." She bit back, eyes a firestorm of contempt. It did hurt him a little to see that look seem so natural to her.
"Yes, you do." He attempted.
"No, I knew the boy that used to follow me around and swear to me in half a voice that he would protect me." She thundered forward, not letting the height difference dissuade her. Her eyes promised a reckoning Sirius found he did not want to endure. And her words were cutting deep. "I remember the kind child. The sweet tooth that loved books and fireplaces even in summer. And here, in front of me, I see nothing of that boy. I see a fanatic warlord, roaring for some foreign goddess-wen..."
"Careful Ari." His eyes began to stilt down the middle as righteous fury lit up in his breast, hands clenched into fists, and that seemed to rob her of some of her fire. It made Sirius hurt, to see the flicker of fear in her eyes. Why, Goddess, couldn't things be easier? Be simpler? "I will allow you much for the love I held you. But there is a limit."
"So many threats…" She spat at him.
"It was not a threat. It was a warning." Aggression bled from Sirius's voice. "And a beg, from an old friend who thought mattered enough to your heart, for you to stop stabbing his."
She eyed him, truly looking at him perhaps for the first time since the conversation had started. Whatever she saw, she did not like. It made him turn his gaze aside. She was searching for what he had been. What innocence, purity, and childish wonder he had held. That had all died a long time ago for him, too long to mourn it, too long to almost remember what they felt like beyond when he saw into the eyes of his daughter.
"Years ago, you wouldn't even have had the courage to tell me to shut up, much less threaten me. That boy-" Her eyes glared and hated now in a way Sirius found caused him an old anguish.
"Died." His tone was almost a whisper, but it was iron and steel, as he forced his eyes back to her, to look into those dark gems she had and force the words to come out. "Twice. Once, in a barrel full of crabs that ate him alive as seawater filled his lungs. The second, with a spear to the side of his heart, protecting the woman he loved."
That stopped her dead in her tracks. Whatever verbal lashing, whatever punishing tirade she had prepared for this, was gone into ash and regret in her mouth. Her confidence began to crack and her anger to cool, or at least, redirect somewhere else. She took a small step back to regard him whole. Her smile did not reach her eyes in the slightest.
"This has to be the first time a man leaves completely speechless." That made him chuckle. He could work with humor. The old Aris humor. It was not what he wanted, for her to hide behind jokes and Dornish humor, but he could work with that.
"I feel honored to bear such a distinction." He made a mock bow, trying to excoriate the look of almost pure hatred she had sported barely seconds ago. He winked at her. "And I still have my pants on." She let a very unladylike snort escape her.
"You are such an arse." She said, her voice reaching a higher pitch, that Sirius somehow understood what it meant. He took a deep sigh, letting his simmering anger fade. It had always been hard to control his anger, except to fade it into love. That, had always been an easy thing. He gifted her with a half-smile, before taking a step backward and opening his arms.
"I have missed you too, Ari." He said. That broke her little mask.
She slammed into him and Sirius barely managed to keep himself upright, arms gently holding her. Arianne Martell hugged her childhood friend, the loss of his innocence, and let herself cry for a bit, letting all those years of sadness and anger leave her as Sirius gently held her in arms that seemed to shield her so easily now, and seemed to keep the whole world away. For more than a minute, he held her tightly and let his own fears of the last days escape him. He did not cry. Not now, not here. He had to earn that yet. There were so many tears to be shed, that he would have to wait.
"You die on me like that one more time, I will throw you inside a pit full of vipers, you hear me?" She barked at him in a muffled voice as she leaned on his chest. He laughed at the comment, gently pulling her away to look her in the eyes. Those dark gems regarded him with uncertainty, but also that old love that small children found in each other when they saw a kindred soul. Or a complete opposite that made them shine brighter.
"Loud and clear, Princess Martell." He chuckled.
"You disappear again, I will throw you into that viper pit, understood?" She hit him in the chest once, then twice, and again, tears on her cheeks.
"Yes, Lady Martell." He acquiesced once more.
"If you tell anyone I cried…" She threatened, pointing at his face.
"Viper pit?" He guessed, grinning even more. Her scornful face melted in a smile. Not a smiling mask, but a real smile. Goddess, he had missed that smile so much and hadn't even known it.
