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A Song of Wolf and Dragon

“The Northern party approaches, milord.”

Noctis nodded absently, keeping a light but steady hold on his stallion’s reins. The Caelum Prince was flanked to his right and left by four of the seven members of the King’s elite guard. The illustrious knights sat statuesque on their mounts, but their expressions were ones of middling curiosity. The Prince edged his steed forward, stopping a head in front of the others. A lark warbled in the distance, and the stallion’s ears flicked once towards it, but its gaze remained fixed on the horizon.

A procession of horses made for a sound like no other. Flashing hooves pounded the earth in a collected gallop, while their riders rode tall in the saddle, gleaming in the scarlet and white colours of Winterfell, having shed the thick fur-lined overcloaks that were customary attire for hard riding up in the North. Bannermen raised their standards, flags flapping above their heads emblazoned with the insignia of the wolf, its fangs bared in a silent snarl against the backdrop of white snowfields.

A small group had ridden out to greet the Northern party. As the Prince of Dragonstone, Noctis waited at the city gates to receive them on behalf of the King, who had taken ill.

Wolves were a rare sight this far south. But there was one wolf in particular that captured the Prince’s attention. He couldn’t help the slow smile that spread across his face. She wore a crimson hooded cloak, and rode astride a white destrier at the head of the vanguard. King Regis himself had acknowledged the girl’s horsemanship as amongst the finest in Eos – ‘half a centaur’, were his exact words. The Lord Paramount of the North had laughed. “I beg to differ, my Liege. That girl”, Noctis could hear the pride in his voice. “Is all wolf”.

How many moons had passed since he had last seen her? He had been a capricious youth then, a boy on the verge of manhood. She had been a wiry wisp of a girl, all limbs and sinews, thin as a knife, and bearing more resemblance to a streetwise urchin than the young lady accompanying her Lord father to the crown city on royal affairs.

The great Andalusian warhorse shifted a little under him, snorting softly and stamping a hoof, shaking out its thick mane with a ripple of the compact muscles beneath its glossy black coat. The Prince soothed his steed with a gentle hand. “You remember her too, don’t you?”

She was the first girl to share his saddle, when her mare had taken a bad step during a hunt. Everyone had heard the crack and seen the girl leap off her mount in an instant, leaning her shoulder against the horse’s to take the weight off its injured leg. She had cried into his shoulder when the break had been deemed too severe to heal and the mare had to be put down.

He couldn’t keep her; she belonged to the North. When she came to bid him goodbye he had locked himself in his room and refused to come out. In the end, it was the crown prince’s confidante who had to relay her parting words – ‘look after him, Ignis...he is lonely and willful’.

Many seasons had come and gone. The summer they had spent together was now but a footprint in the ever-shifting sands of time. And the straggly wolf-pup he had befriended as a boy was now a fully-grown adult, still a little human-shy according to the talk that made its way to King’s Landing, but every bit the leader of her pack that she was groomed to be. At seventeen she commanded her own army, winning the respect of the Farron’s bannermen through valour on the field. The She-wolf, they called her; as cold as the winds that blew across the frozen lakes of the Bresha mountains, as fierce as the wild wolves that called the gorge home.

But now she was the epitome of grace and decorum, swinging from the saddle in a smooth dismount, and bending the knee to him and the Iron Throne.

“Rise.” At his command she regained her feet, handing off the reins to a retainer before hastening to her father’s side to assist the elder Lord of Winterfell from his horse. A servant-boy rushed up with a footstool, nearly tripping over his feet in his hurry. Noctis strode forward, dismissing the protests of the courtiers and taking the footstool from the petrified boy’s hands.

A hushed silence had befallen the crowd. Surely this was against propriety? But the Dragon Prince did not seem to mind, too focused on trying – in vain – to catch his lady’s eye. His disappointment did not go unnoticed by the Warden of the North.

“Silly girl, weren’t you the one who insisted on coming to see him?” He chastised his daughter. “Why, he’s standing right in front of you and you won’t even look at him!”

The woman scowled, turning to the Prince with a formal bow, pressing her palm to her chest. “The North pays its respects to His Royal Highness, the Prince of Dragonstone, the Black Prince, the Prophesized One, the Prince of Darkness and Light...”

Noctis cringed, making a mental note to have a word with the royal herald about not inventing anymore ridiculous titles. “Call me Noct.”

A raise of her head, and then her gaze flicked up to meet his, her thin lips betraying just the hint of a smile. “Prince Noctis. So we meet again.”

“Call you Noct? Sure, if you want her incurring public censure for disrespect and contempt against the crown.” Ignis ranted in his ear. “That’s the last thing that girl needs right now.”

“Why do you suppose Lord Farron was so against her accompanying him to the Crownlands? The man is old, not senile. For years he’s managed to keep secret the fact that his daughter is a military genius. It was only when the Iron Islands rose in revolt, led by the Viper Lindzei, that he was forced to call his banners and cede her command of the army. Even now the rumours spread like wildfire– about how that She-wolf is destined to be ‘Queen in the North’; to liberate them from the ‘tyranny of the Dragon dynasty’. Some say that the Seeress Yeul had predicted it herself.”

“Honestly, Your Highness, have you been sleeping through the small council meetings again?”

“I was aware of the unrest in the North.” Noctis stated simply. King Regis had promptly issued an order to the Lord of Winterfell, commanding him to quash the uprising by any means necessary. The insurgent queen had flatly refused all terms of surrender, and led her men in a pillaging tear northwards through the Riverlands. But her folly lay in mistaking her opponent for an untried runt.

The young Farron’s response was swift, gathering a contingent of horsemen and light-armed foot-soldiers, covering the hundred leagues between Winterfell and the North-western coast within six days, and coming upon the rebel army on the morning of the seventh.

“And of the battle?” Ignis prompted.

“A crushing victory.” Noctis pronounced, raising an eyebrow as if daring his advisor to disagree. 

Ignis pressed his lips together, but on seeing that the Prince had nothing further to add, he parted them again, furbishing the details.

“According to accounts of the battle, the two armies met at Orphan’s Cradle, a glade at the edge of the Wolfwoods, fifty miles inland from the horn of Nautilus, where the Ironborn had moored their ships. Believing the Northerners to be exhausted from their forced march, the insurgents were caught unprepared by the swiftness of the assault, hastily forming up lines of battle. Both sides fought valiantly, but the Ironborn, while disorganised, were greater in number. The fighting was fiercest in the centre, with Farron herself holding the line with her bannermen, though she allowed their ranks to be pushed back. Catching scent of victory, the enemy pressed their advantage, surging forward into a death-trap. Right on cue the Northern riders, who till this point had kept hidden in the fringes of the woods, swept in on their chargers to swarm the enemy flanks. Besieged on all sides with no means of retreat to their ships, the rebels were cut to pieces and their leader taken captive.”

“I know of all this.” The Prince shrugged his shoulders. “What’s your point?”

“My point is...the ‘Battle of the Wolfwoods’ may have won the She-wolf her name and repute, but that wasn’t all to her cunning. She wasted no time in commandeering the gallies, and setting a course for Pyke, where the Iron fleet was welcomed like a Trojan gift. The Ironborn stronghold was stormed without resistance, and it is said that Farron herself was the first to breach the great stonekeep.”

“And there she sat on the Seastone Chair, one knee draped over the other, the greatsword ‘Ice’ rested across her lap, looking as imperious as Sondheim the Conqueror reborn.”

“The subjugated vassals had been prepared to tender the young son of the Viper Queen to Winterfell in exchange for her safe return, but the She-wolf was unmoved. ‘Keep the boy’, she demurred. ‘I’ll take your fleet instead.’”

“She then had a prisoner hauled up before the court – a Northman, shackled in irons at the wrists and ankles, and trembling in his boots. With the point of her sword at his throat, she forced the man’s head up to meet her eyes. The Valyrian steel blade was raised, and then it fell, along with a rain of blood. ‘This man broke his oath of allegiance by deserting during the battle.’ She explained to the Iron Lords, for whom the message was intended.”

Ignis shot a glance the Prince. “I trust you know of this as well?”

Noctis frowned at the older man. “I do.” He also knew of the stir it had caused amongst the Lords at court. ‘The arrogance of the girl! Soon we will have a wolf at our gates!’ It was whispered. In the end, the Lord Paramount of the North had sought to appease his fellow stewards by personally bringing the girl to King’s Landing to bend the knee.

“Why is everyone acting like she launched a rebellion instead of putting down one? The only ‘crime’ she’s guilty of is a bit of skilled military manoeuvring and restoring order to the realm.”

Besides, the Farrons were an honourable House. Stalwart guardians of the Northlands and the Wall, they had been loyal to the crown family for centuries.

Ignis’ eyes were hard as stone. “Even the finest sword is naught but a weapon; it’s hard to see its beauty when it is stained with blood. Of course, it can’t help to have the constant murmurs of ‘The Prophesy’ to fan those flames.”

Noctis waved a hand dismissively. “You shouldn’t believe the rumours, Ig. You don’t know her like I do.”

“Know her?” Ignis scoffed. “You met her once when she was a mere pup. Turn a deaf ear to the rumours if you like, but you would be wrong to mistake that She-wolf for a lap dog.”

“She is a beauty though, your little wolf girl.” The new voice came from Gladiolus Amicita, or ‘The Shield’ as he was known, after his noble family’s coat of arms. “And a feisty one, if those Northmen aren’t embellishing the battle prowess of their warrior-princess too much. Curious how a slight thing like that can raise such hell with a sword. Word among the Kingsguard is that King Regis will be naming her to their ranks once the Tourney is over.”

“That’ll quash the rumour mill alright, since the Knights of the Guard are sworn to forsake family and birthright, and are oathed to safeguard the King on pain of death.”

The Prince’s frown deepened, visibly displeased with the news. “You shouldn’t believe the rumours either, Gladio. But there may be something to that prophesy after all. Maybe she is destined to be queen.”

A raise of an eyebrow, and then the Shield’s lips twitched. “Ah I see...the dragon is looking for a mate.”

A small boy with hair as black as the night and eyes the colour of the sky on a clear summer’s day stood at the foot of the castle’s curtain wall, squinting his eyes as he peered up at the height.

The red walls of the Keep were a familiar sight to young Noctis. He had spent hours at a time staring at them, often with his face inches close to the bossed stone. What other saw as nooks and crannies, cracks and crevices, the boy saw as a fascinating puzzle waiting to be solved, a conglomeration of grips and footholds on a vertical slab of rock that just begged to be climbed.

A princeling growing up alone in a luxurious castle lacked for nothing except a playmate or two to get into trouble with. These walls had become his sanctuary and haven, but they were also a prison of sorts.

He had been caught climbing once, and a right ruckus it had caused. He hadn’t even been trying to sneak out of the castle, although everyone had collectively assumed that he was; and he certainly wouldn’t have fallen to his doom, although everyone to a man had instantly assumed that he would.

None of them knew that Noctis was a masterful climber, footsure enough to climb to the battlements and down without aid of a rope, and nimble enough to do so without breaking a sweat.

To be fair, he had snuck out once or twice – once or twice a month that is. On these occasions the little Prince would be sure to take his harp with him, secured snugly to his back with a length of cloth, as he did need both his hands to scale the walls. His favourite haunts in the city were the sheltered cove by the harbour, where seagulls nested in large raucous colonies; and the public square in the low-town, where townsfolk would stop to listen to the boy play his harp and even toss him a coin or two.

For now he took a step back, giving the towering walls a careful measuring look. His trained eye took note of every horizontal and vertical jug, the smaller quarter-sized edges where a good crimp would be needed to hold his full weight, and the little cracks where fingers could be jammed or wedged into for support.

With that settled, he was about to slip off his shoes when –

“Not a step further, thief.”

Thief? He spun around, coming face to face with a girl in a chalk linen dress. Oh, just a kitchen girl. With really pretty eyes. That were currently glaring daggers at him. She had to be new to King’s Landing if she didn’t recognize the heir to the Iron Throne.

Noctis huffed. He wasn’t to be put off by some maidservant girl, but she could alert the guardsmen, and that would put a dampener in his plans. He made a quick dart to the right, only to be met with the pointed end of a knife at his throat.

“I said not a step further, thief.”

“I’m not a thief!” He protested. And where had she gotten that knife from?

“Liar! That’s the Prince’s harp.” The little spitfire retorted, keeping her knife trained on him. She was a scrawny one; he had a good couple of inches on her even though they looked to be of the same age. But she was quick on her feet and her movements were lightning-fast. Not to mention she looked like she could do some damage with that knife of hers.

The two children whirled around at the sound of heavy footfalls and the clanking and jangling of armour plates over ringmail sewn into hard leather. Noctis caught a glimpse of the merlot red surcoat of Ser Libertus, who was leading a small section of sentries, no doubt scouting the castle grounds for the missing prince. Neither the knight nor his men had spotted them yet, so the Prince took a moment to deliberate his next move.

He should grab her hand and run, the boy-prince thought. It was besides the point that the lass still thought she was accosting a petty thief; the Prince’s minders would not be taking kindly to seeing a honed edge a scant distance from his jugular. She was probably already in trouble for skiving from her duties in the kitchen. He really didn’t want her getting lashed on his account.

“We have to run.” It was the girl who spoke, a sense of urgency in her voice. She made a darting movement forward, snatching up his hand in hers.

And so the Prince found himself being dragged by the arm, as the unlikely pair dashed and scampered through the maze of narrow passageways that formed a network between the interconnecting high towers and sentry posts, ducking behind ditches and parapets that fortified the castle’s inner defences, skirting any watchmen they came across. Annoyance turned into curiosity, which then morphed into amusement.

“You’re lost aren’t you?” He snickered.

She shoved him behind a buttress, covering his mouth with her hand. “Keep your voice down you silly thief! Do you want to get caught? The Prince will probably break your fingers for stealing his harp.”

“You seem to know an awful lot about this ‘Prince’. You got a crush on him or something?” He watched as her face flushed red. She was just too easy to rile up.

“I’ve never met him!” She scowled. “He could look like a toad for all I know. But my father says that the Prince loves his harp, and that it’s a family heirloom left to him by the late Queen. So I won’t let you steal it.”

