Doubt kills more dreams than failure ever will.

"Do you think it has to do with what happened earlier?" Ben asked, gripping her arm before she joined the young man. 

"What else would he be summoning me for?" Tali retorted hoarsely, her voice cracking and betraying the fear she had in facing the Khal. 

"You protected the Khaleesi, you will not be in trouble," Ben insisted, his own confidence in the matter shadowing over hers. 

But she had seen Jhogo's face as he called for her and she had no doubt that this would not be a simple or amicable meeting. No, there was more to it and her skin crawled as she wondered how she might be shamed that evening. There was no rebuffing or declining the Khal's invitation and so she brushed out of her partner's hold and set her jaw, nodding as Jhogo as she followed behind him. Benjen followed as far as he was allowed to, which was up until the entrance of the great tent that belonged to Drogo and Daenerys, so large that an elephant could fit inside with ease.

Two bloodriders stood outside, giving discreet jerks of their head to Jhogo as he escorted her in, but Ben was barred outside. Within was not a welcoming sight. Daenerys was there, but seated beside her husband with a tight expression. Khal Drogo's dark eyes burned a trail after Tali as she approached where he lounged. Strangely, they did not disarm her before the Khal, but Jhogo delivered her as asked and stepped aside so that she stood in front of the imposing man. She nearly locked her knees in an effort to keep them from quaking, aware she might pass out if she did so. That didn't assist her at all, the worry bobbing in her throat in the form of the inability to swallow the tacky, dry taste in her mouth.

"Taliya Sand," Khal Drogo began, her Dornish name rolling around strangely on his tongue as he spoke it aloud for the first time. "Today, you defended my wife, the Khaleesi, from her brother. What do you have to say for yourself?"

"That I would do it again if it prevented Viserys from laying a hand on her," Taliya answered in Dothraki, her speech having improved significantly over the weeks. 

"To what end?" Khal Drogo challenged. "Jhogo was hooves behind you and yet you interfere. It is not your place. You are a woman. I have tolerated you playing pretend and wearing your weapon, as my wife expresses that your people--the Dornish--allow it. We do not allow it. A woman such as yourself would better serve my own men in the manner you were born to accomplish."

"Jhogo would not have gotten to the Khaleesi in time," Taliya asserted obstinately. "If I were a man, you would be rewarding me for this service. Yet, because I am a woman, I am being questioned as if it was I who attacked the Khaleesi?" Her bitter fury was getting the better of her, barring the silence she should have bequeathed the Khal, but instead she lashed out at him. Her cheeks were burning and she was insensed by the fact that he was not appreciative of her deed.

"Watch your tongue, witch," Cohollo snarled, baring broken teeth at Taliya as she scowled.

Khal Drogo waved his bloodrider back and sat up in his seat. "If you would like to defend my wife, perhaps I should give you more of a challenge to prove your worth than the Sorefoot King. You wear a sword, but can you use it? Jhogo says you struck the boy with your arm, but did not draw a blade."

"There was no reason to draw my sword. Not immediately," Taliya remarked, her pulse tensing at the thought of having to fight any of his bloodriders or maybe even Drogo himself. She was going to die.

"Those that fear to draw their blades die cowards," Khal Drogo insisted. 

"If I must prove that I can use the sword that I carry, I will fight," Taliya conceded, already backed into a proverbial wall. She couldn't deny the Khal, not without castrating herself and her liberties. She carried a sword, she was just as challenging as any man in the camp and she had to own up to that. This didn't mean she was a stalwart wall of resolve and confidence. She had seen some of the men fight during the wedding and spar during their free time. They were dervishes, berserkers, and she did not have their years of expertise beneath her silk sash belt. "But if I win, I will be treated as an equal and I will serve the Khaleesi if she should have me."

Khal Drogo thundered with laughter, clutching his stomach at her demands, but there was an admiring glimmer within the depths. Even if he openly chuckled, she knew that his honor dictated giving her what she wanted. The only issue was surviving the fight in the first place. 

Lord of Light, please don't kill me right here. I've really come to like living again, Taliya pleaded silently, making what peace she could with the fact that she'd have a new dance partner that wasn't Ben. The Dothraki in the tent were getting worked up, excited to see how this would pan out, if not craving her blood be spilled upon the dirt so that they could chortle about how absurd it had been that a woman was pretending to be a warrior.

Ushered out into the brisk evening air, she caught Benjen standing beside Jorah. He uncrossed his arms, about to open his mouth to question what had happened within the tent when the Dothraki began to hoot and holler, calling for others to join the spectacle, for them all to witness the brutalizing about to occur. Their rallying cries were echoed and warriors poured out of the nooks and crannies like mites, clustering and muttering as Khal Drogo made his grand appearance, giving her a pious look before announcing to the crowd.

"The woman believes she can fight and do a Dothraki's job in defending the Khaleesi. So the woman shall fight and prove herself or die trying," his voice boomed, echoing above the cacophony as their voices grew louder and more spiteful. Even the female Dothraki hissed and lobbed insults in her direction, the muddling of words like whore, witch, slut, and other unsavory names becoming lost amongst the thirst of the mob. 

"Taliya!" 

Her head turned slowly to gaze over at her friend, his dark brows pushed together and his fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword. He was worried, using his every fiber to not break forward and put an end to this mess, but she shook her head at him. There would be no use. He'd only get overwhelmed and killed. What good would he be then? If at least one of them survived, then they could continue on their sacred mission. She let out a low breath, praying again to the Lord of Light for guidance. Never once in her life, here or on earth, had she ever felt so helpless or without guidance. Since arriving here, the Lord of Light had only whispered a few things in the fire, but never anything directly. Was this his will? 

God was a fickle subject to her. Her family had been religious, Catholic, and thus she had been raised that way. Truthfully, she never really believed in any of it. Now? She was fervently praying to R'hllor in hopes that He wouldn't toss her aside. Gods, she was so terrified as Khal Drogo picked out a Dothraki warrior from the crowd, deciding that his own bloodriders were too much of a challenge for her. She was thankful for that spark of pity, because that might be the difference between death and life.

Another tremulous breath parted her lips, but she reminded herself that this was not the first life she had taken. Taliya--no, Tabitha, had killed before. It hadn't been intentional, she hadn't even been in a combat unit. They were ambushed after an IED went off and she had no choice but to fight back. Her rifle had been thrown aside and all she'd had was her knowledge in Krav Maga and a knife. She had walked away from that fight, but the jihad had not. He too had doubted that a woman could fight.

The Dothraki was shorter than her. Taliyah was a tall woman, but she wasn't as robust as he was. He drew his arakh, the curved blade glistening in the fire light that illuminated the camp and chased long shadows across the khalasar. He grinned and she knew that immediate death would not be in the cards should she fail to defend herself. No, they would embarrass the woman who believed she could fight. They would take everything from her before killing her. She had more to lose than her life.