"I was going to say castration with a blunt spoon..." She managed to not sound as choked up as she seemed, and Sirius could not help but to snort at her words.
"It's so good to have you back, Sirius." She said softly now, her hand on his chest, her eyes reflecting the smile both of them had. He gently took her hand in his and kissed it. He was almost shocked an illusion didn't shatter and reveal this was all a dream.
"It is good to be back, Ari." He spoke back, smiling, before eying her up and down once more. "But in all due seriousness, that dress is absolutely too much." Arianne's smile returned to the self-assured, almost seductive look she always sported, but now her eyes shone in a very different and quite more honest light.
"I thought you said it was too little." She spun to let him see it all in its glory. She had her back exposed and the word cleavage felt insufficient to use. Thighs were let to be examined and the minimum amount of cloth had been used to hide both her bottom and the area between her legs. Goddess, if any proper Bretonnian Lady had been caught wearing such a thing, it would have sparked a war. For what, Sirius was not sure, but it would have…
'Art would look good on that one…' He mused to himself, picturing his wife in it. He was glad he was wearing riding pants.
"Both, as a matter of fact." He shook his head. "I don't think you should be listening to Nym in matters of fashion."
"Who tells you she is not listening to me?" She asked him, in an almost challenging tone.
"Touché." Admitting the defeat, the Duke bowed his head in mock surrender. A moment of silence followed that was equal parts strange and perfect. Finally, Ari broke it, when she stepped beside Sirius. Without thinking, he offered her his arm, and she took it.
"I have a lot of questions for you." She said, leaning into him. Now that he was much bigger, Sirius had the horrible precognition Ari was going to exploit it.
"I imagined as much." He mused out loud. "Would you terribly mind waiting until everyone is around so I don't have to tell the tale twice? It is a long one, after all." And that was one bloody Waste of an understatement.
"I do not think you want to answer the questions I will ask in front of the noble crowd." There was a sly glint in her eyes that made Sirius chuckle.
"I'll have Bellicose around. I'll be happy to see any of them make comments improper of their stations." He massaged his mustache. "Or too proper for said stations."
"Threatening nobility with your mighty beast?" She raised an eyebrow, spinning around him to take the other arm. "You have changed. And for now, I cannot complain."
"Well, I do have a few extra stones to me." He mused. "And a foot or two in height." He kept walking, wondering what to do now. He wanted to go to the docks, but that would not be an option with all those nobles wanting a piece of him. Figurative, of course… although he would not be surprised if they also wanted it literally. It had been known to happen before. Would the bite marks still be visible? That would be quite the thing to explain.
Whatever ruminations he had been deep in were cut when he felt lips on his cheek, dangerously close to his own. He blinked and looked at Ari, who simply smiled back and hugged his arm tighter, leaning into him. She smelled of ripe blood oranges and spice.
He still liked that smell.
Their eyes met, and Arianne only grinned.
"Welcome back, Cy."
For the first time, he was happy to be back.
Which only made him the strange well of guilt in his stomach hurt even more. He missed his wife. He missed his people. And yet, with Ari beside him, it hurt just a bit less… and infinitely more.
{DRAGON OF STARFALL}
The runner had finally found him, and indicated that there was a celebration ongoing on what was left of the gardens of the castle. Sirius had been tempted to just ignore the invitation the man had brought, courtesy of his uncle. Arianne had, of course, detected his discomfort, and in her fashion, graciously thanked the young runner, showing a bit more skin than even Sirius thought was decent, coloring the poor lad red, and informed him they would be there shortly.
Ari had to guide him to the gardens. He had completely forgotten the path to the upper levels. Down the decorated halls and corridors, they dogged groups of nobles and courtiers, smiling and laughing at the almost childish effort to not be interrupted. Ari kept her promise, not asking about his life in general, but edging him with fine, private details.
"I do not believe you!" She said, laughing, covering her mouth with a finely manicured hand. Sirius gave her a half-grin.
"Oh, trust me, I wish I was lying." They descended another flight of stairs in a hurry, dogging a group of jolly Valemen. "You don't know how sore I was the day after."
"Sixteen hours. None stop." She shook her head, amused. "If I tell this to Uncle Oberyn, he will feel challenged."
"I know, which is why I beg you to wait until I can hide behind my father."