“Here.” She tugged a banded ring off a cord hanging around her neck. “This is made of sterling silver, you could pawn it off for a fair sum.”

Noctis frowned. “Why are you giving this to me?”

The girl scowled again, scuffing her feet on the ground. “You don’t look like a bad person. Certainly not someone who would resort to looting and thievery without a good reason to.”

The Prince felt an odd clenching in his chest. The unassuming gesture both humbled and intrigued him, no matter that he wasn’t a petty thief, nor was he is danger of having his fingers chopped off for stealing his own harp. This ring was almost certainly a family heirloom as well, and yet here she was, offering it to him, a complete stranger. It had an understated elegance, not unlike the girl herself – plain and unpolished, but made of the finest silver. As he peered at the band, a glint of sunlight reflected off the words engraved on it.

‘Winter is coming’.

The words of House Farron, governors of the Northlands from their ancestral seat in Winterfell. Lord Farron had two daughters, the younger of which was only a knee-high tot. So that meant that this girl was–

“Claire Farron! You were supposed to be staying inside the Keep.” The girl yelped as she was grabbed by the scruff of her neck. “You deliberately disobeyed me. And you put the Prince in danger! The whole castle is out looking for him.”

Lord Farron was a tall burly man, with a trim greying beard that did little to soften his stern face, and a deep guttural voice that added to his intimidating air. And right now he was looking most displeased.

“Prince?” The girl looked confused, turning to regard the boy beside her. Noctis gave her a sheepish ‘I-tried-to-tell-you’ smile that went over her head. “If he is the Prince, then I’m the tamer of dragons.”

“Not another word Claire, unless you want to have your bottom whacked.” Lord Farron warned. “Your Highness, please forgive this brat of mine if she has offended you in any way.”

The Lord had begged his leave with his daughter in tow. But he had brought her back the next day, beseeching an audience with the King. Claire bit her lip and stared at him, until her father kicked her in the back of the knee.

King Regis had laughed and accepted the child’s apology, but that didn’t spare the girl the rod. Claire was sent to in her room in the guest wing, nursing a sore bottom, so the Prince had sought out her Lord father instead. After listening to what his young liege had to say, the Lord of Winterfell smiled through thin lips and patted the boy on the shoulder, assuring him that he would see her again at supper.

Relieved, Noctis turned to leave, but a question still lingered on his mind. “Why didn’t she tell?” Perhaps her father might have been more merciful on her bottom had he known the truth. 

Lord Farron’s statuette features softened. “Claire wouldn’t have snitched on you. Above all, the wolf understands freedom, and loyalty, and honour.”

The welts on her bottom were no longer smarting by the time he mustered up the courage to speak to her again. With Lord Farron staying at King’s Landing for the summer, the two children had plenty of time to get to know each other, and get into more trouble together. Claire was a headstrong little runt, in her father’s own words, rough around the edges, but naturally gifted on horseback and with the sword. And unexpectedly shy – left alone in the Great Keep, she had sought escape from the pandemonium by sneaking out into the alleyways, which was how she had encountered Noctis.

They took lessons together. The Master-at-Arms had nothing but praise for his prodigious pupil; the Castle’s Maester, not so much. Noctis would wince in sympathy whenever she was chastened with a sharp rap on the knuckles from the Maester’s cane – one if she was caught daydreaming, two if she dozed off in class, and three if Noctis dozed off in class. Needless to say, the Prince’s infractions were all but eliminated after.   

He kept her ring, promising himself that he would return it to her one day, and in exchange he gave her a song – the Wolf’s Song, composed on the strings of the harp that had brought them together.

Summer would pass and soon Autumn’s red leaves began to fall. Like the richness of Fall, their last days together were bright and colourful. But as the days grew colder, and the city welcomed flocks of migratory geese and swallows making their stopover at the crown city on their way farther south, Noctis would often catch her gazing lingering toward the North. 

“You have to go, don’t you?” He asked, with a heavy heart.

The girl nodded, solemn. “Winter is coming.”

A brooding figure sat perched by an open window, visible only as a shade between starlight and shadow, the echoes of the past playing on his mind. His beloved harp was cradled in his lap, as his fingers weaved the strings into chords.

“The dragon’s song is a melancholic one tonight.” A lone set of footsteps approached through the dark. The Prince’s personal chambers was unostentious, if a tad gloomy. A minor inconvenience that the Caelums’ ancestors had overlooked in decreeing black to be the colour of royalty.

“What troubles the Prince of Dragonstone?”

“Just...things.” The harp fell silent as calloused fingers slipped from its strings. The Prince rose to his feet, disappearing into the murky shadows, gently returning the musical organ to its elkwood case.

“Worried about your father’s health?” The visitor probed. “The King’s decline has been hard on you most of all.”

“Uncle Cor.” The informal address took the man aback, but he was quick to recover.

“What it is, Noct?”

The future king retook his seat at the windowsill, pausing to gather his thoughts, as he fingered at a ring hanging from a silver chain around his neck. “You’ve been my father’s Hand from the day he first sat on the Iron Throne. Tell me, do you think it possible to tame a wolf?”

Lord Leonis followed the direction of the Prince’s gaze to a hand-woven tapestry hanging in a vertical loom on the wall. A white wolf sat on its haunches, nose pointed toward the heavens, breath misting as it crooned a song to the stars. It was a fine piece of art and a favourite of the Prince, who could often be found playing his harp beside it as if joining in the lone wolf’s song.

Cor knew the tune well. The Wolf’s Song. Noctis had composed it when he was just seven. A gift for a girl, one who held a special place in the Prince’s heart.

“How lonely is the night, without the howl of the wolf...” He recited the first line of the verse. 

Noctis was sullen for awhile longer, and then he spoke. “I’ve missed her; just as much as I’ve missed having my father’s counsel – like the darkness misses the light. I let her go once, because she wasn’t mine to keep.”

He gave a rueful shake of his head, dark fringe falling into his eyes. “If I asked for her hand, the Lord Paramount of the North would surely acquiesce; even drag her to the altar in chains if he had to. But it would be selfish of me to keep her by my side in a gilded cage, when the wolf is meant to be wild and free. Even a lonely and willful boy understood that.”

The Hand to the King heaved a muted sigh, running a hand across his closely shaven face. Noct had a sound head on his shoulders, but he was oft given to sentimentality at the expense of reason when troubled by matters of the heart. 

“You’re right, Noct. Just as the mighty dragon is born to rule, so the ancient wolf is meant to be a symbol of all that is wild and untamed in this world. But if the price of being a dragon is loneliness; then the curse of the wolf is to be misunderstood.”

“The years have changed her, just as they have you. Perhaps you should take the time to get to know the woman that the girl has become, instead of making premature judgements like everyone else? She deserves that much, at least.”

At twenty-six years young, Ignis Scientia held the honour of being the youngest Lord to sit at the King’s Council. Needless to say, the man many believed to be the future Hand of the King kept a busy schedule, with precious little time to spare for trivialities. But with the Prince of Dragonstone off sulking Eos-knows-where, it fell to him to undertake the task of being a glorified chaperone to their esteemed guests.

Lord Scientia pushed his glasses farther up his nose, studying the company that he found himself in. 

A dog and a wolf. Funny how the two could be so similar and yet so different.

Both were high-born; daughters of ancient houses, a fact made evident by the way they held themselves with a regal grace. Both were confident women, strong-willed, dutiful to their families. But there the similarities ended.

Luna wore an elegant chiffon dress, with an embroided jewelled crescent made from cut gemstones that brought out her radiant beauty and the brightness in her eyes. Her two constant companions ambled along at her heels, occasionally darting off to chase a scent or a lark. Claire was dressed more simply in a plain tunic and pants, tailored to fit her lithe and lean frame like a glove. Once again, Ignis was reminded of a sword – sharp and slender, and just as graceful as it was deadly. The Farrons' direwolf Odin trailed silently behind her like a second shadow, his large paws leaving a discrete set of prints on the ground.

The residentiary of the Citadel were up and about at this hour of daybreak. As they moved through the western bailey in the shadow of the great bastions and up the canted rise to the Great Keep, the odd group drew mixed looks and stares. Tenebrae’s first-daughter had a polite smile for everyone, and her dogs would bound up to random folk with tails wagging, eager for more pets and scratches. Odin simply rolled his eyes, while his charge squared her shoulders and soldiered on, neither one appearing enthused about this little walkabout.

It’s no wonder why the two were receiving vastly different receptions. Dogs were sweet-faced, loving and affectionate, and viewed humans as friends. Wolves, on the other hand, were as distrustful of people as the latter were to them.

“Ig!” The happy shout came from Talcott, the king’s ward.

The youngster returned Luna’s warm smile with a blushing one of his own. Then he looked at the other woman and gasped. “You are the Wolf of Winterfell!” It was said with fear and reverence, an emphasis on the former. 

Like most children, the boy had likely been regaled with tales of wolves as savage and ruthless killers. The stigma was pervasive, though Ignis had to acknowledge that it couldn't be further from the truth. While they could be vicious when cornered or confronted, unprovoked attacks by the notoriously shy creatures were almost unheard of.

“I am.” Claire crouched down to the boy’s height, looking him straight in the eye as she answered. Ignis suspected that much like the wild wolves, all she really wanted was to be left alone, with no interest in being near people, much less hurting them, and certainly displayed an utter lack of interest – perhaps even a disinterest – in the Iron Throne. His brow crinkled in a frown. Perhaps he was wrong about her.

“You don’t look that scary. I think you’re very pretty.” Talcott spoke with the brutal honesty befitting an eight-year-old. He bowed at the waist, making a sweeping motion with his hand. “May I have the honour of taking the lady to the ‘morrow’s banquet?”

Ignis rapped him on the side of his head. “Don’t let the Prince catch you flirting with his woman.”

He noted the crimson tint on the She-wolf’s face. So even wolves can blush? Ignis lifted a brow, pursing his lips. Noct’s feelings aside, perhaps there was merit in a union between the wolf and dragon. After all, what was marriage if not the archetypal form of political alliance?

Humans, with their greed and pride and lust for power, were far more dangerous than wolves would ever be. But the Iron Throne faced an even greater threat, one that came from within. The King’s fall from grace had been slow and public. Though the ‘Mad King Regis’ still held fast to the reins of power, his grip was tenuous at best. The crown prince had been devastated to watch his father’s slide into insanity, though he firmly resisted calls to force a succession. But Noctis showed great promise as a wise and just ruler, a fact which allayed the Great Houses and their allies. For now, the realm was content to wait out this period of darkness and for the dawn of a new era.

Perhaps Noct was on to something. The crows had gathered at the gates of King’s Landing waiting for a feast, and Ignis could think of no better way to silence them than to have the proud wolf submit to the dragon as his mate. But would the future King of Eos stake his claim to what was rightfully his, or would the future Hand be forced to take measures into his own hands?

Noctis had been all of five summers old – the age when most princelings were allowed to join their first hunt – when he had encountered a wolf deep in the heart of the Astral forests. It was alone, having strayed far from its ancestral home to the North. He couldn’t help but admire the animal’s beauty, as well as its keen and intelligent expression, which led him to wonder who exactly was the hunter and the hunted. But the wolf had taken a fleeting look at him and fled – him, a little boy barely strong enough to draw a bow! Disappointed, the little prince had turned and rode off, bade on his way by a blood-chilling howl. He still recalled the shiver that ran up his spine, and the feeling of piercing blue eyes on his back.

Yes, wolves are shy by nature, and this one was no exception. And so in order to get to know her, he would have to start by observing her from afar, allowing her to reveal herself to him.

The Dragon Prince roosted atop a high bastion, the lofty vantage point granting him an expansive view of the courtyard below.  His eyes followed the slight figure across the training grounds, where esquires were lining up for their daily archery practice while young knights-in-training traded blows with blunted swords.

The king’s ward was amongst them, a quiver of arrows strapped to his back. Frustration marred his features as his arrow sailed wide of the target once again, pitching into a hay bale a good three feet to the right.

“You’re thinking too much.” The woman beside him spoke. She stepped closer, placing her hand over his on the bow. “Keep a square stance, but don’t keep looking at your feet. Your bow arm should be straight, but not too rigid or tense. Now, notch the arrow. Draw your pulling arm back keeping a straight line from your elbow to the tip of the arrow. Don’t think of the bull’s eye, and don’t be in a hurry to shoot either. Just concentrate on holding it steady. Aiming is useless if your arm jerks several inches off when you release the bowstring.”

This time, the twang and whiz were followed by a satisfying ‘thunk’ and a shout of delight from the youngblood. Claire ruffled his sandy hair. “You’re getting it, kid. Now, with your next shot, try not to lean into it...”

Noctis smiled at the sight. The King’s ward was an orphan, the son of a former retainer of the Caelums who held no lands or titles. Despite his humble roots, the boy was like a little brother to him, and it was rare to see someone from outside the Prince’s inner circle actually treating him well.

Wolves may be shy by nature, but they were highly social creatures who were loving and nurturing towards their pups, and took great care in raising them.

The Dragon Prince hummed approvingly. The royal line would be in need of an heir in due time, and while the consorts to the Caelum Kings had always taken the title ‘Mother of Dragons’, Noctis certainly had no objections to raising a few wolf-pups of his own. A litter of them, perhaps.

His lifted mood was interrupted by a sudden ruckus that had broken out across the yard. One of the squires had caught a young stable-hand peaking at the drills from behind a shed. The boy had been ruthlessly dragged out into the open, and was now on the receiving end of a hard walloping. The assailant was joined by two young knights, one of whom started belting the boy with his riding whip.

“Enough.” The intruding voice was soft yet authoritative, calm but cold. A dead silence descended over the courtyard as the woman stepped coolly between the stricken boy and the noblemen, a pink shard of hair falling between her eyes as she stared evenly at the aggressors. The bolder of the three struck at her with his whip, not expecting the cord to be caught in a bare fist before it could lash her across the face.   