Her hand went to her sword, utilizing the grip she'd become more dexterously familiar with: the icepick grasp. Fate was shorter than most longswords and the movement felt more natural. The Valyrian steel caught the moonlight and glimmered with the darkened ripples, drawing attention from those that had never seen such steel before.

"Once I mount you, I'll kill you and take that pretty sword," the man told her, pointing his arakh toward her menacingly. For all his talk, he was not as terrifying as the Other in the haunted forest.

"Once I kill you, I'll turn you into a gelding and shove your balls into that filthy mouth of yours," Taliya retorted snidely, not one for playing nice when it came to her life hanging in the balance. The brief moment she had before the collision, her eyes went over toward Daenerys, the braziers on either side of her climbing high toward the sky and that's when she saw it. He was watching.

The arakh collided with Fate, the curved blade screeching against her own steel. Taliya did not remain fast in the position that would sap her energy. Instead, the parry was glanced, as she knew that the Dothraki were quick, but went for killing blows rather than continuing playing between blades. After all, an arakh was a tool for carving, not for the finesse and elegance of a dance. That did not mean she was in any advantage, in fact, if the arakh caught Fate just right, he could rip the sword out of her hands. 

The best defense would be her offense and her speed. Her stout opponent would try to overpower her, but his confidence exuded from each swing. She ducked beneath the next, bent down and grabbed a palm full of sand with her free hand, before throwing it up into his face. The man sputtered as she darted forward, his arakh barely coming up in time to defend the jab she'd aimed for him. 

His fervor redoubled and through angry, reddened eyes, she battered her back, each clang of his crescent blade forcing her another step until she was getting too close to the crowd of onlookers. Weighing her options, she turned the next strike and drove back toward him. Her reach was longer with the longsword and her arms, she forced him two steps, and then made a grievous mistake. The curve of the arakh collided with the sword, squealing down the fuller as it locked and a devilish smile unfurled on his face. She knew what this meant.

Rather than give him the satisfaction of tearing the sword from her hand, she spat in his face and threw Fate as hard as she could before barreling into the Dothraki like a linebacker trying to defend his quarterback. They fell to the ground in a scuffle, both blades skittering away as they collided with the earth. She had not noticed the Dothraki utilizing hand to hand combat or not much of it. They were mounted warriors. They fought in the saddles more often than naught. Here, she had the advantage and the man had yet to realize it.

But she worked like a serpent, fighting for the dominant position, blocking his strikes as she straddled him and palmed his nose, the cartilage crunching beneath her hand, blood spurting in a crimson river as he groaned. He threw a punch that jerked her head back with a snap, but she did not give up her position, even as they rolled and the shouting around them reached a fever pitch. She had him in a choke, the man lifting in a futile attempt to smash her into the ground. She was winded by the effort, but he was weakening by the second. Enough that she was able to reach to her belt and retrieve her dagger.

The Dothraki were screaming now, warning him of the danger, calling him a failure for allowing himself to be wrapped up by her like prey to a cobra, but Taliya did not hear. This was the same position that she had killed the jihad in, strangling him from behind before she took her knife and dragged it deep across his throat, giving him a second smile. Blood beaded between her hands, slickening the knife as the man garbled, jerking in her grasp before going limp.

For a crowd that had been harkening her rape and death, they grew eerily quiet as she shoved his corpse to the ground and stood, her hands soaked in the blood of the Dothraki warrior and her silks stained with the life she had taken. Raising her knife in victory, she bent down, eying Khal Drogo openly as she grabbed the man's nearly decapitated head and cut off his braid. It was nowhere near as long or as impressive as Drogo's, but she threw it down in his direction, spitting a mouthful of her own blood on the ground. Her lip was busted from the punch, but at least she had all her teeth. 

Taliya retrieved her sword, shoving it back into the scabbard, before glancing at the body and feeling... nothing. Just like on deployment, she had felt no pity for the man that had tried to kill her. The only difference here was that she had understood the filthy words that had come from the Dothraki's mouth. 

"The woman has won," Khal Drogo deemed, his face unreadable. Whether or not he was impressed, she could not say. "If she is really a woman."

Tailya frowned, her adrenaline still surging through her veins as these words escaped his mouth. What did that mean? She had won! She had won with her bare hands! The Lord of Light had blessed her fight, He had been watching and deemed her worthy! "This was not part of the deal!" she snarled, glaring at Cohollo and Haggo as they erred closer to her. 

"I will keep my end of the bargain," Khal Drogo insisted. "But my khalasar will not believe this fight was won by a woman unless they see for themselves. Even I doubt it."

Taliya reached for her sword, but knew she would not beat the both of them. Khal Drogo was still keeping his oath, but he was still taking something precious from her. No. She would not allow it. "You wish to see that I am a woman?" Taliya snarled, throwing her dagger into the dirt in front of her. "Fine. But I will show you myself," she snapped, fumbling the silks and leathers that she wore. She would not be stripped by the bloodriders, she would not be embarrassed by their hands. 

Working piece by piece, she glared openly at them all, each layer that came off causing her fingers to shake even more. Finally, when she'd reached the blouse that hit her breasts, she swallowed hard and yanked it off. Taliya was not big breasted, she was athletic, thus she knew that given her stature, she would have to do more than remove her top. She kicked her harem trousers off and then the thin string for underwear she'd donned until she was standing as naked as the day she'd been born. 

She hated it. The roaming eyes, the gesticulating, and the faces of those who would prefer to put hands on the honed, muscular woman who stood openly before them. But if this were to happen anywhere, the Dothraki was the best scenario. How could she face anyone in Westeros if she'd been forced to stand in front of them all like this? Just as Cersei would have to march through King's Landing? 

"She is a woman," Khal Drogo agreed, his eyes lingering on her mound, before he waved his bloodriders back. "This woman has proven she can fight. There is a first for everything." He turned his back and receded into his tent, sweeping Daenerys along with him. 

Taliya's eyes burned, but she knew that she would not cry, she could not. She had proven that she was strong and that would all be lost if she started blubbering. Crouching down, as to protect the last shreds of her modesty as she grabbed her shirt and thrust it back over her head with shaking hands, she drew a shuddering breath on the cusp of breaking down. How many erections had she noticed pressed within the leathers? How many men imagining fucking her out in the open despite the throat she'd just opened? 

"Taliya-" The last voice she wanted to hear because of how mortified she was. Ben knelt beside her, his cloak falling around her shoulders as she fumbled her belongings on the ground, her fingers still stained red from the blood she had spilled. 

"I hope you enjoyed the show," she hissed through her clenched teeth, managing to get her pants on before bundling the rest up in her arms and gripping her sword scabbard tight in her fist. 