Another corner disgorged them to a small higher garden that overviewed the Upper Gardens of the Red Keep. Sirius cursed under his breath. Among the well-trimmed hedges and trees in flower, thousands of nobles mingled, drank and laughed, some already deep into their cups. He could barely recognize a dozen banners. And most of them were of his own Bretonnians. Knights sworn to him roamed in small groups, confused and perhaps a bit offended at the celebration around them. They had lost their homes barely days ago, after all. To the more traditionalists among them, this could become a matter of honor. Thankfully, many had chosen to mingle and were sharing stories, laughing and drinking with the Westerosi lords. And they were not alone.
His Uncle, in a strange moment of wisdom, or under good counsel from the Hand, Sir Kay, or both perhaps, had invited both the dwarves and the Asur. The former were enjoying themselves. Plenty of good food, some passable drink, and a dozen good tales to wonder were all that the Dawi needed to spend the time. Plus, the Dawi were probably seen as a novelty and a shock. Dwarves were not a common sight in Westeros, mostly in circuses and spectacles of a quite denigrating quality. He was surprised a fight had not started already over some drunk Westerlander making a very unkind comparison between a Dawi and a dwarf. Then again, one glance was enough to dispel any doubts of the difference. Those afflicted with dwarfism sported deformed, unnatural bodies stunted and shrunken by the sickness in them. The Dawi were physically perfect, hardy and muscular, all sporting powerful beards and probably drinking any noble under the table with ease.
And they were mostly seated around Bretonnians, and if his memory was correct, mostly Northerner houses. It made sense after all, if someone understood honor like the Dawi did, it would be many of the houses sworn to Winterfell. Without their imperial allies to support them and with whom they were much more comfortable, the Dawi were on the back foot. It was well known that while both Bretonnia and the Empire dealt with the Dwarves and the High Elves, the Asur much preferred the Bretonni people than the Empire, while the Dawi found a kindred spirit in the people of Sigmar.
The Asur were another matter entirely.
Most of them were seated at a table together. The Sons of Asuryan were taller than the common man and sported haunting beauty and proportions that made them easily distinguishable from humans. They were the object of stares and whispers that he could guess were not amusing them in the slightest. How anyone had managed to convince them to assist in this celebration was beyond Sirius, but what was even more surprising was the fact there was a woman, perhaps a bit older than Arthur or Gal, talking with Eldyra. And the Asur Princess looked far from completely bored, so whoever it was, was managing to engage her and a few of her officers in an active conversation. He made a note to speak with that woman later. She needed to know the small miracle she had performed.
Apart from her, his most senior knights were deep in conversation with the Children of Asuryan, which was not surprising. Most of them would have served alongside the Asur in one or two battlefields. Especially if they were from Caledor. The travel lines between the Eastern shores of Ulthuan and the Bretonnian Port Cities were common, encouraged and protected by both sides. Many times Bretonnian Corsairs and Asur Eagleships had hunted the tides sail to sail. Their alliance was important enough for the Royarch to send as an ambassador to Lothern his only son.
He eyed the party with a critical eye, noting certain conversations, his eyes, gifted by Her, aiding plenty. Vortiger was easy to spot, still clad in armor, although polished and clean. He stood almost in the middle of the celebration, uncaring of the queer looks his fully armored figure received. And he was in what seemed like a long conversation with Ser Barristan Selmy, who seemed to be enjoying himself as well.
Another small surprise was the duo that was seated to the side. Apprehension gave way to relief when he spotted his daughter, smiling as she held an excited conversation with Shireen, who far from being apprehensive or mistrustful, seemed to be enjoying the moment. Another glance revealed they were in fact not alone.
"Who are those?" He asked Ari. She followed his gaze, and a smile blossomed on her lips.
"The small girl with dark hair, that little she-wolf, is Arya Stark." Sirius watched the young northerner with a curious look. Uncle Ned's girl, eh? That thought made him smile. He knew he had little right to call him Uncle Ned, but Sirius had been lucky enough to meet the Warden of the North many times when his father had been traveling. While his mother had been somewhat reticent, the silent man had taken an extreme liking to the then-young boy.
With age and wisdom at his back, Sirius could not help but feel his respect for the man grow. He had been the son of the woman he had loved, married to a man for convenience and duty. He would have had every right to hate him or at least be indifferent to him. But not Eddard Stark. He had done the honorable and kind thing. And that was worth respect and love.