The other two sprang at her. As swift as an arrow from an archer’s bow, she side-stepped the first while delivering a sharp kick to his knee, before catching the lunging fist of the second in her palm, wrenching the arm behind his back and ripping it from its socket. Panicked by his compatriot’s screams, the third dropped his whip and went for his sword. The first two hacks were nimbly dodged, and then she ducked under the third to seize hold of the man’s wrist, snapping it up with an audible crack and a blood-curdling shriek. Man and steel were deposited unceremoniously on the ground beside their brethren.

“You wear the sigils of the Lion on your backs, marking you as men from the Great House of Niflheim. I’ll spare your lives on account of your Masters. Apologize to the boy and get out of my sight.” She spat.

The scene was interrupted by a droll clapping, coming from a smirking woman swathe in a blood-red cloak over a black cuirass that fit her fetching figure like a glove, with matching greaves and gauntlets to complete the garb. Hopping off the low wall she was perched atop of, the woman took a moment to stretch out a kink in her neck before sauntering over to the group.

“If it isn’t the wolf princess herself. I’ve been looking forward to our meeting for some time now. Shame that it couldn’t have come under more...pleasant circumstances.”

Blue eyes narrowed, regarding the fresh face warily. It took her close to a minute to put name to it, but then again, this was the girl who had once mistaken the crown prince for a common thief. Perhaps it was the dragoon helm tucked under the woman’s left arm, or the ten foot long glaive-fauchard in her right hand, with a tassel of red horse-hair lashed just below the blade, that eventually won recognition.

“Lady Highwind, of the Vale.”

“Lady A...” The Niflheim Knight choked out, face scrunched up in pain.

“Go, I’ll take care of things here.” She dismissed him.

Her thin billowy cloak fluttered around her body like a pair of wings as she stalked closer, circling around the other and looking her up and down with a falcon’s eye. The younger woman tensed under the raking gaze, fixing the dragoon-lady with an icy stare.

“Now now, don’t get your hackles raised.” ‘Lady A’ chided, lips quirking up in a smirk. “You’re just as prickly as the stories say, aren’t you? And just as lethal.” Her eyes lit up at the last word.

“I’ve heard much about you. After all, you did spend a year at the Eyrie, pity I had already been fostered to Lord Aldercapt by then. I’d have taken great delight in challenging you to a climb of the dawn wall. Though my dear brother Kain would have thrown a hissy fit had you fallen and cracked your skull. He mentioned you a lot in his letters – the two of you were close I gather? I heard he even had a dragoon’s suit commissioned for you as a token, an honour traditionally reserved for those of our ranks.”

“The Captain of the Vale Knights is a good man. It was my fault that we couldn’t part on better terms. I am sorry if I hurt him in any way.” Claire spoke softly, turning on a heel with a curt nod.

“Not so fast.” The lance whipped out from the dragoon’s side, baring passage. “And save your apologies, wolf. I don’t give a damn what love lost went down between you two at the Eyrie, but if you think you can beat up my men and just leave, you’re sorely mistaken.”

Claire kept her face impassive. “What do you want?”

The dragoon’s smirk was now a full-fledged grin. “You owe me a duel.”

That drew a shake of the head. “If its justice for your kin that you seek, then go ahead, I won’t resist. But I won’t fight you here – I’ve sworn an oath to my father that forbids me from taking up a sword inside the gates of King’s Landing.”

Lady Highwind wasn’t to be deterred. “In that case, how ‘bout a lance?”

“She hasn’t changed one bit!” The doors to the crown prince’s private study were flung open with a thud, a highly irate Ignis Scientia storming in behind them.

“Indeed.” The Prince smiled to himself. He had been doing that a lot today, hadn’t he? “She hasn’t changed.”

“Wipe that self-congratulatory smirk off your face.” Ignis quelled him with a look. “It’s not a compliment. That girl has always been too irreverent for her own good. One would have hoped that she’d grown out of it by now.”

She had been here for little over a day and already she had managed to stir up a hornet’s nest. Things could have been worse still if not for the Lord Paramount’s prudence, and because Claire Farron happened to be one of those fools who valued her oath over her life.

Still, Ignis had to question the man’s wisdom in having his daughter swear such an oath. She had been fortunate today – had the enemy been out for blood, her lance would not have been so merciful. But not everyone was as honour-bound as the Highwinds, and the crown city was a treacherous place for a declawed wolf.

“I’ve given Aranea a stern talking-to. Told her to come look for me the next time her talons are itching for a good grapple.” Ignis recalled how the dragoon had pouted, disobliged at being denied the chance to ‘put a few scratches on that pretty face’. He sensed that there was more to her fixation on the younger woman than simply viewing her as a worthy adversary. The Vale was a fortress of secrets, and Farron was keeping more than a few of her own.  

“I don’t like it. That She-wolf is a lodestone for trouble.”

“So she defended the honour of a stable-boy. I think it’s noble.” Noctis did not share his friend’s consternation. He leaned a hip against a mahogany armchair, arms folded across his chest.

“Noble?” Ignis scoffed. “It was brutal. Maiming two noblemen over the ‘honour of a stable-boy’? It’s unheard of. And to the Lords and Ladies of the realm, no less than a criminal offence.”

“Don’t you think you’re being a little dramatic?” Noctis chaffed. “I would have done the same in her place. And so would you, don’t try to deny it.”

“I would have the bastards arrested and sent back to their Lords, who would then see fit to administer a just sentence.” Ignis snapped, allowing his vexation to show on his face. “That little show of force she put on today has become the talk of King’s Landing.”

The Prince was little bothered. “The dragon does not concern itself with the opinion of sheep.”

“Then perhaps Your Highness wouldn’t care to hear what Lord Farron had to say about his daughter’s ‘noble deed’?”

Noctis visibly blanched, and Ignis took that as indication to continue.  

“The old man swore on the Astrals that if she didn’t have her mother’s face he would have taken the crop to her himself. But what really has tongues wagging was the Lord Governor of the Westerlands – Iedolus Aldercapt himself – personally riding into the Farron camp to demand an apology, if not the recompense of two right arms from their men.”

“Lord Farron left the choice to her – ‘Teaching them a lesson, were you? Well now I’m teaching you yours.’”

“And no one had been more surprised than the Niflheim Lord when the wolf chose her pack over her pride.”

“She apologized?”

“She did. ‘For any indignity wrought on House Niflheim and their vassals, and for not beating the scoundrels up twice harder, and breaking their left arms as well.’”

The Tourney was to begin with a banquet, a night of feasting and dancing. Neither of which the Dragon Prince could say he much enjoyed.

The Great Hall of the Red Keep made for an austere and imposing sight. From the twin dragon sphinxes that guarded the entranceway, to the dragonhead fire-pots mounted squarely on the walls, to the wrought iron chandeliers framed by bronze-cast dragons, the place was a testament to the ruling family’s fascination with the mystical beasts. Beyond the arched doors, the hall was lined by two rows of long tables, themselves lined with garlands of flowers and foliage, and food enough to feed the entire city twice over.

Noctis sat at his customary place to his father’s right. As the night progressed on without a hitch, the tension was slowly seeping from his shoulders. The King’s mind was given to wander after sundown, as if the rising moon would bring a curse upon him. But despite the full moon that hung in the sky over Eos tonight, the King’s eyes were alert and focused as he held court with the Lords and Knights of the Realm, presiding over the ceremonial feast with grace and aplomb.

Instead, it was the prince who had fallen under a spell. Time and again, the Dragon’s heated gaze would seek out the sylphlike form that had him so entranced. She wore a Chiton dress that matched her eyes, the ribbed fabric held in place by a brooch over her left shoulder, and girdled with a high-waisted belt under her bosom. Her usually tousled hair was bundled neatly, though a few errant strands had escaped their confines to nestle in soft curls around her neck.

The years had changed her; and how had they. The spirit of the wolf no longer lived in the body of a girl, but that of a woman.

Those expecting to find a boorish brute had encountered instead, a slight woman of incontrovertible beauty. Like most Northerners she was fair, carved from pale marble, with the distinctive Farron traits of rose-pink tresses and crystal blue eyes to mark her ancestry.

She was dressed like a lady, but that didn’t mean she had to act like one. Like the unconquerable peaks of the great Northern Mountains, she appeared distant and cold, made even more so by the judging stares and salacious talk that dogged her steps. The Niflheim men, still nursing a grudge, took great pleasure in recounting how their liege lord had leered lewdly at the girl. ‘The little wolf has a sharp bite. No matter, all bitches need a firm hand to bring them in line. How I would savour breaking this one in myself. It makes me hard just thinking about how I would put that saucy mouth to good use.’

The drivel was not so hushed that it did not reach the Prince’s ears. Clearly, not everyone was as charmed by the presence of a quiet, enigmatic wolf that kept to itself, slinking in the shadows. Noctis’ heart grew heavier with each disdainful look and vitriolic remark that she endured. How he wished to chastise them outright, but he was loath to ruin the night for his father.

In truth, his reservations were more deep-seated than that. The King’s wrath, when incurred, was fearsome at best and draconian at worst. Years ago – when the cracks in his father’s psyche were still fresh and barely noticeable – the fledgling Prince had once publicly rebuked a Lord for speaking out of turn at court. “And how would you have him punished, my son?” King Regis asked. It was the first time he had seen the madness in his father’s eyes and the cruelty in his smile as he ordered the offender’s tongue cut out and fed to the crows.

The Maester of the Keep, who had served as tutor to the crown prince from when he was old enough to read and write, had been the only one bold enough the protest the barbaric sentence, citing the Writ of Laws, and pleading with his Majesty to come to his senses. But the King was remorseless, ordering the wiseman garotted for sedition, and an edict to be written in his blood: There is no law, only fear.

The young prince had been forced to watch in horror while suppressing the nauseating churn in his gut, as the hall echoed with peals of the Mad King’s laughter. “Let them fear us! Let them know the price of angering the dragons.”

The guilt had stayed with him since. The loss of his father and tutor within the same day had been a heart-shattering blow. And so, as indignant as he was now, he also knew that anger and displeasure were not emotions he could freely express around the King.

Instead, the Prince called for his harp.

The sprucewood rested lightly against his shoulder, the fine vibrations of the strings stirring a deep resonance within his core. The instrument thus became an extension of himself; its song an outlet for every word left unsaid and all the feelings that were kept buried. His eyelids drifted shut, allowing his hands to recite the notes that he knew by heart.  

And so the Dragon Prince played his harp, not to a rapturous audience, but to near muted silence. All who were present would lament the haunting tones of the strings, comparing their beauty to the Prince of Darkness and Light himself. The Dragon’s soulful song beguiled everyone, but none more so than the She-wolf, who was lured out of the shadows, straying closer to the dais like a moth to a flame.

Noctis played out the song, allowing the final chord to hang momentarily in the air before damping the strings.

He startled on opening his eyes, harp tumbling off his lap only to be caught deftly by a nimble pair of hands. The corners of her lips quirked up, amused at his reaction. Harp in hand, she ascended the stage, returning the instrument to its rightful owner with a dip of her knee.

Up close, he could see the tracks of tears on her face. Had she cried, listening to his song?

The crowd was dispersing, returning to the feast, clashing goblets in a toast to their future king. The wolf too retreated to the shadows as hastily as she emerged, casting one last furtive glance over her shoulder at him.

“A fine addition to the Kingsguard she would make.” Noctis startled again, this time at his father’s voice. “As fierce as a wolf and a prodigy with the sword and bow, they say. I’d been meaning to speak to Lord Farron about having her take the vows after the Tourney is over. You may knight her yourself, if you wish.”

The King turned to look his son in the eye.

“But of late, I’ve been hearing other rumours about her...”

Rumours? The pounding in his heart had escalated to a full-fledged hammering. His father would not tolerate even the slightest threat to the Iron Throne. Those baseless rumours were reason enough for him, in a fit of paranoia, to have her convicted of treason and executed. Or worse, he would order the raze and sack of Winterfell. Her family threatened, the wolf would turn against the crown, and the Prophesy would come true...

Heedless of his son’s mounting horror, the King continued. “Rumours...that it wouldn’t just be Lord Farron’s heart I’d be breaking by naming her to the imperial guard.”

The relief must have shown on his face, for the King chortled. “When did you start keeping secrets from me, son? If you wanted her, all you had to do was ask.”

“You’ve been troubled, my boy. I’ve watched you grow despondent and sullen. Imagine my surprise to find out from Lord Scientia that all of this moodiness was just you pining over a girl.”

A pale hand closed around his wrist, armed knuckle-to-nail in five full-fingered metal claws. “You are a Caelum, and the heir to the Iron Throne. Even a wild wolf knows her place in the pack. She should be honoured to be chosen as the alpha’s mate.” His father’s voice dropped an octave, and his next words cut into Noctis’ heart like a storm of swords.  

“If she dares refuse you, I’ll have her raped and burned alive in front of her father, and her whole family executed for treason.”

“Now go on. Ask her to dance.”

“Ignis!” The name was spoken in a hiss. Lord Scientia allowed himself to be strong-armed and hauled behind a pillar. Noctis was angry, Ignis could always tell when he was, and he wasn’t being subtle about it either.

“You’ve been in my father’s ear about her!” Ignis did not appreciate the accusation in Noctis’ tone, nor did he understand what his young liege was up in arms about.

“Would you rather he hear the other rumours concerning her?”

“No! Look I’m sorry, Ig. I...I need your help.” Noctis’ anxiety was palpable. Ignis had never seen him look so distressed. The young prince, who had yet to crack under the pressure of single-handedly holding the Seven Kingdoms together, now looked on the verge of falling apart. Ignis was starting to wonder if his little gambit had gone dreadfully wrong.

“Did the King...disapprove?”

Noctis shook his head no, slumping back against the column as he recounted his father’s exact words.  

Ignis grimaced. The King’s mental stability aside, his affection for his son was plain to see. He was, in his own demented way, simply encouraging the crown prince to pursue his desired. Pity the overlord had the subtlety of a warhammer. Instead of giving Noctis a nudge in the right direction, Regis had all but shoved him off the cliff.

As for the girl, Ignis felt bad about throwing her into the dragon’s liar, but he wouldn’t be losing too much sleep over it. Noct needed her by his side, now more so than ever. And the wolf’s eyes did not lie – she cared for the Prince, just as much now as she did all those years ago when she had implored Ignis to ‘look after him’.