"Tali, I..." but he was at a loss for words as she got to her feet and started to storm away toward the outskirts of the khalasar where they'd pitched their tents. She drew in his cloak, her resolve crumbling with each step, carrying herself further than the tent and out into the brush with only the stars for company. Well, at least she'd thought that until she heard him pursuing her. Crouching back down amongst the tall grass, Taliya drew in toward herself, shuddering as she lost control of her tightly reigned emotions. "Tali!"

"Go away, do I look like I want to be bothered right now?" she asked hoarsely, unable to stop the tears from falling out of her eyes. "I came out here to be alone!"

But he did not leave her alone, much to her disdain. She felt Balerion probing, the griffin not too far, but at a great enough length that it would take him a few minutes to reach them. She denied his request, feeling bad for keeping him at a distance for so long, but they were safer this way. She pressed her face into her knees, sitting in the dirt, crying like a child. She was deserving of a good cry and this one had rushed up to meet her all at once. 

A hand touched her shoulder and she jerked it away. What repulsive thoughts did he have of her now? In Westeros, a lady would never bear herself like that. The Dothraki would have done it for her, turned her into a victim, but she had refused to let herself be belittled. If they wanted to see her vagina, she was going to show it herself and not have the choice taken from her. Still, it didn't make her feel much better. She was disgusted with herself and even if she knew their harsh words weren't true, they still bit into her skin as if they were.

"Shh, shh," Benjen knelt beside her, smoothing her hair back as she wept, the motion astonishingly soothing for a man who'd spent little time occupying it with the opposite gender. She supposed he had nieces to look after once in a while, but was still affronted with her own lewd display. 

"I thought I told you to go away," she sniffled indignantly.

"And miss you shedding tears? This is a once in a lifetime opportunity. I thought you did not have the ability to for the longest time," Benjen remarked glibly, deserving of a subconscious thwap of the back of her knuckles to his knee. "I should have done something-"

"You couldn't. There was no way that it would have turned out well for either of us had you stepped up to defend me," Taliya reminded him, clearing her throat as she tried to stop the watershow. "It's not like I'm some dainty lady with honor to defend anyways."

"Is that what you really believe?" Ben inquired quietly.

"I'm no one, Ben. I have no noble name to protect me."

"That's not true. You are a Warden. The First Warden. There's only two of us. That makes you more important than the majority of nobility in Westeros... in the world. What makes you think otherwise?"

"Because it will always come down to titles and blood. Even if I help fix the world, save those marked for slaughter, it will always come back to the fact that I'm no one," she rebuffed, brushing the hand on her shoulder away. "I shouldn't be crying over this. I won, I'm alive, and I proved that a woman can have enough skill to best a man. I just-" she lifted her face, her voice cracking under the strain as she tried to piece her shattered resolve back together.

"You are human, Tali. I think I would be more worried if you had not reacted at all to what just happened," Ben reminded her. 

"I could've handled it better. Now I'm a mess, I've got blood all over me and it's mixed with tears. I'm going to need new clothes."

"That's what you are worried about?" Ben muttered in disbelief.

She was deflecting, but it seemed easier to do that than to face that fact that he'd watched her strip in front of hundreds of people until she was naked. "I liked these silks," she complained. 

Managing a glance up at him, she saw the shadowed countenance of her companion. Despite his warm words to her, she knew that he was bothered by the situation and how out of hand it had gotten in a matter of moments. It had been out of his control and the lack thereof perturbed him. It was admirable that he worried for her, but Taliya tried not too much too much worth into it, lest to save them both from eventual heartbreak.

She moved to stand up, drawing in the cloak once again, when a hand steadied her. Even in the darkness, the golden warmth of his eyes blazed like a beacon--like the sun itself. "You are not alone in this, Tali. You are never alone. We... are all we have. Even when we return to Westeros, I am not certain what my family will think of what has become of me. I am not certain I can return, as Starks take oaths very seriously. To the grave."

"You took yours to the grave, Ben," she reminded him.

"They might not understand, but you do. It's not as if I can explain it to them, you know how we are prohibited from talking to outsiders about our gifts," Ben sighed, having time to contemplate how fathomable resuming a normal life in Westeros would be once they did return. Taliya's gaze softened, not the whip sharp glare, the resting bitch face she typically wore, and she stifled a deep breath as she felt herself calming down. It still hurt, like a knife in her belly, twisting her entrails and causing pain, but he was right. At least she was not alone. Even Daenerys had not put in a word for her or tried to stop her husband, bringing color to her tanned cheeks as she thought in shame of how she'd overstepped her boundaries. But she was the First Warden, just as Benjen insisted. She was more important than any of them, wielding the knowledge to shape the world. One day her work would pay off and they'd all see it, that a woman could pull strings behind the scenes and achieve spectacular things. This was her origin and she had to combat the fact that she was no one. At least, she did not have to do it alone. Between Balerion, Torrhen, and Benjen-she knew she had people she could put her trust in, if only she could let them in.

Tabitha, her real name not the alias she'd taken, had always been reclusive. Since leaving the Army, finding new friends had been hard and she was often seen as standoffish, bossy, and a bit of a bitch. Assimilation into civilian life had been difficult, especially working in customer service where she had to slap a smile on despite not wanting to roll out of bed some days. War had been tough on her and the day to day environment of carefree civilian life had grated on her, weathering down her patience. Perhaps she should have never left the military and she wouldn't have spiralled, but her family had needed her as her contract had ended. The promising track she had been set on, especially after getting her degree, started to evaporate as she put her dreams on hold. Now, they'd never come to fruition, her dreams of being a blackhawk pilot dashed. Ironically, she was a different kind of pilot now, her skillset between her hobbies and what the military had taught her becoming pivotal in helping her in this new world.

"Last time I had people I could trust, I watched a handful of them get blown up," Taliya told him, finally breaking the silence as she snapped out of her daze. "Should have been a routine patrol. Road had been swept in the morning. Turns out we had a mole... someone who fed information to the other side, a traitor. Two of the soldiers were kids, just out of training, thrown onto a deployment in the desert. Hell of a first time getaway from home. Two 19 year olds with their whole lives ahead of them. Explosion killed Gabini immediately, concussed me, and maimed Brown. By the time I came to, they were finishing Brown off with a rusted knife, sawing it-" she swallowed hard, blinking back the repulsive memories. "They thought I was dead or were finishing the others to save me for last... Unfortunate for them. Shot the first, slit the throat of the other. When I got back home they gave me a shiny medal like that could make up for what was lost. If I could, I would have given my life in exchange for theirs.