"And the other children?" He questioned. Ari looked at him with a coy smile that made Sirius arch his brow.
"Those three… well you know one of them." He frowned, eyes dancing back to them. It took him half a minute to recognize some lines on their face, some edges to them. The oldest…
"Is that… Obella?" He breathed. The then youngest daughter of his Uncle Oberyn had grown into a young fine lady. He let out a breath at the realization of how much time had really passed. Nine years gives time for a lot. "Beloved Lady…"
"And those two, are Dorea and Loreza Sand." She added, leaning slightly into him, her eyes glued to the shine on Sirius's face. "Uncle Oberyn's youngest."
"I see." He whispered. "How many daughters are there already?"
"Eight. All like their father in different ways. They seem to like your daughter plenty." A cheeky smile blossomed on her face. "Then again she is not hard to like, by what Tyene told me. She is kind, pure and gentle to the extreme. And lacks no backbone, I tell you that much. You must be proud of her."
"It's hard to imagine it. When we are children, we can scarcely understand how our parents fell for us, until you are a father yourself." He leaned over the balcony, thinking of his children and feeling a small pit of dread open in his chest. Goddess, what new threats would they face now? "It's a special thing, truly."
"Come, let's go face the hungering masses." She grabbed him by the arm and began to descend, only to find he was not moving. She turned, only to find him with an apologetic smile.
"In a moment." He acquiesced, seeing the rebuke forming in her eyes. "I need… I need a second, Ari." She examined him up and down for a moment, before slowly letting go.
"Do not dare flee this social interaction, Cy." She half-threatened "I will send Obara to hunt you down." He snickered as she flashed him a smile, and she was gone. She did not reach the end of the stairs without glancing back at him in sudden doubt, but his playful smile reassured her enough for the Princess of Dorne to continue towards her family.
And then he was alone among the shadows of midday on the lonely balcony.
"How long did you keep an arrow aimed at her neck?" The Duke asked the shadows around him on the balcony.
"Who says I ever stopped aiming?" The shadows answered back, as the figure of a woman parted from her hiding place. Gilrin tracked Arianne as she left for the party. "She seems… bearable."
"Keep an eye on her, Gilrin." He said, having to make an effort to utter the words and let duty and reason reign over simple feeling. "A close eye."
"Why? Don't you trust her?" Only now did she regard him with her eyes of obsidian, glinting between curious and amused. The amusement of a Shadow Warrior was seldom what mortal races expected, or wished for. "You seem close."
"We were. And I don't." He said softly before swallowing the bile on his throat, and the pride on his heart. "It's not her alone. I do not trust Arianne, not fully. I knew her too well to think a simple conversation could mend the rift between us. She is too much like her Uncle. But it's also me I do not trust. Since I arrived here… Ari has been part of a past I miss and abhor in an equal manner. I cannot trust my judgment with her."
"I shall be your eyes and ears, Sarathai." She told him with uncharacteristic softness. For a second, she seemed to pause. "But my arrows, as much as they can slay, cannot quiet your self-doubt."
That made him snicker despite himself. She would try if she could. He knew that much.
"This is when you chastise me for my weakness?"
"It was the plan, yes." She admitted, eying him with a side glance as if examining a festering wound. "I have known you for a long time, Sarathai. I trust your judgment. Without any strings attached. If you say jump, I ask not the reason, simply the height. You wish me to bring you a head, I simply ask the way you want it done."
He did not interrupt her. It was strange for her to be so forthcoming, so revealing of the realm length of her loyalty and friendship. He waited silently.
"Hesitation has never been in your Song. You dance Loec's tune with skill and ferocity that I appreciate. Had you been of Nagarythe, I am certain you would have been in my father's graces. And perhaps my consort." That made him raise and eyebrow in slight surprise. It was high praise… And she was also pulling on some of that practical nagarythe dark humor. "I know few who can kill Druchii like you can."
"And yet now… You look lesser. Weaker. Daunted." The Duke almost blanched at that. Was it so obvious? "It's not a light that suits you, Sarathai."
He hesitated. He should not have. Gilrin was not the judgmental sort, or at least, her judgment had always seemed to carry far more wisdom in it than most. He should not have any qualms about showing her his weakness. He had seen her at her worst, at a moment she would have welcomed death in a heartbeat. She almost had, and it had been his hands that had dragged her from the edge of it all.