And that was exactly what he was doing now.

The spectre of his father’s promise seemed to have awakened the sleeping dragon. Noctis inhaled a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “I have to do it.” His mind made up, the Prince pushed to his feet, stalking off into the crowd.

Ignis watched him leave. A frown crept onto his face. At the wave of his hand, a small servant boy who had been waiting in the wings scurried over to his side.  

From whence he had first met them in his youth, the Dragon and the Wolf had always been too stubborn for their own good. Short of locking them up together until they came clean about their feelings for each other, perhaps a little arm-twisting and heavy-handed threats were just the push that was needed.

Add to that, a little ‘liquid courage’.

It didn’t take long for the prowling dragon to locate his quarry. She wasn’t alone as he had hoped, but surrounded closely by the other members of her pack, making it hard for outsiders to approach.

How does one court a wolf? Noctis didn’t know the answer to that, but he knew that somehow or other, by fair means or foul...

“I have to convince her to wed me.”

“More wine, my Lord?” A small voice piped up from his elbow. The Prince directed his gaze down at an impish urchin with a faceful of freckles, balancing an open-mouth flagon precariously atop a silver salver.

Normally he wasn’t much for drinking, being averse to its mind-numbing effects. But he needed the blood-red contents of the chalice more than he needed a clear head tonight. The drink was potent, and deceptively sweet, though it left a bitter burn down his throat. Noctis took a moment to steady himself, before motioning for the boy to refill the vessel with more of the hard stuff.

While the Prince stoked his courage, another member of the Caelum household had boldly approached the wolf clan, making their Lady the offer of a dance. Unable to let the boy down, she allowed herself to be led out onto the floor amidst the protest of the Northerners, who received a stern glare from their Lady Lord in return.

Noctis watched as young Tal planted a chaste kiss on the back of her hand at the end of the song. “When I’m older, I’ll be your knight.” The lad avowed. “If you’re in trouble, I’ll protect you. If someone hurts you, I’ll beat them up.”

Her crystal blue eyes widened a fraction, lips tugging into a small smile as she reached down to ruffle his hair. “Will you promise me something?”

“Anything!” The boy nodded eagerly.

“Look after your brother. Prince Noctis walks a lonely path. You’ll understand someday.”

Once again, the boy’s innocence shone through in his blunt words. “You’ll look after him too, won’t you? You love my brother; why else would you have me promise to look after him? Ig says that you’re ‘his woman’, so he must love you too.”

She looked away, hastily withdrawing her hand from his, not expecting to have it seized by another. Noctis frowned at her small hiss of pain. He shifted his hold to her wrist, twisting it around to reveal the flayed skin on her palm, no doubt from catching the biting whipcord in her hand earlier. A soft curse escaped his lips. The foolish girl hadn’t seen fit to dress the wound, or have it properly treated by the Castle’s Maester.

The murmuring around them rose in a crescendo. The onlookers watched as the Dragon Prince ripped a strip of fabric from the linen sash under his belt, tenderly binding the cloth around the girl’s hand, before reluctantly releasing it from his.

“Lord Aldercapt!” The moment between the couple was interrupted by Tal’s squeak of surprise.

Noctis muttered another curse under his breath. The sea of bodies parted as the Niflheim Lord strode forward, flanked by his posse of guardsmen and vassals.

Aldercapt gestured to two young knights garbed in the livery of his House, their right arms wrapped in thick bandages and supported in slings. The men hastened forward at the flick of their Lord’s wrist and a curl of his finger. “I’ve brought these two miscreants to make amends to the Lady. Ah, His Highness has graced us with his presence. Perhaps Your Grace would do us the honour of being our witness.”

The Niflheim Lord called for liquor to be served. Three sterling silver goblets were brought forth on a salver, each one filled to the brim with a clear transparent liquid. “The Devil’s Blood. Made from grain and twice distilled, it is colourless, odourless, and tasteless, and said to be the purest of all spirits. In the tradition of the first Kings of Eos, who decreed that a bowl of wine gifted by his Lord absolves an errant-knight of all guilt and wrongdoings, I’ll have my men down a full cup each, to express the sincerity of their contrition.” He explained.

“And of the third?” Noctis asked.

Aldercapt smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. “The third goblet is for my Lady. Would you not show us the sincerity of your apology as well? With this cup, all debts between us will be settled.”

Noctis felt his blood boil at the man’s sinister ploy. Claire couldn’t refuse the drink without it being taken as a slight against the crown, since Aldercapt had already named the Dragon Prince as adjudicator to the dispute. She knew that as well, but would not give him the Niflheim Lord the satisfaction of victory.

Mouth curling in a smirk, she met the overlord’s haughty gaze with a flinty stare, while snaking a hand around the bowl of the goblet and bringing its lip to hers.

Aldercapt leered at the alluring neck that was left exposed as the girl tipped her head back, draining the cup till not a single drop was left. The upturned goblet was held up as proof, and met with murmurs of approval from the amassed spectators.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Already a flush was starting to show on her cheeks and neck. Noctis felt his groin tightened.

The two knights were not as fortunate. One was doubled-over and heaving out his gullet, while the other was passed out in a dead heap on the ground. Their Lord spared neither a glance. Instead, he waved over the servant-boy and his flagon of red wine.

Two more goblets were filled to the lip. Aldercapt kept one for himself and motioned for the boy to bring the other to the girl – ‘as a toast to amity between their Houses’.

“It is a great offence to refuse a drink from a Lord.” He warned her. The Northmen were beside themselves, barely able to reign in their indignant fury, though they were forced to watch with gritted teeth as their Lady reached for the goblet with a tremulous hand.    

But Noctis could restrain himself no longer. With a flourish, the wineglass was plucked from slender fingers, the singular act drawing a gasp from the crowd, for the Prince’s distaste for the inebriating liquid was no secret amongst them.

“I’ll take this one for her.”

The dripping chalice was raised to the Prince’s lips and downed in a single draught.

He aimed a withering look at the crowd. “On my authority as the Prince of Dragonstone, heir to the Iron Throne, I declare this matter reconciled, and both parties appeased. Anyone who speaks of it again shall answer to me.”

He had to get her out of here.

With Claire in tow, Noctis had taken his leave from the banquet, on account of getting the flesh wound on her hand treated by the Maester. The Northerners had protested, having been instructed by their Lord to keep her within their sights at all times. But the Prince would not be dissuaded, chastening them that if the wound should fester he would have all their heads on a pike.

Something was wrong. He recognized the signs of intoxication, having seen many a grown men drink themselves into a stupor after a night of prowling the local taverns. But this was more than just that.

She kept on her feet by sheer will alone until they were well out of sight. And then she collapsed. He caught her reflexively, scooping her up in his arms and hurrying along the winding maze of corridors to the Maester’s study.

Her skin was flushed from the alcohol she had imbibed and her body felt like heated coals, as if there were flames coursing through her veins. And she was near-delirious, mumbling incoherently, and struggling fitfully in his arms despite his attempts to soothe her. He never knew a woman’s body could feel so supple, so soft yet so firm, and it was getting harder to ignore the heat pooling in his groin every time her slick skin would brush against his when she flailed or thrashed.

“A poison.” Was the Maester’s verdict. “A minor sedative, to weaken the victim, and a libidinous stimulant, used to get mares in heat so they would stand to be bred. They probably added it to a base of spirit to mask the taste, but her body is having a severe reaction to it.”

He pressed a damp wetcloth to the girl’s forehead, mopping up beads of sweat, before reaching down with his other hand to undo the ties of her dress – an action the Prince did not take kindly too.

“Touch her again and I’ll have you castrated.”

The man was unperturbed by the threat. “With all due respect Young Highness, she’s burning up. Do you wish to save her modesty or her life?”

“You’re a healer! Don’t you have a remedy for this?”

The Maester shook his head regretfully. “Not for the poison, no. Listen to me, Prince Noctis. She’ll be in agony tonight, best to keep her inebriated, and far away from those who slipped her the draught. Undress her to her slip, then take her to somewhere private and strip her of that as well. If her body continues to burn like this, the consequences could be dire.”

The Prince nodded in understanding. “I’ll take her to my chambers. Have the Kingsguard on high alert. No one will dare intrude without my permission.”  

“No...” It was the girl who spoke. She grasped at his hand, straining to meet his eyes. Those brilliant blue orbs that were usually as sharp as a blade’s leading edge, were now glazed-over and bloodshot. “Take me back to my camp.”

Noctis crept into the wolves’ den. The hairs on the back of his neck were still standing on end from the close shave with Odin. The direwolf had not been allowed inside the Great Hall and had taken to patrolling the camp waiting for his Lady Master’s return.

There weren’t many stars to accompany the full moon out tonight, and the wolf had better night sight than either of them, not to mention other senses that were just as acute and discerning in the dark. He picked his way carefully through the clearing, moving with the shadows and against the breeze that rustled the fallen leaves on the ground.

Once in the safety of her tent, he laid his burden down gently on the bed of furs. She had passed out briefly but now she stirred again, as if distressed by the loss of his touch. The thin slip was ripped off leaving the naked body underneath exposed. 

She was a sight to behold – limbs splayed across the furs, chest heaving, body burning to the touch and covered in a sheen of sweat with little beads running down the valley between her breasts and across the flat of her abdomen. He had never seen anything so tempting, anything that he wanted more. Just looking at her like this made him think things he shouldn’t.

A small fire was crackling in the hearth, which the Prince doused, casting the room into darkness.

That seemed to help her regain her senses. She rolled onto her side, turning away from him. “Leave.”

“No.” He sat down on the bed beside her, punctuating his point. “I’m staying here. It’s dangerous for you to be alone right now.”

“Then tie me up and gag me.”

“Don’t be silly.” He chided gently. “There’s no need for that. I’ll watch over you tonight.”

She barked out a laugh, bitter and mocking. “Prince Noctis, before the hour is up I’m going to be a sobbing, whimpering mess, begging for a good fuck. So unless you like seeing me humiliated, either tie me up and gag me, or get the fuck lost.”

She flopped onto her back, body trembling as she fought to stay in control. “Why did it have to be you? Anyone else I could...but not you...not tonight...”

Her breathing was ragged. Her head fell back, eyes fluttering close of their own volition, as she waited expectantly for him to either restrain her from throwing herself at him or to use her body in any way he saw fit. 

Noctis grabbed her roughly by the arm, jerking her up to face him. “Claire.” His voice was low and husky, as he whispered the name he hadn’t spoken in years. “Look at me. Do you want this?”

Her hands searched for him through the dark, fisting in his doublet, and pawing at his belt. He returned the embrace, welcoming the hot mouth that sought his. The kiss was raw and passionate, and filled with everything that was left unsaid – desperation, longing, desire, surrender.

She nipped and licked at his lips, like a playful little wolf-pup. Noctis growled, giving her a light slap on the ass. She smirked into the kiss, but willingly parted her lips for him, allowing his tongue to claim her mouth.

They pulled apart for air, panting hard. Her arms were locked behind his neck and her forehead still rested against his as their heavy breaths mingled. The Prince was acutely aware of the excruciating ache in the seat of his pants, and he could only imagine what she must be feeling.

He leaned his body over hers, pressing her back onto the soft furs as he settled between her legs, spreading them wide. Her sex was as slick and hot as the rest of her, but still he took the time to prepare her well. A woman’s first was sure to hurt, but there would be pleasure too, he would make sure of it. He couldn’t see her through the dark, so he let his hands and mouth explore her body instead. She was so soft, as soft as the petals of a budding rose. And so sensitive – writhing and moaning underneath him, wrecked with shudders and involuntarily twitches at every teasing nip and touch. And the way her back arched off the furs when he sucked a hard nipple into his mouth.

“Need...you.” She shifted her thighs further apart, showing him exactly where she needed him most.

When he finally entered her, it was with a sinful moan of his own. He wouldn’t have thought it possible, but he felt himself growing bigger and harder still inside her. She was so tight – so tight that it must be hurting – stretched full to accommodate all of him. The heady whiffs of sex that he was inhaling were now tinged with the sickly sweet scent of blood. He lowered himself to his forearms, stroking her cheek and kissing her again, tasting the metallic tang where she had bitten down to stop the scream that threatened to tear through her throat.

“Are you alright?” He stilled, though it took all of his resolve to do so. Her only reply was to lift her hips, rolling them forward to take him deeper inside her, riding his length without a care about how wanton or shameless she looked.

Watching her come undone beneath him set him off. He took her, over and over, burying himself to the hilt before pulling out and slamming in again, while his warm mouth meticulously mapped every inch of her body. His fingers continued their ministrations, tracing the ridged lines that marred her pale skin, lingering over the one that ran from the side of her ribcage to the hollow of her navel. She squirmed, tugging his hand away from the blemish and guiding it up to the swell of her breast.  

Once he was done with the front he flipped her over, lifting her hips high in the air and coaxing her knees apart. Her body was lithe and toned, seemingly immune to fatigue as he was to discover. And she was insatiable, owing to the effects of the unholy draught, clamping down hard on him whenever he made to pull out of her. Well, if his lover wanted more the Prince was only too happy to oblige, only regretting that she would be terribly sore in the morning.

It was so easy to lose control. But tonight wasn’t about the Dragon claiming his mate; it was about her, him taking care of her. Every time her face tightened in pain, he soothed her – a suckle at the pulse on her neck, his ravenous mouth feasting on her breasts being mindful to lavish equal attention on the pink peaks atop the supple globes, and the swipe of his thumb over her throbbing clit. Every time she cried out, he held her tighter in his arms, till her convulsions were reduced to little quivers, till the She-wolf’s cries were transformed into soft sighs.

And when he was finally spent, the sleepy but contented Dragon laid himself down on soft furs, curling around his mate. He slipped his arms around her waist, cradling her like he would his harp, one hand sliding down to play arpeggios on her clit, while the other ran glissandos up and down her body. The sounds she was making were music to his ears. He revelled in the whimpers and moans and adorable little mewls.