"Then I get here and it's like everything I was, everything I worked for... It means nothing because I'm a woman or I'm common born. I'm not trying to sound arrogant, but I've better wits than the majority of the population and yet in an instant, I can be degraded without a choice. I was a sergeant, Ben. I was important, I had soldiers beneath me. I-" she shook her head. She had never talked about any of this. Always holding it in, repressing the fact that these deaths burned a hole in her heart. It was why she'd preferred the solitude with Balerion. Balerion would never hurt her.

"Losing men is never easy," Ben admitted, undoubtedly losing many of his brothers to the cold or wildlings. She felt a bit stupid mentioning it to him, someone who had probably seen many come and go over his years on the Wall. "I always did suspect you were prior military. Some of your mannerisms... and behavior."

"Never really goes away," she snorted. "Look, I didn't mean to be... emotional. Today has been absolute dog shit."

"Understandably," Ben agreed as they turned toward the khalasar, beginning to walk back to their camp. "I like to think we are friends, despite the circumstances that brought us together."

She was thankful for the cover of darkness as the corners of her mouth turned up. "Me, friends with a noble? Lord up above, I really must be something special to have impressed you, wolf-boy."

"You had me at 'chuckle-fuck' beyond the Wall," Ben informed her.

Taliya chortled, bringing her hand to her mouth to prevent the ugly noise from escaping her lips. "I do... have a colorful way of describing things."

"Especially under pressure. What was it again that you threatened that Dothraki with? Something about castrating him and then-"

"I'm no lady," Taliya broke in before he could finish.

"Perhaps not, but you're still a woman. At least I'm certain of that now."

Taliya glared at him, but the brightness in the Stark's eyes were not as mirthfilled as the Dothraki. Had it been anyone else, she might've punched them... Actually, she was still fully contemplating it. "Hope you got a good look. It's the only one you're ever going to get."

*

It was difficult to fall asleep at first, still restless from the evening that had battered her around like meat being tenderized. Once she did, she tumbled within a dream, so vivid that Tali remembered every fine detail. Darkness pooled around her, tendrils reaching out like hands, pulling at the sunset silks she was adorned in. While there seemed to be no ground, each step brought her forward in the shadow realm which she tread. Where was she going? She wandered aimlessly for a long time until her hip grew hot, Fate humming at her belt, growing red. Logic dictated that when she touched it, she should have been burned.

However, as her palm grazed the pommel, she only felt the warmth blistering metal, but was not injured as she ought to be. Taking the sword from the scabbard, the Valyrian steel burst into flames, just as some priests of R'hllor could manage. She wondered if Valyrian steel could take the heat of the magic over and over again, holding the sword in front of her face as it illuminated the abyss surrounding her. When she finally looked around, her skin crawled as the shadows took silhouettes and shape, just like the one that Melisandre would birth from Stannis. They pawed at the light, but did not approach.

Taliya continued down the trail with Fate as her beacon. Another light, wreathed in golden flame attracting her attention. Finally, when she reached it, she realized it was not an 'it' so much as it was a person. A statue of Ben stood before her, wielding a glorious longsword, a halo of sunlight blooming around his crown as if he were a saint. Weapon raised toward the sky, she saw the finer details of a full suit of armor and thought he looked rather akin to a paladin, a holy knight. Inscribed on the plinth below: Ser Benjen Stark, Champion of R'hllor, Warden of Light, Savior of Westeros.

Was this the future? Even if it was not her, she couldn't help but admire the beauty of the marble and how it captured her friend's features. If anyone deserved to be commemorated, Benjen certainly had her vote. But as she glanced around, she wondered why there was nothing about her. Taliya didn't need to be remembered, but she supposed that if Ben had gotten a statue, why wouldn't she? He was the sword, but she was the brains.

The shadows had lifted half of their shade and she was walking in a city... King's Landing? It was difficult to tell by the unnatural darkness that coated the city in an effervescent haze. No people milled around, but she saw the long shadows of the dark beings from her path. They stayed away from the light which she held, but followed her as she ascended up stairs toward a temple. The Sept of Baelor? No, the towers were missing, the beautiful stained glass removed. This was where the sept should have been, but in its place blazed a Red Temple with a great brazier and fire.

There cannot be light without shadow.

She tilted her head, looking for where the deep voice came. A shiver raked down her spine, the queer sound of the leagues deep voice echoing with the voices of many. The voice was masculine, but those that echoed it were legion. Continuing her path toward the Temple, Taliya leveled her eyes. Thus far, the Lord of Light had not made His intentions clear. She and Ben knew that it was He that had raised them, given them their fiery eyes, and tasked them with altering the future. Why he had done this, despite the fact that the Great Other would likely be defeated, Taliya could not say. Did He wish for different people to survive? Did He wish for dragons to live or Daenerys not to perish as a result of her descent into madness? There were no answers. They were champions without the word of their God telling them what to do.

There is no shadow without light to cast it.

Fate's light flickered and the shadows crept closer. They wouldn't attack her, would they? They were servants to the Lord, just as she was. But when she glanced at them, their black faces, she had a feeling they did not care who she was. Quickening her step, she hurried toward the Temple, Fate's brilliance continuing to fate. Her strides lengthened until she was running, banging up against the door to the temple as she tried to force it open. It was no use, the doors were locked.

Fate guttered out and Taliya turned, her heart in her throat as the shadow figures stood up. The only light she could see was the halo of Ben's statue, which was too far for salvation. Even the Red Temple seemed to forsake her, as if to cast her from her divine position and relinquish her to the abyss. She swiped her sword, the blade passing through the shadows without harming them... because they were shadows. A scream never parted her lips or if it did, there was no one to hear it. They fell on top of her, smothering her, ripping her away from King's Landing and tearing at her every fiber.

Shadow and light. They are both tools of the Lord. Two sides to the same coin.

Shadow. You are shadow.

Taliya awoke with a start, her fingers gripping her throat where she'd felt shadowy hands snared and pushing down into belly to eviscerate her insides, to tear away the light in her heart and replace it with shadow. The Lord of Light had yet to speak openly to her, but she wondered if that dream was His first attempt to press upon His will. They were Wardens, gifted with partners and flight, but was that all? Melisandre could conjure flame, she would raise Jon Snow, she could consume poison and live, and birth monstrosities. Could the Wardens do things?

She thought of the statue, how Ben had looked the part of the holy warrior, but she had been missing entirely. Would that be her future? Hidden in the shadows and forgotten for everything she'd forged? Tali was not jealous of Ben, it was a man's world, but it still stung to think that the Lord of Light would prefer him over her: The First Warden. What had He said... That had been the Lord, hadn't it? The deep, echoing of many voices in the shadow city, telling her that shadow and light were but two sides of the same coin... She was shadow.

Was Ben light?

Taliya dressed, her attire still blood stained, and her face still raw from where she'd been punched. Her split lip was crusty and she knew she had an ugly bruise radiating from mouth to the left side of her jaw. Fortunately, nothing was broken, but it still hurt like a bitch. Brushing her fingers through her hair, she noticed it was getting longer, but didn't take a knife to it just yet as she dragged herself out of bed.