And yet, to show this moment of weakness to her, it hurt. From a man whose priority had always been to the shield of those he cherished, to admit he could do so no more, not again against what might come for them now, hurt more than any wounds, than any pain.
"I lost her Blessing, Gilrin." The words escaped him unbidden. Whenever it was his own volition or simply the deep links of friendship he held with the elf, it mattered not. He had admitted the truth, and he could see the slight widening of her pupils at the admittance of the truth. "I… I was a Living Saint. One of Her Knights. I made my way to the top, to the very best. All I sacrificed, all I suffered and lost… All my choices, victories, and failures… How much of that was the fallible human side of me, and how much was her Gift and her Might?"
It hurt to say it all. To admit doubts he had been able to ignore, burdens that had not weighed nearly as many, and fears that had been a mere afterthought with Her blessing on his veins.
"Without Her hand on my shoulder, Her light behind my eyes to light the way, I feel lost. Less." He clenched his hand until it hurt, and then slammed his fist into the stone. Not so long ago, that would have been enough to shatter the stone balcony. Now, it was barely enough to make his knuckles bleed. "I feel… Not enough. Not for what is coming. Without Her Gift, I cannot do what is asked of me. I cannot lead them. I cannot unite them. I can barely keep myself up right now. Before, matters like thirst and tiredness were no concern. My wounds were simple things and any foe could be matched and felled."
"Now?" He eyed her with a fear he was ashamed of, that felt so alien to a man who had been so used to not feeling fear that it wounded an intrinsic part of him. "I cannot do this, Gilrin. I can try with all my might, but it is the might of a mortal man, and that will not be enough. I won't be enough. "
"So, you lost your goddess's blessing. What of it? You will simply earn it again. Its-"
"It has never happened." His voice was barely a whisper at the admission, and his eyes widened at the sudden, deep realization of what shame he brought to Her Ranks. "Never before in history has a Grail Knight lost Her Gift. Ever. They live and die as one of Her Knights. There is no point in between. Incorruptible, unbreakable, unwavering. I am the first Bretonnian to lose her Gift. Every choice I make now… I cannot help but wonder, would I pick differently with her Gift in my veins? Would that different choice be right or wrong?"
"I am shamed, Gilrin. Shamed and lost." He poured his heart out, and its fears and horrors. "I can be corrupted, I can be tempted once more. I can fail, I can fall to my darkest side, something I thought was expunged from me, and I have recently only found out it was sleeping in those wretched crevices of my soul until it had the opportunity to arise once more. And it is here."
"So?" Sirius blinked at the point-blank hostility in her tone, turning to look at her, anger lighting up like embers in his chest.
"I am not in the mood to endure the mock heartlessness you like to play, Daughter of Shadows." He bit back the anger. "I ask you for counsel and understanding. If you wish to mock me-"
She stepped into his face, scowling at him, her hand shoving him back.
"You lost. You lost a lot more than most men get in their life, than most dream of getting even. So what? You wish for pity? You wish me to hold your hand? To coddle your wounded pride?" Her sneer was bad, the contempt in her eyes was worse. "Is that what the Dragon of Bretonnia would want?"
Sirius slammed his hand on the balustrade, and the rock trembled. As lost as his Gift was, he still had strength enough because of the heart on his chest to make stone shudder. The elf did not react in the slightest.
"I am the Dragon of Bretonnia!" He growled at her. But even his own words tasted of ash and lies, and his anger felt more directed inwards than outwards.
"No. You are a whining man. A man that forgets who he was. Who is so afraid of not being enough, so worried about worthiness." She regarded him with a pitiless look, contempt on her words. He almost shrunk, but doing so would only send her to darker currents, so he stood his ground. "My friend, who dared shadows and ice to come to assist me, had no gift, no blessing. And yet the Druuchi already cursed his name. My friend was not afraid like you are. You lose your goddess's blessing, and you are terrified, terrified because of how much you relied on that power. My friend did not need, not care about power. He was not afraid."
"I am not that man anymore." He murmured, eying the horizon and the calm waters. "Not without her guidance and her might to pull me when mortal frailty and my own many defects fail me."