She craned her neck back, nuzzling into him while reaching down to take his length in her palm. Noctis shook his head, stopping her. Instead he captured her hand in his, guiding it down to her soft folds and dipping her fingers into them, as together they brought her to a final climax.

Wolves are territorial creatures.

When Noctis woke up the next morning, not to soft lips and rose-scented tresses, but to a deep guttural growl, he knew at once that he was in deep shit. There was no reasoning with a menacing two hundred and fifty pound direwolf that had just caught you stark naked in bed with his Lady-Master, and reeking of each other’s bodily fluids. If Noctis was in Odin’s paws, he supposed he too would be slobbering mad and ready to tear the Casanova’s limbs apart.

The Prince was saved from becoming wolf chow by Claire throwing herself in between the two. Odin cast her a baleful look, and Noctis caught the flash of hurt on her face.

She tossed his robe at him. “You have to leave. The guards will be here any minute.”

“Will you be alright?” He tried to drape the robe over her bare shoulders, but the intimate gesture was taken as a threat by the wolf. Odin snarled, lunging forward with bared fangs, and this time Claire had to physically restrain him by the withers.

“Go! What are you waiting for? Get out!”

The wolf shook her off his back, snapping his jaws at the fleeing prince, and coming away with a tattered piece of robe, which was viciously macerated to shreds.

Under cover of the twilight dawn, the Prince of Dragonstone high-tailed it back to the Red Keep, fortunate to have most of his hide intact. The Mad King may be a smidge over-protective of his only son, but the man had nothing on Odin.

He had miscalculated; gravely miscalculated.

Ignis took the winding steps two at a time, and then he took a deep calming breath, before flinging open the heavy doors to the Prince’s chambers. He pointed an accusing finger at the two men in the room.

“Explain yourselves.”

The Shield held his hands up. “Don’t get your hackles raised.”

“I will get my hackles raised if I want to. The Lord of Winterfell has issued a manhunt for the ‘knave who defiled his daughter’, even though the girl maintains that she was a willing participant, and refuses to name the man whose seed was all over her bed and her thighs. I’ll have you know that wolves can track scents through miles of deep snowfall, so if I were you”, he jabbed a finger at the crown prince, “I wouldn’t be stepping foot outside the four walls of this castle until Odin is far beyond the Neck.”

“Damnit Noct! You were supposed to propose! Not sneak into her tent like a hormonal teen and start rutting like rabbits!”

“I am going to propose.” The incumbent prince replied calmly. He retrieved a small black velvet-frock lined box from a chest of drawers, flipping it open to reveal the banded sterling-silver ring inside. “Once I’ve acquired some fresh clothes and made myself presentable, I’ll go back to beg Lord Farron for his daughter’s hand – both as the Prince of Dragonstone, and as the man who has claimed her.”

Ignis’ eye twitched. “Even if you go back now with your banners and a legion of Kingsguard, Odin will still grind you up like a chew toy and spit your bones out.”

“I think someone’s already had a good chew on him last night.” The Shield guffawed, gesturing at the numerous bite marks on the prince’s torso.

“Such territorial creatures, these wolves.”

The cold never bothered her. That was the first thing Caius noticed about his half-sister. That girl had more North in her than winter itself.

He remembered arriving at the hallowed halls of Winterfell on a dank and bleak evening in the deep of winter. Brooding and formidable, the castle-fort rose out of the sprawling hills and into the sky. To Caius, it had looked like something out of a myth, a far cry from the squalid orphanage where he had spent the first eight years of his life. Drifts of snow blanketed the castle’s tall stone-masonry walls as the wind howled a greeting to the North’s Warden, the man he was henceforth to address as ‘Father’. Caius shuddered; the cold cut right to the bone, though he did his best not to show it. Lord Farron held his hand as they passed through the frosted gates, still glistening with sleet from a recent snowsquall, and Caius had felt a small spark of warmth inside. And then the man had cursed.

“The Others take that girl!”

Caius squinted through the white rain to see a huge direwolf galloping through the snowfield with a pink-haired tyke latched on to its back. He couldn’t resist a snort, mentally debating which was more witless, to be out playing in the frigid weather, or to be caught red-handed doing so. Odin – who was more guardian than family pet but as all wolves had a soft spot for pups – had spent one of the coldest nights of that year out in the snow for abetting the girl’s mischief. Caius hadn’t much sympathy for the overgrown mutt. That thing was built like an ox and wearing a winter-coat as thick as his wrist.

His new sister, on the other hand, was found the next morning curled up with the wolf under the crook of an old sentinel tree at the edge of the godswood. Caius hadn’t much sympathy either when she had spent a fortnight bed-ridden with a cold that had gone to her chest.

The second thing Caius understood about Claire Farron, was that he hated her, with every fibre of his being. It was painfully obvious that they were of the same blood, with their unusual colouring, sharp angular features, and ‘that same infuriating smirk’ in the words of Ser Auron, the castle’s Master-at-Arms and head of the household guard. Caius hated that he had anything in common with the little hellion, who had to be the most wilful and stubborn girl in all of Eos; refusing to stand down or relinquish her training sword, no matter how many times he whacked her black and blue during their sparring bouts in the practice yard.

There was even a story to that. Lord Farron had gifted his two eldest with a pair of matching swords, fresh from the forge. It was the first thing Caius had called his own, and a beauty it was. The weight was heavier than he anticipated. The long grip – stained black oak that tapered smoothly to end in a snarling wolf-head pommel – was almost the length of his forearm. And the blade was three times that, cast from a hardy sort of steel, strong yet flexible; the mark of a superior sword, be it made from steel or flesh.

A deadly weapon in the right hands, but back then it was but a training sword; the double-edged blade that was designed to cut had been left unsharpened by the smith and wrapped in a leather swathe.

"You can learn to wield them once you’re as tall as them." Lord Farron had said. Caius was – barely, and only after stuffing two pairs of woollen gloves inside his boots; Claire, not for another two winters at least. “You better eat your sprouts, little sister, or you might be a midget forever.” He goaded, just to see her flush as pink as her hair.

Claire wasn’t interested in the sprouts. She badgered the unsuspecting blacksmith into fashioning her a blunt dagger out of solid crucible steel, with slits cut into one side to resemble a comb. Then, with the sword’s width wedged between the dagger’s teeth, all it took was a sharp twist of her wrist to snap five full inches off the end of her blade.

The ‘swordbreaker’ and the ‘broken sword’, she had named her two weapons, in response to Caius dubbing his blade ‘the bastard sword’. Lord Farron was mollified, sternly rebuking her for ruining the sword’s perfect balance and harmonics. “But what good is the perfect sword if I can’t use it?” The girl had parried.

“She’s your daughter.” Ser Auron shook his head with a guffaw. “And one day she’ll be my successor.” Lord Farron ran a hand through his greying hair. His jaw was set, and there was a grim twist to his mouth. The Swordsmaster laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “She’ll make a fine sword my liege, if you can stand to have her tempered in fire.”

Ladies weren’t supposed to inherit titles or govern holdfasts, but if there were dissenters, not even Caius, who kept his ear close to the ground, had heard of them. Claire Farron embodied the legendary beasts from whom House Farron took its sigil – untamably wild and ferociously protective, with quiet confidence and strength.

No one could deny the girl’s raw talent when it came to the sword and the bow, and she wasn’t half bad with the lance and pike either. But no one got good at that sort of thing without paying the price in blood, sweat, and tears; and certainly not a scraggly wisp of a girl with twig-like limbs and slender hands. “Is it worth it?” Caius asked, watching his sister crawl out of the ice bath she endured every night just to get her battered body ready to take more punishment the next day.

“It’s agony.” Her face remained contorted in a tight grimace. “But I won’t be able to go another round tomorrow if I don’t.”

Well, at least she had found a use for all that ice that the North was never in short supply of.

Caius heaved her to her feet in an effortless display of strength that emphasized the difference between them, tossing her a woollen cloak lined with thick furs. He refused to find his sister’s stubbornness endearing – not one bit. Caius would sooner claw his eyes out off than take an ice bath in the middle of this warmth-forsaken wasteland. “That’s not what I asked.”

She huddled into the furs, breath misting as she spoke. “Everyone has something that they fight for. For the North, it is our honour. But honour alone isn’t enough.” Caius eyes narrowed. “Then what is?”

“The wolf fights for its pack. For its home. And for...” She trailed off.  

“For?” He prodded.

“For a dream.” She decided. “Because we have dreams, so we are dauntless.”  

The ice-baths stayed and steadily the girl’s strength grew; though her body remained lithe and lean. And the wonders of muscle memory and flawless technique made up for the rest. By the time she was fifteen, Claire was as good a sword as any man in the North – and that included Caius, though he was loath to admit it.

But if there was anything Caius hated most about his half-sister, it was that he had come to respect her. Lord Farron was a good father, but it was his eldest daughter who humoured her younger siblings with snowball fights and carved wooden swords for Noel and dollhouses for Serah. But Claire lacked a mother’s love, just like Caius did. He recognized the hurt in her eyes whenever their father would brush a thumb tenderly over her cheek, like a husband gently caressing his wife’s face. “You look more like her every day.”

He always knew where to find her when she would go off to brood – up on the roof of the First Keep, looking as morose as the rain-weathered gargoyles. “Aren’t you a little old to be sulking in a corner?” He drawled.

She rolled her eyes with a scowl. “You’re one to talk.”

“Quit feeling sorry for yourself, at least you knew your mother.” He snapped back. There was a weighted silence, and then she looked away. “I was three when she left...I don’t even remember what she looked like.”

Perhaps it was that forlorn look that made him ask. “Care for company?” She shrugged. “Only if you have some of that mead you and Noel are so good at pilfering from the kitchens.”

She waited as he clambered up to join her. “Took you long enough.” Caius snorted at the jibe, taking a swig from the gourd before tossing it at her. His sister may be half-wolf, but she was a veritable snow-leopard when it came to scaling a height. “Where did you learn to climb like that?”

Claire hardly ever smiled, but she had smiled then; softly but warmly and with her eyes and her heart.

Then came the whispers of the Prophesy; and with it, the first deep rift in their relationship. Lord Farron had threatened to burn the Seeress’ temple to the ground, while Yeul stood firmly by her vision, and Caius had to be physically restrained from raising his sword against his own father. Instead, he levelled it at his sister. “Caius, what–?”

“I call trial by combat.” He bit out. “I’ll be Yeul’s champion. Draw your sword, Claire.”

“No.” She held his gaze unflinchingly, folding her arms across her chest. Lord Farron had every man in his household sworn never to speak off that night, then he had Claire sent to the Eyrie and Caius to Riverrun. It wasn’t until the following winter that he would see either Yeul or Claire again, and by then his sister was no longer the girl he once knew. Her body had changed, now possessing the womanly curves that he thought she would never have. But her eyes were hard and her cheeks hollow. And while she used to spend every daylight hour in the practice yard, now she took to holing herself up in the old tower, with only Odin for company.

“What did you do now?” He tried to keep the exasperation out of his voice.

She stiffened. “I killed a man.”

Caius startled, the brutal honestly was unexpected. “How?” He asked. She took a breath. “Trial by combat.” The three words froze his heart cold, realising for the first time how close he had come to either killing his sister or dying at her hands.

The snow lifted early that year, but the days remained dark with fog. When the raven came from King’s Landing, bearing the royal emblem, Caius felt cold dread sinking in his chest. Lord Farron’s hands shook as he read the missive, then he crumbled it in his hands. “Call our banners.”

Caius had not been granted a seat at in the war room, relegated instead to the ignoble job of standing guard while Noel and Serah eavesdropped with glasses on the wall. They needn’t have bothered with the latter – the clamorous voices could be heard even through the thick stone. “So the Mad King has us keeping his peace now? I say we join the Ironborn in revolt.” Lord Raines raved. “Why should we risk our sons’ lives while the Royalist soldiers sleep cozy in their barracks? And what of the Riverfolk? Too scared to leave the protection of their fortresses?”

“It will take several weeks more to gather all our fighting men.” The younger Raines had more practical concerns. “The sheer vastness of the North has always been our undoing when it comes to mobilising an army for battle.”

“No, we can’t wait any longer.” Claire spoke up. “We have to strike now, while we still hold the element of surprise. The enemy knows our weakness. They will not be expecting us so soon.”

“Their next attack could be anywhere along the western seaboard.” Lord Yaag Rosch cut in. “That’s like hunting for a kraken in the open sea. How can we defend a thousand miles of coastland with less than a tenth of our strength?”

“The best defence is a swift assault.” Claire answered simply. “And as for your kraken, Lord Rosch. If the Ironborn are serious about their invasion, they’ll be looking to establish a stronghold inland.” She dragged a finger across the crude topographical map, coming to rest over a spot with a sharp rap.

“Here. This is where we’ll find them. And crush them.”

Caius could scarcely believe that this was the same girl who had been torn up over killing a man in a merciless duel to the death. Now she was a leader, proving herself capable of a decisiveness and cold-blooded determination that would earn her the name ‘She-wolf’.

She had judged that the rebels would be planning a siege of Deepwood Motte and marched her army west at a sharp clip; choosing to take only the best men, many of them from Winterfell’s own garrison, with the grit and discipline to sustain the gruelling forced march. The subarctic climate meant there was little risk of heat exhaustion, and it helped that the Northerners were familiar with the terrain and knew the easiest routes through the hilly passes. But Raines and the other Vassal Lords expressed reservations that she risked stretching their supply lines too thin. To that the young Commander had smirked. “Don’t worry about food, there’s plenty of that in the enemy camp.”

“Some of the men are nervous.” Cid noted. “The Ironborn are a fierce race; hardened seaman, warriors by ancestry. And Lindzei is said to be a sea-witch with the strength of ten men.”

Claire didn’t bat an eye. “Tell the men, Lindzei isn’t the one prophesized to be the Queen in the North.”

Cid narrowed his eyes. “You’re so sure you’ll win?”

“Doesn’t matter what I think.” She answered him coolly. “What matters is what they think.”