The sun was bright, forcing her to shield her eyes as she stepped out and rolled her shoulders. What she wouldn't do for a bath or a shower. Pentos had been the last place such had been afforded and it hadn't even been a bath, it'd just been a basin filled with clean water and a rag. She was about to start making breakfast when a slender figure approached her anxiously, twisting her fingers into her skirts, long blonde hair glistening in the morning light.

Doreah finally found the courage to speak. "Khaleesi requests your company."

Great. That's just who she wanted to see after the girl had let her husband embarrass her before the Khalasar. Even if she wasn't to be petulant about it, she knew that it wasn't a request and a demand. Grumbling to herself, she pushed up to her feet, leaving behind the embers she had started to stoke. What did the child want? To apologize? To tell Taliya that she shouldn't have been such a brash fool? No, maybe Daenerys would agree with her husband and see nothing wrong with what had happened.

Rubbing her aching face, Taliya followed the Lyseni handmaiden across the camp. Oddly enough, she had expected the Dothraki to point and laugh at her, to continue to insult her further after the fiasco last night. However, she was astonished to see their gazes were not impish, but full of regard, as if they were seeing her for the first time. Nudity to the Dothraki was not as taboo as it was to Westerosi and other cultures. She had taken her fate into her own hands. Did they respect her?

That was wishful thinking. Maybe they were just afraid that she'd wrestle them to the ground and slit their throat like a goat as she'd done to one of their warriors.

The behavior change in the Dothraki was not the only thing that she noticed. In fact, there was a strange hum in her bones each time she glanced towards shade, where the sunlight did not strike. The shadows seemed to lengthen, to beckon toward her like a lurid lover. Perhaps she was dehydrated or had a concussion, because the shadows had never played around as they did now. She brushed away the words of R'hllor that buzzed in her ears like gnats: You are shadow.

Khal Drogo was not in the tent. It was only Daenerys and her handmaidens, to include Irri and Jhiqui. A hand rested gently on the girl's abdomen, which made Taliya wonder if the girl had discovered she was pregnant. The thought of someone so little, so young, being with child made her want to yak up a breakfast she hadn't had the chance to eat.

"Taliya," Daenerys entreated, but remained where she was sitting as she spoke her name.

"Khaleesi," she returned indifferently.

"My husband was impressed with your skill. He wonders where you learned to fight with your hands like that," Daenerys remarked.

"I told you that I served as a sellsword. I learned in Yi Ti," she lied simply.

Daenerys sighed, dropping her hand from her stomach, her eyes softening. "No woman should be shamed like that."

"Do the Dothraki see it as shame?" Taliya glanced toward Irri and Jhiqui, trying to gauge their reactions. They balked under her fiery gaze, averting their eyes as if they'd be burned if they stared for too long.

"They needed proof," Daenerys replied.

"You're becoming quite good with politics, Khaleesi. Answering, but still avoiding the original question. Tell me, is it you who feels shame or the Dothraki? Because on my walk here, they did not jeer, point, or laugh. Yet, I stand before you and I see pity in your eyes," Taliya countered sternly, daring to overstep the boundary between ranks as she bared her disdain over the girl's lack of reaction the evening before.

Daenerys' cheeks flushed at the insinuation. "Nothing I said could have changed what happened."

"No, I doubt it could, but you also have more power than you believe you do. I don't need an apology or your pity. I made my decision last night and I stand by it. I am not a dainty lady from Westeros, I am a warrior. It may not have been easy to do what I did, but don't assume that I feel sullied because of it. I could care less who saw me naked," Taliya rebuffed.

Silence hung between them, the girl contemplating her words at Taliya stood erect like a soldier at attention, her spine rigid and her jaw level. She didn't need the child throwing her a pity parade, coddling her because she'd neglected to do anything. Daenerys needed to know what a strong woman looked like. One who didn't let the opinions of others drown her. Even if it had hurt, Taliya would not show it.

"Drogo intends to keep his promise. If you wish to serve beneath me still," Daenerys told her.

Taliya had the royal flush, the cards were stacked against Daenerys, the guilt weighing on the girl's conscience. Drawing in a deep breath, she released her sigh and relaxed her imposing posture. She was a head taller than any of the women in there, even if she was slouching. "Is that what you want? Do you still feel comfortable with me around after everything that happened?"

"I feel comfortable around you, but I-" she paused, her brows snaring together in irritation. "You have been a good companion and I did nothing but watch. What if I do it again? What if you die because of it?"

"People die, Khaleesi. The world is a cruel place. We all learn from our mistakes and you're still growing up. Your brother... that was not the first time he's raised a hand to you, is it?" She knew the answer, but she wanted the girl to give it to her.

Daenerys shook her head. "Viserys has always been... stern. I just thought it was the way things were, but when after hearing you tell me otherwise during our conversations... It made me think about how I'm treated here, my people he sees as barbarians, when they treat me better than he ever has and he's my blood."

"There is a quote I know: The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb. It means that the blood shed in battle, bonds people together more than the familial bonds. Of course, family is important, but there becomes a point when you must question if that family has the best intentions in mind for you. Do you think that Viserys does?"

Daenerys contemplated before speaking, "He is still my brother and I do love him."

"I am not saying to forsake him, only that sometimes family shouldn't be the most important thing in your life, especially if they've done little to prove their care for you is not materialistic and a means to an end. Khal Drogo cares deeply for you, the weight of his love should rival that of your brother. If Viserys truly loved you, he would not hit you," Taliya explained carefully. "Only a coward strikes those that cannot fight back. Punish me if you must for speaking out of turn, but your brother is a coward."

"I know," Daenerys agreed miserably. "I do want you here, Tali. Your wisdom has helped me immensely and I appreciate your honesty. The Dothraki are often honest, but it's not the same. Because you're-"

"Dornish? Westerosi? Too wry for my own good?" Taliya filled in mischievously.

"I can relate to you more... And you are a piece of the home I have never known."

"Home isn't an exact place, Khaleesi. It is often a person. I would say that your home is with Khal Drogo, no matter where in Essos he takes you," Taliya informed her, feeling the tension in her shoulders beginning to evaporate as the walls between them fell.

"Then... perhaps until now, I have not known a home."

"Khaleesi, if you would have me still, the offer stands. However, after last night, I think the terms in which I stand by have shifted. As you probably noticed, I have a certain set of skills and I have more I can offer depending on what your intentions are for the future. I have connections in Westeros, eyes and ears that report to me. If your intentions are to go there eventually, an army is not the only thing you will need."

"Taliya, you have always spoken openly before. What is it that you want?"