"Fuck you are not." She growled, and Sirius eyed her in shock for a moment at the basic human impropriety. "You are just afraid of not being so. You are afraid that that gift made you who you are."
"And right now you are proving it so, acting like a terrified child in the dark because the light has gone out. The Sarathai I knew would have smiled at the darkness and fought it off, blade and claw." Her eyes glinted with murder contained. "Who are you now, Bretonnian?"
"I… I am not certain." It wasn't just the Blessing, and they both knew it. It was all of… this. Westeros had sparked a hundred memories most children forgot, fresh in his mind. Of a past long gone and taken from him, or a contrast so deep it hurt to reconcile. Who was he?
Sirius Baratheon, the gentle boy, nephew to a king?
Sirius Dragonhearted, the Amar-Aranth, Amaranth to the Empire and foreign countries, Duke-Consort of Avalon?
Was the man that had drunk from the Grail the same boy that had died by the beaches of Pyke? Was that the same man that he was now? What had changed? What had been the same?
He did not know.
"Look at them." Her tone became softer than before as if realizing finally just how many, how deep were his troubles, and how profound the shaking of his foundations. "Do you see how they look at you, your warriors? How even my vaunted kin from Ulthuan regard you? They do not see the failure you think yourself to be, Sarathai. They see the champion of Order. The Indomitable Dragon."
He looked at the assembled people and remembered how they had looked at him on the dock. How they had looked at him when he had fought at Praag, at Lothern, at Vaul's Anvil, at Karak Karn and Azul.
"They see what they wish to see." He muttered, feeling unworthy, afraid, of what he saw in their eyes. Of a devotion, he could not measure up to.
"So, just like you do, then?" She arched a fine eyebrow at his hypocrisy. "What would your Lioness say if she saw you moping around?"
A thin smile parted the Duke's face at the thought of her face, her eyes, her smile.
"She would trash me in the Bleeding Sands, before helping me up and telling me…" He let out a rumbling chuckle. "Telling me more or less, with a few levels of additional tact, what you just told me."
He took a deep breath, hands clenching in apprehension and shame. Goddess, he felt like such a bloody fool. A scared, confused, bloody fool.
"I apologize, Gilrin. It was not knightly of me."
"No. It was simply… human." She shrugged, leaning on the balcony, eyes to the horizon. "Your kind does not grieve as mine does. You blame yourselves and wish to carry all that weight upon your back. Mine blames it on a foe and swear their annihilation, I will admit, forgetting what part we played in our own downfall."
"But my words stand." Sirius blinked when he felt her hand on his shoulder. The shadow-walker had never been a physical person, so the gesture touched him deeply, for it was the greatest demonstration of affection she had ever shown, and among the Nagarythians, who disdained affection so powerfully, it was a deep gesture. "You didn't need your Goddess's light to do all you did, Sarathai. That light was simply a reward for you to do even more. I know your doubts won't disappear simply by my little speech. That is a battle for you to wage, day after day, moon after moon. But every time you hesitate, and doubt yourself, look into the faces of those that follow you. And there you will see what faith you lack in yourself, reflected in our own."
"Our?" Sirius asked, the edges of his mouth quivering upwards.
"The winds morph words, Sarathai." Answered the elf, gesturing it away with her gloved hand, before looking at him, and smiling. Sirius shared the smile, the moment, the humbling faith, and the reassurance. His confidence would not last long, but still, it was good to feel that trust in his person. "I am your Shadow, Sirius."
And with that, the woman stepped back into the shadows and the unsettling quasi-invisibility of one trained in the Shadowed Ways. Sirius nodded to himself.
"I know, old friend. And I thank you for it." He whispered, knowing she would hear. He turned to the masses below and eyed his hand. It still trembled so badly, and his chest felt such a pressure on it… He should have expected it, of course. Her Blessing had helped plenty to manage the unnatural wrath on his breast, but now he felt like a knight without panoply nor steed. He took a deep breath, attempting to satiate the battle lust that was born of his anger now. Leaving would have been easy, to go find something to batter with a blade for a few hours.
But he had to go down there. And more importantly, a part of him wanted to go down there. He had family he had long thought lost, and friends he liked to make again. So, rolling his shoulders back to stand a bit straighter, he descended. to his colliding pasts and uncertain futures.