True to her divination, the rebel army was sighted encamped on banking hill at the edge of the Wolfwoods, foresting the ironwood trees for timber to build siege engines. “Our riders have taken up positions in the forest,” Caius reported. “The boreal woods are dense, they will make for good cover.” Claire nodded. “Then I’ll see you in battle, brother. Remember, wait for my signal.”

The Battle of the Wolfwoods was a crushing victory, just as she had promised. As was the storming and capture of Pyke a week later. Caius had stood with his sister atop the swaying rope bridge that hung between the island’s massive rock stilts, watching as the sun emerged from the eastern sea. And for a second, the steely mask had slipped from her face. “Has it really been ten years?”

“Ten year and five months, since we’ve known each other.” He replied without pause, assuming that was what she meant.

“Ten years and five months.” She murmured. “Feels like much longer than that.”  

Their return to Winterfell was hampered by middling snowfalls, just enough to slow the horses’ legs. Even after a decade, Caius still found himself astounded by the sight of snow in summer. But such was the North and its whimsies.

Their father’s greeting had been just as cold. There had been no welcoming party, no celebratory feast, not even a warm embrace or a smile of relief. Instead the Lord had fixed his daughter with a flinty stare, as cold and unyielding as the winds of winter. “Go to the godswood. Don’t come out till I tell you to.”

“Why? What wrong has she done?” For the second time in his life, Caius found himself speaking out against his father; and for his sister, no less. Lord Farron’s weathered face was grave. “You think your sister has won us glory and honour? Well, I don’t. War, no matter how necessary or justified, is still a crime. And that girl possesses a cursed talent for it.”

“At least have the Maester see her first. She hides it well, but she carries deep wounds.” Caius knew this as he had caught Cid Raines sneaking out of his sister’s quarters on board her flagship vessel, the Sea Fang, as the commandeered fleet of longships made sail for Pyke.

“Relax. I just tended to her wounds. She didn’t want anyone to see them.” Cid’s baritone voice was even lower and huskier than usual and it wasn’t just from the chokehold Caius had around his neck. “Make sure that it’s just her wounds you’re looking at.” He had snarled.

Caius should have known better. He should have known that nothing – not her father’ wishes, nor the binding words of a prophesy – would deter Claire Farron from pursuing her own path.  

“Tell her. She must not go to King’s Landing.” Yeul had besieged him, pain evident in her voice, when he visited her at the Seeress’ temple ahead of their journey south. Caius complied with her request; he could never deny Yeul anything.  

He found Claire seated on her knees in front of the old heart-tree, cloaked in pale moonlight. A light zephyr whispered through the godswood, and for the first time in his life, Caius saw his sister shiver. “I have to.”

“The hell you have to!” He spat.

She met his eyes, steel on steel. “Winter is coming.”

Caius’ nostrils flared. “Is that a warning?”

A shake of her head. “I’ll be eighteen this winter. And Serah fifteen.”

“Claire, my patience is wearing thin with you.” He warned.

“I plan to take the black.” It was spoken casually, as if she were merely discussing the weather. At first her meaning eluded him. Only royalty wore black – royalty, and the Sworn Brothers of The Wall. The Night’s Watch.

She said no more, wordlessly pressing a palm onto the weirwood, as if she were saying goodbye to their home. Caius felt anger burn within him. The Night's Watch was an ascetic fraternity. They had no family but each other; had no relations or possessions; would take no lovers and bear no heirs. 

He wrenched her up by the arm, slamming her hard against the coarse bark with a growl. “You don’t know what it will cost you to swear that oath.”

She bit her lip, the barest sign of hesitation. “I know what I’m doing.”

“You know nothing!” A spike of bitterness coursed through him. What had she experienced of loss and sacrifice to understand the pain that it entailed? What did she know of desire and the touch of a lover’s hand? What right did she have to give it up just like that? “And what of your father? You would forsake your family and your duty? For what?”

She kept silent this time. And perhaps if his anger had not blinded him in that instant, he would have seen the past the resolution in her eyes to the resignation in those ice-blue depths.

The Crownlands lay at the heart of the realm. Less than a tenth the size of the Great North, with ten times the populace. And in the capital city of King’s Landing stood the Red Keep. Caius had heard stories about the famed castle – though half of them were probably made up by Noel – about how its walls were thirty-feet tall and daubed in ruby-red to mask the smears of blood on the stones; about how it was as old as Winterfell, and had seen twice as many rulers in its time; about how its dungeons were as cold as the heart of winter, and harboured more skeletons than a graveyard; and of course, of the Iron Throne, made from a thousand twisted claws of steel forged from the breath of a dragon. Caius found the over-populated city and the stour and stench that clung to it much to his disliking.

But like any young man who staked his life on his sword, he couldn’t help sucking in a breath at the sight of the imposing citadel. This was where men were raised to knighthood, where kings were crowned and disposed, where dragonfire had once won the Caelums their empire. But it had been centuries since the legendary beasts had flown these skies, their great leathery wings blotting out the sun from the heavens.

The city gates were open, welcoming visitors from all corners of the realm. Men of all liveries trawled the teeming streets. House Niflheim boasted a contingent of seventy men. In contrast, the small garrison that Lord Farron had brought with him numbered just shy of twenty men-at-arms, hand-picked to serve as the Regent’s travelling guard.

There was a tangible buzz in the air, and talk of the Tourney could be heard from the low town to the Great Sept. Bets were casts, while knights and lordlings chafted at the bit to play at being warriors. “‘Tis a shame neither you nor Lady Claire will be competing in the joust.” The weapons master, a tanned-skin man known as Sazh Kaztroy, jested good-naturedly. “Just as well, I wouldn’t know who to put my money on!”

Caius grunted. Yes, women and bastards had no place here, but he’d be damn if he let that wound his pride. “You forget Kaztroy, wolves don’t perform in circuses.” His sister would have seconded that notion.

His thoughts shifted to his other sister, who had come to him on the eve of their departure, red eyes on a tear-streaked face. “I had a dream...Claire...she was in pain, and covered in blood.” Caius frowned, unnerved by the familiarity of what he was hearing. “Have you spoken to her?” Serah nodded, breath hitching in her throat. “Claire wouldn’t listen. She said that she had to go, that not even the threat of death would stop her. You have to protect her, Caius.” Serah’s eyes were pained and pleading. “Don’t let them hurt her.”

“The South is a nest of vipers, men of great power and greed, with little mercy or honour. The two of you will do well to remember that. Claire.” Lord Farron gripped his daughter’s wrist, tight enough to bruise. “Don’t go courting trouble.”

But his incorrigible scourge of a sister was never far from trouble. Couldn’t she have left Aldercapt’s cronies well enough alone? No, she just had to go and play saviour, walk right into the nest of adders, as if she needed a bigger target on her back. And Caius’ misgivings warned him that the notorious overlord would not be letting her off so easily.  

And so when he heard the wolf’s snarls, Caius had feared the worst. Like his beloved Lady-Master, Odin was standoffish to most things, but fiercely dedicated to protecting the Farron heir. There was only one thing that could have him mauling mad, and that was Claire being in danger.  

Claire was still struggling to calm Odin down when Caius burst into the tent. “What have you done?” His lips curled back in a snarl, voice trembling from the sheer effort of restraining his anger.

Caius was no innocent, he knew what a woman’s body looked and smelled like after a night of heated passion – the sweet and sweaty musk of after-sex that clung to her skin, the slight limp to her step, and the bruise-like marks on her neck and breasts where that bastard had domineeringly branded her with his teeth.

For her part, Claire looked unabashed, making no effort to cover up her ravaged body, save for picking a thin slip off the floor and donning it; or to hide the evidence of the scandalous tryst that had taken place in her tent. The Lord of Winterfell had taken one look at the maiden-blood on the furs and struck her full across the face, snapping her head to the side as she staggered back a step. A drop of red trickled from a cut under her eye where his ring had grazed.

“Fighting and killing and disgracing yourself, is that all you’re capable of?” Claire flinched at her father’s icy tone, clenching her jaw as if bracing for him to strike her again.

“Who?” Lord Farron demanded.

She raised her chin, squaring her shoulders, somehow managing to look defiant and dignified even in her state of undress. “All you have to know is that I wasn’t forced.”

Caius knew it was time to step in when his father called for his crop. He shrugged out of his cloak, draping it over his sister’s shoulders. “She’s allowed her pleasures. You can’t say you’ve never bedded a woman who wasn’t your wife. Am I not proof of that?”

“She’s a girl!” Lord Farron roared.

“Whom you raised as your son.” Caius retorted. “Surely the future Lord of Winterfell has the right to take a lover or two of her own.”

He regretted playing on his father’s guilt like that, Etro knew that the man had always treated him like a trueborn son, and steadfastly refused to take another wife just to produce a male heir. And it wasn’t as if his anger was unjustified here. In the end the Lord had ordered his daughter locked up and put under a close watch, with guards posted outside the tent.

“You really think I would use a man for comfort?” She asked when they were finally alone, with a poorly-concealed cringe at the end.

“I wouldn’t put it pass you.” Caius didn’t mince his words. “Though I’m sure your little lover took as much pleasure from your body as you did his. I’ve heard of whores getting fucked till they can barely stand; never knew my sister was one of them.” He expected her to slap him, and perhaps it was a testament to how out of sorts she was that she didn’t. Instead there was a flash of hurt across her face, which Caius savoured. Good, let her be hurt.

“Perhaps you’re right. It was just a night of hot, meaningless, comfort sex.” She dropped down in a corner, tucking her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. “But I don’t regret it.” Caius wondered which of them she was trying to convince, and why she still insisted on protecting that little bastard. “Damnit Claire, are you going to wait for father to disown you before you talk?”

“I was drunk, I don’t know who it was...he left before I came to.” She fumbled lamely, averting her eyes. “Father can whip me or disown me if he chooses. I deserve it.”

Odin padded to her side, laying his ears back, gently nuzzling against her and licking at the bruise on her cheek. Moisture glistened faintly at the corner of her eyes as she knotted her arms around his neck, burying her face in his fur. “I’m okay, Odin. He didn’t hurt me. I’m sorry you got worried.”

The black strip of cloth that served as a makeshift bandage around her palm caught Caius’ attention. He narrowed his eyes, his own words echoing in his head.  

Only royalty wore black.

He snatched her up by the wrist, dragging her to her feet. “Caius, what– ?” She tried to wrench the limb back but that only stoked his anger, vice-like grip constricting as he leaned in close to her face. “How did you get this?”

She froze, colour washing out from her face as she followed the direction of his gaze to the swathe on her hand. He read the understanding in her eyes – she knew that he knew.  

“It wasn’t Noct!”

“Noct?” Caius rolled the word off his tongue scathingly. “I didn’t know the Prince of Dragonstone was on a first name basis with anyone who spreads their legs for him when asked.”

“That wasn’t what happened.” She insisted. “He was helping me.”

“Helping you relieve the ache between your thighs?” He spat.

“The wine, it was spiked.” She tried to explain. Caius’ eyebrow twitched, and he fought to keep his voice steady against the knife twisting in his gut. “He raped you while you were drugged?”

She shook her head more vehemently. “It wasn’t like that. I wanted it. He wouldn’t have touched me if I didn’t.”

“You begged him to fuck you?” Caius sneered, refusing to believe his ears.

She swallowed what was left of her pride, forcing the words from her throat. “Yes. I begged for it, the whole night.”

Caius had heard enough. He shoved her aside, stalking out of the tent.

A veritable storm was brewing around him. Furious hoofbeats drummed the earth in a rumbling crescendo, metal plates and steel lances meeting in a crack of iron thunder. The crowd cheered as one of the knights was flung from his mount, body half-sommersaulting in the air before hitting the ground in a clangourous crash.

The Prince of Dragonstone reclined languidly in his seat, resting his cheek against a closed fist, and dipping his head to shield his eyes from the glint of overly polished armour. He wished he could shield his ears from the strident din of the crowd.

The facade of nonchalant belied his inner turmoil.

He could scarcely convince himself that last night hadn’t been a dream. The inebriating taste of her lips, the fragrance of her hair – a mix of strawberry, honeysuckle and wild winter roses that had him believing she could walk off a battlefield still smelling like that, the trusting look in her eyes as she gave herself to him, and the way she had come crying his name. It had all been real. And yet she refused to name him. She would rather bear the accusations and ignominy alone than have him implicated in it. His heart clenched, as did his fist around the silver ring in his hand.

Not for the first time, the Prince cursed his imprudence. He shouldn’t have given in to his carnal desires, no matter how badly they had both wanted it. Claire wasn’t in control of herself, but he should have been. He should have held her through the pain and kissed her tears away, whispering recollections of their childhood and promises for their future.  

He wanted to go to her. But he couldn’t. Instead here he was, once again, forced to sit on a chair and do nothing.

His thoughts were interrupted by clipped footsteps. “You wished to see me, Prince Noctis?” The Lord of Niflheim gave a cursory bow. Noctis acknowledged him with only a slant of his eyes, forcing the bile back from his throat. If Aldercapt sensed the Prince’s vitriol, he made no show of it, seating himself down in the royal box without further invitation, and smoothing out his doublet with a casual flourish.

The conspicuous absence of the King did not escape the Niflheim Lord’s notice. “Another relapse?” He clicked his tongue. “Such bouts are becoming more frequent, are they not? Eos looks to you now, young Highness.”

“My father still sits on the Iron Throne.” Noctis answered simply.

“So he does.” Aldercapt grunted. “No king of sound mind would willingly renounce his right to rule.”

The Niflheim Lord turned his gaze onto the Prince. “I trust your Highness enjoyed your feast last night?” His lips curled back in a crooked sneer, the insinuation clear on his face.

Noctis took a deep breath, nails digging further into his palm. He refused to give the man the satisfaction of seeing him wound-up. “What were you going to do to her?”

Aldercapt’s chortle was callous and remorseless. “I wouldn’t have hurt her too badly. Might’ve even showed her a good time, had she been a good little bitch.”

He scoffed at the Prince’s dark glare. “Don’t act like you’re any different. I heard you taught her a woman’s place in the South – on her back and on her knees. So it’s the feisty ones gets Prince Noctis hard between the legs? I always knew that prissy clean-faced act wasn’t the real you.”