"I want the position as Mistress of Whisperers. I will also promise you my sword, but I am no knight. I am a hidden blade. Give me time and I have no doubt I'll be able to acquire information in more methods than just the contacts I have in Westeros."

Daenerys leaned forward, propping her elbows on her knees as she contemplated the offer. "If we go to Westeros, these connections would be paramount. Are you asking for titles as well?"

"No, I do not care for titles other than the position I've requested. I don't need land, nor castles. I am asking for this as a commoner with the interest of the common folk in my heart."

"You are aware that if we go, the common folk will get caught in between regardless. The Dothraki will wish to loot as they do here," Daenerys reminded her.

"Which is why I'll continue to be that pesky fly in your ear, reminding you when I see injustices, but it will be up to you to change the way in which the Dothraki think. So far, it seems they've come to acknowledge that a woman can fight. Perhaps they can give up their pillaging."

Since the dream, the shadows always beckoned, especially when the night came and they deepened into an abyss that Taliya felt she could step into and vanish. It had taken the fight with the Dothraki warrior for her to come to realize that she had talents in another form of fighting. Hand to hand combat and knives. Both times she had killed, it had been with a knife in her hand. Fate had served her well, but it had never been quite right. Once she found a proper forge, she intended on having the steel split into two daggers to better serve her skills. But amongst the Dothraki Sea, the opportunity to find a smith was slim to none. They would need to get to a city and she had high hopes that Vaes Dothrak might have a vendor who had the skill.

Daenerys had granted her request, though the position of Mistress of Whisperers wasn't official. It banked on Drogo deciding they'd go to Westeros, in which advisors would be necessary for the assault. Still, the seed was planted and Taliya had already hewn the niche that she would fill. Queen's Guard was not where she would be suited best, it would be pulling strings and working alongside Varys. With the passing evenings, she worked heavily on her close combat skills, sparring with Ben and relying upon her knowledge in Krav Maga and knife combat to marry her experience with a sword. At first, it was difficult to get past the guard of an expert swordsman, but with each hour devoted, Taliya improved.

She took to throwing knives, collecting more and more blades by the day, and studied the plants of the Sea. The Dothraki were more willing to talk to her, even the women who had once called her a whore would impart their wisdom of what certain herbs would do. She kept her notes in a book and also recorded what she knew of poisons. While there weren't any readily available poisons for her to harvest, there were plenty of venomous snakes which she could take glands from and coat blades in. They would not be as instant as Tears of Lys or the strangler, but it would kill eventually, as few people knew how to create antivenoms.

The question of what the Lord of Light had meant by the dream He had imparted, left her interpreting His will as she was a shadow. She already tugged strings behind the scenes and given the vision, she suspected that she was not destined to be the face of the Wardens. As a woman and without a noble birth to draw upon, her talents were best utilized from anonymity. Any idle dreams of being a lady-knight were dashed from her mind and she acknowledged that perhaps that was the best. After all, she wouldn't have liked the limelight or attention. She preferred to do her work and remain unbothered by the intricacies of posturing and sniveling nobility.

Their weeks of travel finally resulted in the anticipated destination of Vaes Dothrak, guarded by the Horse Gate, a pair of rearing stallions whose hooves reached a hundred feet. The sacred city had no walls, but who would be foolish enough to attack it? Unless they wanted the wrath of all the Dothraki khalasar in the Sea to fold upon them, the hallowed ground remained unscathed, filled to the brim with the monuments that the Dothraki had sacked over the long years.

Taliya gazed amongst the throng that she traveled with and then to those that filed behind them. When she had begun this journey, she was a woman who carried a sword, but still a woman. Though it had been earned in exchange for her modesty, the Dothraki gazed at her through different eyes. Still, there were many who were wary, but she had asserted her dominance in the field of combat and there were some of the younger warriors that were more keen to talk to her, to learn. Jhogo had been one of those who decided to speak first. He did not apologize, as it is not custom for Dothraki to do so, but she suspected the young man still felt a bit guilty that all that had transpired had to do with him reporting it to Khal Drogo. There were others who were more interested in occupying her time in other manners, liking what they saw when she'd been bare, but they did not attempt to take her lest they wanted their hands gone as she'd threatened before.

Taliya was no Khaleesi, but she was a servant to their queen and she had earned their respect. Many had even given her a name since that day: Geshah Gezri--The Sand Cobra. It had become an affectionate term, if not a title, a way to describe what fate another man might meet if they crossed her, wrapped up in her constricting embrace before fangs would end their life. She preened in what they had given her.

What she found most amusing was Viserys' stupidity. For as long as they had been amongst the Dothraki, the young man had made no effort to learn their language. Why he'd neglected to do so bespoke of his own arrogance and expectations that he was safe, which was quite a misplaced idea. Now, he rode in a cart after Khal Drogo had offered it, deep in the belief that the Khal was now treating him as he was supposed to when it was actually the opposite.

"How dense do you have to be to be so ignorant to the fact that your goodbrother is insulting you right to your face?" Ben speculated, though the prince had now been given his horse back after being confined to the cart for some weeks.

"Well, when you believe the entire world bends a knee to you and that you're the most clever creature there is, it's impossible to think that barbarians might be intelligent enough to slight you," Taliya answered, shaking her head in disdain. "You ought to think knowing their language would be the best way to know they're not making fun at your expense."

"Why would you do that when there's so many translators available?" Ben scoffed. "Who most certainly will not lie to you?"

"Ah, you're right. I obviously was not thinking," Taliya remarked.

"Careful, speak any louder and he might grow suspicious," Jorah canted his horse closer, his voice deadpanned as he flanked them.

Taliya threw a glance back to where Viserys was riding beside his sister. Why Daenerys still let him occupy her time, she could not say, but the girl had become shrewder with her brother after his actions. She didn't dart as carefully around his emotions and often spared glances at Tali when she dared raise her voice. Even if he wasn't the brightest, Viserys wasn't stupid enough to attack Daenerys in front of the Dothraki. Still, watching from the shadows, she knew that he hadn't mustered the courage to do what he'd done again. Instead, he filled his time with lounging, calling Doreah into his tent, and gossiping to the servant as if she'd not repeat his disgusting words to Taliya in full. Doreah feared the woman she'd seen strangle a man to the princeling who couldn't lift the sword he carried.

"Mm, he seems a bit preoccupied," she commented, steering her gelding a little closer to try and overhear what he was talking about. By the animated expressions and maddened glimmer in his eyes, she knew he was ranting on about Vaes Dothrak.

"They cannot speak the language of civilized men," Viserys decided, rolling his eyes in the direction of the nearest Dothraki as if they could not comprehend him. The number that could speak Common had been increasing with Ben's assistance, not that the prince had cared to take notice. These were not people who were intelligent enough to learn. Not to him. "I grow tired of waiting for my army. He should give me what is rightfully mine. What I paid for."