“I wonder, what will the stories say? That the dragon kidnapped the maiden against her will, stripped her and bedded her and forced her to be his bride. Or will they say that the gallant prince rescued the fair lady from an evil monster, and in return she surrendered herself to him, body and soul.”

Another clap of iron thunder tore through the arena. Both men watched as a young knight in a dark maroon armour was nearly unhorsed by Ser Titus Drautos, his body hanging precariously off the side of his mount, before he hooked a leg around the saddle and wrenched himself back on. The underdog’s acrobatics was met with an appreciative applause from the crowd, perhaps out of sympathy for the lad’s hard luck in drawing the ‘King of the Joust’ in the first round.

On the next tilt, the knight in red dug his heels into his charger’s side, urging the sorrel mare for run. At the last second, he leaned forward over the mare’s withers, shifting his centre of gravity. His lance connected first, shattering on the opponent’s helm – a clean hit, good enough to throw the Captain of the Guards from his horse. The veteran knight gave as good as he got, and for the second time in a row, the youngster had to summon all his wills to stay in the saddle, struggling to pull his horse up with only his left arm, while the right dangled at an awkward position from his shoulder.

Aldercapt clapped politely, as the crowd drew a collective gasp of disbelief. “A brutish sport the joust is, little wonder the epicurean masses see as a test of manhood. But one can’t deny the allure of its mercuriality. Even the mighty ‘King’ can be unseated by the charge of a bold challenger. I hear the smallfolk have a term for that – they call it, ‘dragon-slaying’.”

Noctis ignored the barb. “The joust is a sport for noble men; the chance for a knight to demonstrate his strength, in a way that is brave and honourable. Something that a man like you would never understand.”

The next competitors were already lining up, taking their places at opposite ends of the lane. The two knights raised their lances in a salute to the Dragon Prince, before lowering their visors and waiting for the signal to charge. 

Aldercapt took the opportunity to lean in close, disdainful sneer back on his face. “Chivalry and honour are for fools and cretins. ‘Men are ruled by fear, not by law.’ Was it not our great King who said that? But back to the girl. She may have gotten away this time, but if she dares cross me again, I’ll make sure she pays in full.”

“Though I’m curious, was she a good fuck?” The Niflheim Lord ran a tongue over his lips, swallowing thickly and stroking a gloved hand over his throat. “The little wench does have a pretty face...and that lewd body, tight in all the right places. Did she moan like a whore when you came inside her? Spread her legs like a bitch and begged for more?”

Noctis smiled for the crowd, but his voice had a sharp edge to it. “She was everything that you can dream of but will never have. I will not warn you again, Lord Aldercapt. She belongs to me. If you so much as harm a hair on her head, I’ll make sure that you live to regret it for a very long time.”

“Do I make myself clear?”

Aldercapt’s face twitched. “Crystal.”

“Good.”  

At the dismissal, the Niflheim Lord stood to leave, bowing stiffly at the waist. “Your Highness.” Turning sharply on a heel, he strode a step forward, and then he paused, tossing a glance back over his shoulder. “If I may ask. Do you believe in the Prophesy, Prince Noctis?”

The Prince remained impervious, reclining bodily against the backrest of his seat and crossing an ankle over a knee. “The Prophesy says that she will be queen; nothing else means anything to me.”

He heard Aldercapt’s sardonic laugh. The Niflheim Lord lowered his voice to a whisper, his next words meant for the Prince’s ears alone.

“Oh, she will be queen,

...but will you be king?”

Aranea admired the joust. It took a certain amount of fearlessness, a daring and bravery bordering on the reckless – knowing that you’re going to get hit, but charging unflinchingly into the heart of the storm regardless. Unlike the lesser birds, falcons weren’t afraid of the strong winds or the perilous currents. They were confident in their strength; nothing could take them down.

Speaking of not going down...

The commodore’s gaze shifted to the woman across from her. Eos was a Man’s world, but that didn’t stop a Lady from craving her mark. Aranea herself had entered – and won – over a dozen tourneys under the convenient guise of full-body armour and a closed-face helm. But to do it in the King’s Tourney, the girl had some balls, if not wits.

The ‘knight’ was struggling with the straps of her pauldron. Her right arm hung limply by her side and an attempt to lift it brought a lancing twinge that had her crunching over again, cradling her side.

Aranea sighed, stalking over to lend a hand, hauling the heavy plate armour off lean willowy shoulders with a grunt. The Armet helm and mail coif were next to follow, revealing a messy crop of rose coloured hair that framed the woman’s frosty face like winter’s rime.

“This is going to hurt.” The dragoon’s tone carried no sympathy as she wrenched the dislocated shoulder back into place. She expected the wolf to howl, but she took it on the chin without a whimper.

“Alright princess, lift your arms up.” The girl winced, biting back a groan and a curse, as the older woman leaned in close to examine the bruised ribs.

“You look like shit.” Aranea gave her honest assessment. “And that’s just the first round. I thought you were actually good at this?” The girl had been lucky to come through by the skin of her teeth. Her opponent was clearly the superior jouster, and it was only through sheer athleticism and pure horsemanship that she had stayed on the mount’s back.

“I’m fine.” Claire lifted her chin, face steeling against the pain as she fixed the dragoon with a glassy stare. “I can do this.” Aranea arched a brow, scoffing under her breath. Was this what her dear brother had liked about this girl? She wondered. Who would have guessed, that her straight-laced, uptight, stuffy, stick in the mud – and up his ass – killjoy of a sibling would be enamoured not with a docile lamb, but with a wild wolf. Providence sure had a way of mocking them all.

The silver-haired woman pursed her lips, briefly pondering why she was even helping this minx who had broken her brother’s heart. She couldn’t deny that the girl had her charms, with a wintry sort of beauty and that ice-princess demeanour. But perhaps it was her sense of honour that had endeared her to the Captain of the Vale Knights.

Despite her promise, Aranea had not expected the girl to turn up at the appointed hour for their ‘duel’. She had some guts to show her face at the dragoon’s camp, which was milling with Niflheim men, knowing what they had planned to do to her. But the little She-wolf had come – alone, without weapon or armour, and clad only in a loose cloak that hung off her shoulders. Aranea had called off the duel, and then the girl had asked to borrow a lance.

“Lady A.” Aranea nodded at a squire who was bringing up a dapple-grey mare. He handed off the reins to the commodore, who led the destrier over to her younger counterpart. “Here, Farron. Ride this one in the next round.”

At the questioning look, the dragoon explained. “She’s in estrus. Nothing drives a stallion wild like a mare in heat. Though I’m sure you already know that...from personal experience.”

There was a hot flush on the other woman’s cheeks. Claire ran a hand along the sorrel mare’s neck. “I’ll stick with this one. I like her. She’s brave. You trained her well.”

Now it was the dragoon’s turn to blush at the compliment. “Fine, whatever.”

Claire gave a small nod of thanks, her features a mask of cold steel, and then she caught sight of something in the corner of her eye, and the ice in them seemed to thaw.

Aranea followed the direction of her gaze to the royal box. The Dragon Prince sat regal in his seat, looking bored out of his mind as usual. The knight’s stare lingered for a moment longer, before she tore her eyes away, re-donning her armour.

So the little She-wolf harboured feelings for another? Was he the one who had foiled Lord Aldercapt’s ploy last night?

Claire remounted the sorrel mare, casting another darting look at the stands. Aranea felt a trace of sympathy for her.

A woman in the Seven Kingdoms had little choice in many things, not least in the ones they loved.

Providence sure had a way of mocking them all.

Autumn was the season of the joust.

Every Fall, tourneys were held all over the continent, capturing the allure of lordlings and commonfolk alike. Lord Ignis Scientia did not count himself amongst the ardent fans of the sport, but it helped to keep the King’s knights in fighting shape, and the general populace entertained. He supposed that there was a certain truth to the age-old maxim – ‘in times of war, men will crave for peace; and in times of peace, men will beg for war’.

The King’s Tourney was the biggest prize of them all. King Regis had conceived the Tourney as a scouting ground for fresh talent, with past champions being appointed to positions in the City Watch and even the Kingsguard. But with his Majesty’s mind in a rot, the event had become more of a public spectacle as of late.

Two knights raced towards each other, meeting in the middle of the lane with a violent clash. Both broke their lances.

“Ser Ulric wins the bout, one lance to three.” The arbiter announced. “Ser Ulric advances to the Finals.”

“Who do you think will win?” Noctis asked casually.

Ignis crossed his arms over his chest with a sideways glance. “I’m not a betting man.”

“Oh come on, Igs. You’re not still upset that I sent the Kingsguard away, are you?” Noctis sighed. “I already told you, I wanted a private word with Lord Aldercapt. Man to man. What was said was between the both of us alone.”

Ignis furrowed his brow, but he made no further comment. Instead, he turned his attention back to the arena, where the final round of the day was about to commence.

The real surprise of the Tourney was Nyx’s opponent – the unsung red knight who had upset Ser Drautos in the opening round. The lad had done well, defying the odds to make it this far, even if he was a fool to risk further injury to his arm. The partisan crowd was split on who to rout for, though the punters were putting their money on the hometown hero, as would any man with half a brain, in Ignis’ opinion at least.

“This knight, he reminds me of someone.” Noctis murmured, a faint smile playing on his lips. “If he wins the Tourney, perhaps I shall reward him with a place in the Gold Cloaks. It’s just as well that he will have to defeat Ser Drautos’s second in command to earn it.”

“The Knight of the Black Rose, they’re calling him.” The Dragon Prince gestured to the single dark rose embroiled on the knight’s crimson surcoat, a fitting contrast to the silver moonflower that adorned Ser Ulric’s. “That armour, it’s from the Vale, is it not?”

Ignis nodded. The Knights of the Vale had discovered a means of forging a composite metal from rare ores mined from the mountainous quarries of the Moon Mountains. ‘The unbreakable glass’, it was called, for it was three times lighter than conventional steel but just as sturdy, though the thinner plates lacked the shock absorbent properties of their heftier counterparts. Ignis could only imagine that each blow felt like being hit by a ton of bricks.

“The trick is not to get hit.” Aranea had told him once. “All you have to do is connect first, and make sure you dump the other guy on his back.”

But this knight was not an apprentice of the Vale. He reminded Ignis of Aranea, but while the latter was a true-bred dragoon-knight who could catch a ring hurled through the air on her lance while riding at a flat-out gallop, this knight was more about determination than skill.

Yes, he was a plainly talented rider, with strong legs and an excellent seat, and the mare responded with trust, charging bravely and never veering from the tilt rail. But he had no business winning a grand tourney aside from the sheer refusal to be knocked off his horse.

Ignis pressed his lips into a thin line. He didn’t need three guesses to know who he reminded Noctis of.

Nyx Ulric was proud of his skills at the joust. He won his first Tourney at seventeen, the same year he had left his hometown of Gallahd – a small hamlet nestled in the fertile soils of the Reach – and come to live in King’s Landing. Ever since then he had found a second home in the crown city, and a family in the Gold Cloaks of the City’s Watch.

To the uninitiated, a mounted knight might seem like an awfully big mark that even a blind man could not miss; but make that a moving target hurtling up to you while you are racing up to him, and that complicated things a few.

Most knights went for the centre of the chest – that nice broad space between the shoulders. But not Nyx. He looked them right between the eyes, and that was where he aimed his lance.

Nobody likes being hit in the head. Even a glancing blow to the temple was more effective in throwing a rider’s balance than a full-on hammer-blow to the sternum. Therein lay the art of the joust – the goal isn’t to knock the other guy out, merely to knock him off his horse.

His opponent stepped up to the rail, raising his lance to give the ready signal.  

This darkhorse was more dangerous than he appeared. He didn’t hit hard, but he picked his spots, and like Nyx he understood the lethality of headshots. The injury he had picked up against Drautos looked to be more serious than he let on. More than once, Nyx had caught him clutching at his right side, doubled over in pain, but his arm never wavered during the charge. This kid was tough as nails; and a good rider to boot, the kind that sat the saddle like glue. He wasn’t going to go down without a hard-fought fight.

“Reminds me of you, when you first came to us.” Libertus had jested. “Too stubborn for your own good.”

“Be careful, he’s trickier than he looks.” Crowe whispered as she handed him his lance.

“Wish me luck!” He winked cockily, giving his bay stallion a light kick with his heels. The steed came off his leg smartly, springing forward into a streaking gallop. The rampant roar of the crowd was drowned out by the gushing in his ears, and the thundering of furious hoofbeats. He angled the lance down, lining up the iron arrow with his target, an action that was mirrored by his opponent.

There was an old axiom about the joust – keep the stick and the horse steady, and never let your eyes lose sight of the target. The first part was easier said than done, but the second was close to impossible. Most knights lifted their heads at the last second – whether voluntary or involuntarily – in order to avert their eyes from the sharp splinters of a shattered lance. But this kid was different. He wore a visor-less helm that allowed for clear sight of the target, and his eyes never looked away; fearlessly staring down the opponent’s lance, and riding right into the impact.

Nyx kept a firm grip on his lance, and his sights locked forward. As the two flashed up to each other, he caught a glimpse of icy-blue eyes, with a steely glint in them. His pulse raced. The nerve of that boy; he had been looking right at Nyx’s eyes!

And then a sea of stars exploded in his vision. There was no pain – well, not at first anyway – only a stunned numbness. His head spun, his vision swam, and he was sure that one of his eardrums was blown from the incessant high-pitched ringing in his ears.

A light buck from his horse reminded him that he was still on its back. The bay stallion slowed to a trot at the end of the lane, tossing its head and blowing noisily through its nostrils, not half as winded as its rider. Somehow, Nyx had the presence of mind to fumble for the reins, turning the steed’s head around. Through the groggy fog, he caught sight of the broken lance still clutched tightly in his grasp.

I got him? The disbelieving thought flashed through his still reeling head, accompanied by an image of enigmatic blue eyes. Blue like the sky in midwinter; blue like a glacial, but also like fire. They had frozen him in place, thrown off his focus. But Lady Luck was on his side today. Add to that, years of honed instincts that had kept his arm and aim steady when his head and heart were not.