Paid for. Taliya wrinkled her nose at his ignorance, the way he bartered Daenerys' hand as if she were a gift cow. "The Khal will honor his promise in his own time," Taliya spoke up, drawing closer and watching as a sneer unfolded on his lips. The young man had heard of the fight, though he'd not been given the luxury of watching her strip. She was thankful for that. Just as she was amused that he'd watched her throw knives for practice with increasing precision. The boy feared her and for good reason. For all the ilk in his body, he was biding his time with the belief he'd get to repay her for the bruise she'd given him for attempting to touch Daenerys.

Still, he didn't like to be around her and she acted as a natural deterrent for the brat. He reined his horse and turned away, leaving Taliya with the Khaleesi and her handmaidens. Her gaze swept to Jhogo, who comprehended the pointed words and insults that the Targaryen had lobbed at his people.

"He grows more impatient with each passing day," Daenerys sighed.

"Let him," Tali shrugged, waving her hand dismissively. "He is not in charge here, which he often seems to forget. You would think he'd have picked up on some Dothraki customs by now. Your hand was not considered a trade, but a gift. Eventually, your husband will give a gift in return, but rushing him is not wise."

"When has Viserys ever been wise?" Daenerys inquired. "He was just telling me that he believes that he can sweep the Seven Kingdoms with 10,000 Dothraki."

"You sound unconvinced, Khaleesi."

"I have started to take everything that comes from his mouth with a grain of salt. There are many things he does not consider and he sees only numbers. Ben was telling me of the numbers that different houses possess and if they were to take the field against us, they'd outnumber 10,000 easily. Not to mention the lack of a home field advantage, possibility of siege which the Dothraki are not trained in, and other tacticians who have more years of experience than I have been alive," Daenerys considered carefully, surprising Tali. She seemed to have thought this through, weighing the strength of her new people against what she had learned of Westeros.

"Sounds as if Ben has been giving you some good lessons," Taliya remarked, impressed by her understanding. If the Dothraki were going to commit to warfare against a foreign country, it was reasonable that Daenerys take their wellbeing into consideration and what difficulties they might face. She was not as fanciful as Viserys in the fact that sheer numbers would be enough to win, which made her realize that Daenerys was changing. Was this better? The girl was becoming more well versed with the chess board she'd need to play, advisors subconsciously slipping into place and filling her ears with the knowledge she needed to be a successful conqueror.

"You each give me many things to contemplate. The world is certainly more complex than I originally thought," Daenerys smiled faintly, but it was clear the girl was exhausted from her progressing pregnancy.

"Better to be aware of the complexities than to be surprised by them," Tali quipped. "Westeros will not be won by a fatal sweep across the entire Seven Kingdoms. Acquiring allies to make up for where the Dothraki lack will be necessary. The biggest players in each region are where you need to start looking, but also consider those that will never bow to you. The Baratheons and Lannisters hold the Crown, they will fight for it. However, Dorne still remembers the injustice of Elia Targaryen and could make a good ally."

"And what do you think of the rest of the Seven Kingdoms? Ben believes we can sway House Stark and Tully, but I believed that Lord Eddard Stark was good friends with the Usurper."

"There's also House Tyrell to consider as well. The Reach has one of the biggest cavalries and army's and flanks the Westerlands. With how much time we have between now and when we might embark for Westeros, things can change. Already there is disquiet in King's Landing. The Crown is in severe debt to the Iron Bank," Taliya informed the girl, letting her soak in the information like a sponge.

"What do you think they would want in exchange for fealty?"

There was no way to reveal that dragons would be rather convincing in swaying them to join forces, but Taliya simply smiled. "The threat of a foreign army can be quite convincing, but it is likely that a promise of marriage to your unborn child will be your biggest bargaining tool."

Daenerys caressed her stomach gently, but nodded in comprehension. This was the price of royalty, just as they'd discussed before, was the lack of freedom or love. In order to receive the assistance they needed, it would come at a hefty price and it wouldn't be in coin. Not when a house like Tyrell had plenty of income.

"But take things a day at a time, Khaleesi. You are here at Vaes Dothrak with an important quest to accomplish. Focus your mind on the present," Tali urged, aware that the task of eating the horse heart was not going to be easy on her nauseous, pregnant stomach. She knew some days it made it difficult for the child to eat.

Their conversation tapered off as they arrived within the city. Buildings of various makes made up the center and while it was a buzzing hive of activity, nearly all of the folks there now were not permanent residents. Only the dosh khaleen, the widows of khals, lived there continuously. The merchants and their slaves would pick up and depart when it was quiet. However, with a khalasar as large as Khal Drogo's approaching, they were abuzz with activity, leaving her to hope that she might be able to acquire what was on her list while within the confines of the sacred city.

Upon approaching the eastern market, the riders started to dismount, unbuckling belts and passing their weapons to slaves that were waiting. She almost groaned, but knew that it was not allowed for any man to carry steel or spill blood. Throwing an impish look over at Jhogo, she asked him, "Tat yer shillolat rek anha zin ven jin mahrazh?" (Do you think I count as a man?)

"Yer iffi rek chomokh," (You won that honor) Jhogo rebuffed lightly, handing his arakh and whip over to a slave.

"Anha zhorre ale san vov," (I have too many weapons) she complained, stepping up and handing Fate off before going through her entire ensemble, removing more than a dozen knives that she had hidden over her body from tit to boot.

"Geshah Gezri et sanekhi ki gomma," (The Sand Cobra has many fangs) he mused.

The slaves would look after their steel, keeping it in their charge as they were not considered men by the Dothraki. Upon their entrance, she spared Ben a long look before turning back to the market. Civilization felt a long while off and her clothing was still bloodstained. She had been eager to get here and to finally acquire more supplies to replace those that had been weathered through the Dothraki Sea. Khal Drogo was to go up to the Mother Of Mountains that evening, leaving the khalasar to get rest and enjoy the afternoon before tomorrow's main event.

Within Vaes Dothrak, there was no fear of being attacked, lest any of the merchants wished to tempt the rage of the Dothraki who would make examples of any who spat on their traditions.

Tali would be lying if she wasn't vibrating with excitement to finally have a shopping day, to get the opportunity to trade in her dirty, travel worn silks for something new. Whether or not Ben felt the same, she intended on dragging him up and down the market until she was pleased with her purchases.

"Sometimes you astound me. For someone who claims to be the least feminine woman in existence, you do get rather excited to shop for clothes," Ben poked as they continued through the eastern market.

"I never claimed to be not feminine!" she scoffed indignantly. "I said that I'm no lady. And who wouldn't be excited to get fresh clothing? You would have me believe that you are comfortable in your sweat stained attire?"

"I could use a second set so that I might have the chance to clean these," Ben admitted with a grin. "You know, your hair is getting quite long."