“You with me, Ulric?” Crowe caught hold of the stallion’s bridle, giving its rider a light punch on the knee. “That was a cracking shot. Poor kid definitely felt that one.” Nyx furrowed his brow, but as he craned his neck around, her meaning soon became apparent. That was not how shoulders were supposed to look like – the red knight’s right arm looked twisted in unnaturally and the top of it was sticking out from the back of his shoulder.

Nyx swallowed. He hadn’t meant it on purpose. He honestly hadn’t thought about targeting the arm at all. But it still felt like a bit of a low blow. A cheap shot.

“I know it’s not how you would have wanted to win.” Crowe’s raspy lilt cut through his thoughts.

“How did you–?”  

“I always know what you’re thinking.” She huffed, looking up at him through thick lashes. “Especially when you’ve got that guilt-ridden look on your face. It isn’t your fault, so don’t you start blaming yourself, you hear? Injuries are part of the joust.”

The red knight made a stiff dismount from his mare, holding his arm gingerly by his side as a taller dark-haired woman inspected the damage. The more squeamish members of the audience adverted their eyes as she took the limp arm above the elbow, and with a firm downward pressure followed by a painful-looking wrench, snapped the shoulder back into place.

Nyx looked on, an uncharacteristic frown on his face, as his opponent remounted his charger to a rousing applause from the crowd. “Looks like the match is back on.” He took a deep breath, though it did nothing to dispel the weight in his chest. “That kid’s either being really brave or really stupid.”

Crowe’s lips twitched. “Says the man who’s often on the wrong side of that line. I vaguely recall a certain someone winning his first tourney while nursing a broken hand and a minor concussion.” She gave him a pointed look.

She had him there. But in Nyx’s defence, it was his non-sword hand that was broken, and he had busted it in a brawl with two senior guards who had been making indecent remarks about Crowe. 

At the wave of a flag the two sides charged. Nyx read the strain in his younger opponent’s posture and the struggle he was having just to get the lance in the cradle. A spike of pain must have hit him, for the arm went slack, giving out at the shoulder as he was forced to drop the stick.

Nyx gritted his teeth. By the rules of the joust he was still entitled to take his shot, and his opponent was still riding hard toward him, keeping to the rail to allow Nyx to have a fair crack at him.

So he’s an honourable one too, huh?

The onlookers gasped audibly as Nyx pressed his heels into the stirrups, drawing back on the reins to ease his mount up. The other knight followed suit, pulling up his mare with his good arm. The two came to a halt metres apart. Once again, Nyx found himself staring into a pair of glacial blue eyes. “This isn’t worth losing your arm over.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” Was the crisp reply.

Nyx stiffened, breath hitching in his throat, head reeling as if he had taken another smashing blow to the skull. The knight’s voice was a little rasped and breathy from pain, falling somewhere between the higher registers of a choir boy and the deeper tones of a violone cello, smooth and silky but with a steely edge. Without a doubt, it was a woman’s voice.

He – no, she – said no more, turning away from him with a touch of her heels on the sorrel mare’s flank. Nyx was left staring at her back, before turning and riding back to where Crowe was waiting for him.

The latter shook her head as he cantered up to her. “Always the hero, huh?”

“That’s it, you’re done.” Aranea declared as she snatched up the mare’s reins.

A grasping hand on her shoulder spun her around. The dragoon lifted her chin, coming face to face with a pair of piercing blue orbs. A shiver ran up her spine. She imagined an impassive Northern glacier, alit with the flames of a thousand suns – as if the girl’s heart was ice, but her soul burned hot like fire.

The woman kept silent and still, crystal blue eyes boring into Aranea’s, iron grip digging into her arm. The dragoon arched a sculpted brow and returned the stiff-necked stare. “Are you going to feed me more of that big talk about how you can do it? Because I’m not biting.”

“There is no can or can’t; some things you just have to do.” Was the stoic reply, and perhaps the sage-like air would have been more convincing if her voice wasn’t cracked with pain.

“You just dropped a perfectly good lance in the dirt.” Aranea forcefully retracted her arm, crossing it over the other across her chest.

“Then tie the lance to my hand.”

The dragoon cocked her head. “You just don’t know when to quit do you?”

Claire bit her lip. “Falcons are dauntless, aren’t they? Well, so are wolves. When we have something to fight for, we never give up; no matter the pain, no matter the cost.”

The dragoon ground her teeth, hard stare unwavering. Finally she rolled her eyes, sighing heavily and mumbling a curse about stupid, stubborn wolves. “Alright, Farron. Give me your hand.”

“This is all on you, you hear? I’m not taking any responsibility if you get yourself wrecked out there.”

Claire chuckled wryly, but there was a smile in her eyes. “Thanks, Aranea.” 

If Ignis was curious before, now he was genuinely surprised, an admittedly rare occurrence for the man.

Aranea was squiring for him? Who was that knight? He knotted his brows, squinting through the gleaming rays of the midday sun. The two seemed to be caught in an argument, until the dragoon relented with a huff – and one of her legendary eye-rolls, Ignis imagined – grabbing hold of the other’s arm and securing the lance to it with a length of rope.

It seemed the kid was determined to go down swinging.

Ignis flicked a glance over to the other end of the arena. Nyx looked far more reluctant to take his lance. But a knight’s honour compelled his hand. This time his opponent’s arm did not falter, nor did the veteran knight’s aim. A clash of steel tore through the clobbering of hooves, like a clap of thunder in a storm.

But both men sat sturdy in the saddle, and with two lances each, the two knights were declared co-victors of the Tourney.

Ignis clapped idly as the Knight of the Black Rose received the fabled wreath of roses, balancing it on the broken end of his lance. No one could deny that it had come at a costly price; but one that a knight would willingly pay for his lady. He shot a glance at Aranea, who was watching on with a curious tilt of her head. The future Hand clenched his jaw, frown turning sour. He didn’t know what the proud dragoon would think of being crowned ‘Queen of Love and Beauty’, but the thought did not sit well with him for some reason.

The arena fell silent, all eyes on the new champion as he nudged his mare forward. The light clip-clops of hooves echoed in Ignis’ ears as horse and rider approached the Royal Box, coming to a halt a respectful distance in front of it.

Beside him, Noctis sucked in a breath, breathing out through his nose.

Both men watched as the red knight leaned forward, extending an arm and holding out the crown of roses to the Dragon Prince. The adrenaline rush was fading; his battered arm trembling ever so slightly under the strain of holding the heavy lance steady.

Noctis sat imposingly still, making no move to accept the pro-offered token, but his breath was coming thick and fast, as if he had just been in the fight of his life.

The red knight bowed his head, gently laying the crown on the Prince’s lap before retracting the lance. Noctis’ hand shot out, seizing hold of the splintered wood in his fist.

“Take off your helm.” He commanded, voice low and husky. “Show me your face.”

There was a moment of hesitance, and then the knight moved to obey the order, reaching up with his free hand to release the straps of his helm. The mask of steel was pulled back and dropped to the ground with a ‘thunk’, and then the knight raised his head.

No, not his – hers.

Her cheeks were streaked with stains and sweat still glistened on her pale face, dripping off her chin and running in small rivulets down her neck. Her blossom pink tresses were dark and matted, floppy bangs plastered to her forehead. But Noctis was looking at her like she was the most beautiful star in the sky, like he had just seen an angel. Like his eyes, the Prince’s smile was gentle, almost heartbreakingly so. Not the smile of a future king, who had the world at his feet; but the smile of a man, whose heart had been stolen.  

The corners of her lips lifted, the faint curve slowly broadening. It started off small and hesitant, followed by a cheeky twitch of amusement at his surprise, and then it was soft and sweet, before settling on a lop-sided grin.

“You’re hurt.” Noctis’ voice tremored.

She shook her head, smile reassuring.

There were times when Ignis had questioned what the Dragon Prince saw in this girl. But right now those doubts were erased. While the genteel ladies of the court showed their affections through societal conventions – blushing smiles, bashful giggles, courtly dances and letters of love – Farron was not like other girls.

Ignis had heard that the She-wolf was a woman of few words. But with a lance and a horse and a crown of roses, she had said more than words could ever convey.

She was worthy of him, Ignis decided. No one else could make Noct smile like that.

It would seem that the mighty dragon had been tamed by a little wolf. Or perhaps it was the wolf that has been tamed by the dragon.

After a night of being the toast of the City Guard, Nyx Ulric was now paying the price of nursing the disagreeable after-effects of one too many steins of ale. Thankfully for the Vice-Captain and his throbbing skull, Drautos had given him the day off to recover.

The waterfront was Nyx’s favourite part of the old city. The quaint cobblestone streets that led to the bustling harbour reminded of his hometown, only without the unpleasant memories. He clambered up onto a slab of breakwater, listening to the sound of the waves lapping at the gravel shore. The smell of sea salt always did wonders to clear his mind. His eyelids drifted shut, as his thoughts drifted off to a pair of glacial blue eyes that would surely haunt his dreams for nights to come.

A loud splash had them snapping open again. But instead of the panicked cry of a child who had been playing too close to the docks and taken an untimely fall off the pier, the only sound that he heard was a plaintive howl. 

“Odin come on, it’s just water! It’ll help you cool off. Don’t act like it’s going to eat you, you big goof.”

Nyx inhaled sharply. He had only heard that voice once before, but he would recognize it anywhere. It belonged to her – the Knight of the Black Rose. No, he shook his head, mentally correcting himself. Claire Farron was a Lady, not a knight; and her banner was a snarling white wolf, though a wild rose seemed just as fitting.

She was also the future Lord of Winterfell, the commander of the Northern army, and according to wagging tongues and a cryptic prophesy, the future ‘Queen in the North’.

But to Nyx she was just a girl; a girl who had taken on the mantle of a knight and won a Tourney, not for fame or glory, but to prove her love for a prince; a girl who was currently trying to coax a two hundred pound direwolf into the shallower waters of the bay.

Mornings were chilly, when the breeze came in from the bay before the sun warmed up the land. But the girl wore only a thin gown, the linen sodden and slicked to her skin. The garment’s right sleeve had been hacked off to accommodate the spica cast moulded to her shoulder and upper chest like a pauldron.

“Need some help?” He hopped off the sea wall, strolling down the beachhead and sloshing into the shallow waters. Damn, it was cold. Nyx was secretly thankful that he didn’t have to take a swim today.

Girl and wolf swung around, the latter with a rumbling growl deep in his throat, while his Lady-Master kept her expression stolid and aloof. A single word came to Nyx’s mind – Winter. To appreciate its beauty, you have to endure its cold.

“Odin doesn’t like strangers.” She warned him off with a glare.

He held out a hand. “Nyx Ulric. There, we’re not strangers now.”

Her eyes sparked with recognition. Suddenly he was no longer being faced with a blizzard, but a light flurry of snow.

Odin took the opportunity to escape her hold, scampering up onto drier land. The wolf shook himself off, water flying everywhere.  

“Weird time of the day for a swim.” Nyx commented with a wry smile.

“I’ve forgotten how humid the nights here can be, how the sun can scorch the earth like dragonfire. It’s been hard on Odin.” She ran a hand affectionately through the direwolf’s thick fur, earning a low whine in return. “Wolves don’t belong here.”

“But you came.” It wasn’t a question.

Her unfettered arm curled in at the elbow, fingers coming to rest over the beating organ in her chest. “It begged me to, I couldn’t say no. I just wanted to see him again.” She gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Foolish, I know.”

“It isn’t foolish.” Nyx assured her.

The waves were breaking harder now, ebbing away only to return with renewed force. Beside them, Odin’s growls had suddenly become more disquietened.

“Claire.” The woman tensed, looking up to meet the fiery gaze of the Dragon Prince. A gusty draft fluttered his sable robes, blowing the hood back, and whipping fronds of dark raven hair about his face. If the Prince felt the chill, he didn’t show it. Instead it was the woman beside Nyx who shivered in her thin cotton dress. Not so much from the cold, but from the intensity of the Prince’s stare.

“Nyx, could you give us a minute?” Noctis’ face was a mask of composure, but there was a fire crackling in his eyes. For a long while he just stared – at her lips, at her arm, at her face. But his eyes never left her. Finally the Prince grimaced. “Put on a cowl or a cloak for Etro’s sake, you’re going to catch a chill. Eos, do you Northerners have ice in your veins or something? Is that how you survive the bitter cold?”

Claire’s soft chuckle was barely audible above the waves. “The winters are cold for those without warm memories.”

The Prince smiled as he pushed his fringe out of his eyes, lost in a memory of his own. “You know, you were wearing a white dress just like that when we first met.” He took a step forward, boots crunching on the gravel shore.

“Your leg! Noct, you’re limping!” She gasped.  

Noctis paused, not expecting her to pick up on the barely perceptible unevenness in his step. “It’s nothing. An old injury. Took a fall while climbing.”

“You’re lying.” She scrunched up her face, halfway between a scowl and a frown. “You never fall.”

I fell for you. He wanted to say, but instead he took another step closer, reaching out to take both her hands in his. “Stay with me.” He tugged a banded silver ring off a chain around his neck. “Look, I’ve even got a ring.”

Her eyes widened with recognition, breath catching in her throat. “That’s– ”

A soft smile formed on the Prince’s lips. “A girl gave this to me, a long time ago. I’ve kept it all these years. About time I returned it to her.”

She shook her head, voice cracking slightly. “If you’re doing this because of that night– ”

“Claire.” He silenced her with a frown. “After that night, do you think I would let another man claim you?” His eyes were dark and heated, like glowing coals. “Dragons are possessive creatures, especially of their treasures.”

She looked away, dropping her gaze. Always resorting to silence when she was unsure or hesitant.

Noctis caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting it up. “Look at me, Claire. What am I to you? You let me have your body, but you won’t let me have your heart?”

She eyed the ring in his hand, before looking up to meet his eyes. “You already have it...you’ve always had it.”

Azure irises softened. The Dragon Prince slid the ring onto his Lady’s finger, the coolness of the metal sending another shiver up her spine. “Stay with me.” He breathed. “Be my sword and my shield. And my Queen.”

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