"Ooh, perhaps I'll chop it all off so I can look less feminine and more like a man," Taliya proposed impishly, glancing over at the man to see his reaction. Just as she expected, he was unphased and had his stupid, wildling wolf-boy grin. Where Ned was described as being cold and aloof, Ben had all the markers of the Stark wildness.

"You'll have to wait until we leave Vaes Dothrak. Or do you think there are barbers in the city?"

"What use would Vaes Dothrak have for a barber? If I were a barber, I'd stay as far away as I could from Vaes Dothrak. Imagine accidentally cutting a little too much off the end? Taking the whole braid by accident?" she drew a line across her throat, making a silly face at the speculation of why there weren't any barbers in the city.

"Are you really thinking of cutting it?" Ben asked as she stopped in front of a silk vendor.

"Why, jealous that I can have long hair and it'll look too suspicious on you?" she prodded, pulling some of the teal fabric between her fingertips.

"It suits you."

"Mm, careful there or I might think you're giving me a compliment," she retorted, nodding to the vendor who spooled the silk back.

"You make it sound as if you're undeserving of the occasional compliment," he chuckled, placing a hand on her shoulder and giving a friendly squeeze. "You have been doing quite well with daggers. They suit you more than the sword."

"Lord of Light," she sighed, turning around and leaning against the table. "What has gotten into you? Are you fishing, hoping I'll compliment you in return?"

"I know it's a vain hope," he smiled, removing his hand. "A friend can give a compliment, can they not?"

Taliya gave him a begrudging look, hoping that he wasn't playing at more than a friendly exchange. They were close, afterall, but sometimes she felt as if his gestures and the grazes of his hands were more than just a friend reassuring her. Not that she didn't enjoy the attention, since aside from Ben she was basically starved for human affection, even before her death on earth. She didn't want to get her hopes up and ruin what they had, which made these tart words fall from her lips in an effort to continue their companionship. Yet, it was moments like this that she questioned if Ben had the same ambitions as her or if he wanted more.

Turning her attention back to what she had been doing, she gave her measurements to the merchant and paid the deposit for the new attire. Milling between stalls, she picked out a few other items, even sparing a moment to eye a few baubles and the exorbitant amount of gold that seemed to be more common than spices amongst the stalls. If there was anywhere she wished to acquire desert rarities, here would probably be the cheapest. She did not need it, but she had not given herself anything since arriving, devoting herself solely to her mission. Maybe just this once she'd indulge in her whims when she could afford it.

While she was able to afford a few delicate chains, new sandals, and golden bands for her biceps she had to turn her head to the golden feather pins that would have made her growing hair easier to manage. She couldn't spend all the coin she had on her.

A crimson glint caught her eye, her head lifting as she noticed a young boy in blood red robes peeking out from behind a merchant stall. He tilted his head, staring at her, before darting into a narrow alley.

"I'll... be right back. Return to the khalasar, I will meet you there," she told Ben, her feet dragging her toward the curious sight.

Within the confines of a dusty causeway, she saw the boy, who had tucked his arm into his robes and eyed her. "I have something for you," the boy spoke in Common, trotting forward to reveal a roll of parchment small enough to fit in his palm.

"You must be a little mouse," Taliya realized, impressed that Varys had managed to get word out to her here. "Will I be able to find you in a day or two?"

The boy nodded, passing the parchment over before giving an expectant look. Taliya removed a few Braavosi coins from her pocket and gave them to him, the child scampering off down the alley before vanishing from few entirely. Unfurling the note, her eyes raked over the cordial letter that would have seemed depressingly boring to those who didn't know how to crack the complex code that they communicated in. Given her lack of communication over the months, a lot had been developing in Westeros in the meanwhile.

Her eyes widened at the news. An investigation into the death of Jon Arryn had been opened and Lysa Arryn's fleeing to the Eyrie was being scrutinized by a handful of heads of houses. It was no secret that she had not been fond of her late husband, despite the shrieking all the way back to the Vale that her husband had been murdered by Lannisters. Even armed with the knowledge that the Baratheon children were bastards, the Lannisters had too much sway with the Crown's debt for the secret to truly harm them. The Head Wolf seemed to comprehend this as well, which was news to her.

Robert Baratheon was growing fatter and demanding the head of a little girl and her brother after learning that she had married Khal Drogo. A warning to be wary of wine merchants in Vaes Dothrak had been issued, which made her smile, because it meant that Varys trusted her.

With everything shifting, she knew that Varys had to keep putting pressure on Baelish in order for the investigation to pull into the right hemisphere. Lysa would be nearly impossible to reach or siege. She would not answer to any royal summons. On the other hand, keeping Catelyn Stark from acting on Baelish's words and kidnapping Tyrion would be another thing she hoped to avoid as it would spur on Ned's arrest. Catelyn has to be suspicious of anything that came out of that man's mouth, especially with her sister facing scrutiny. They were unaware of why the assassin had attacked Bran or that he had witnessed the Lannister twins together.

However, this was all up to Varys to orchestrate. Distracting Baelish would be his best bet and threatening his influx of coin would most certainly vex the Master of Coin. During her last letter she had already begun expressing business opportunities that would put strain on the man while attracting his own workers to quit and move to a new location. Now, would be the time to put it into effect, to open the gambling dens and brothels under the management of the Dark Lady. Varys would manage it in her stead for now, but both establishments would be perfect spots to acquire more information from travelers and those that needed a soft pillow to rest their head on and the company of a woman to ease away their pains. She knew that Varys wasn't fond of the idea, but she insisted that the workers would be paid fair wages, treated well, and protected-which cost good coin and would mean the profit margin was smaller for the owner. A cost she didn't mind, since she'd be paying off debt to Varys for a while for the loan on the locations.

She needed a letter to reach him as soon as possible, her legs already churning so that she could return to the khalasar and begin coding her own response to her penpal.

What took her aback was that Doreah found her, smiling gently as she spoke. "This way, the hollow hills make for better arrangements while we are in Vaes Dothrak. One has been spared for you and your companion." The young woman led her to what Tali would describe as a permanent yurt. There were ones much larger, the sizes of enormous houses, but this was a huge improvement compared to her triangular, one person tent.

"Thank you, Doreah. Tell the Khaleesi that we appreciate her thoughtfulness," Tali insisted, giving a tight smile to the handmaiden before entering. With enough room to walk and not have to stoop, she let out a thankful sigh and glanced over at the set of cots which were a nice upgrade to her bed roll. A glint caught her eye on one of the cots, causing her to pause as she approached the wooden table to begin working on her letter.

When she approached the cot she noticed that a small bundle had been left, the glimmering gold attracting her eye like a crow to something shiny. Unfurling the parcel, sitting in front of her was the set of feather clips that she had been eying in the market. She licked her lips, pursing them as she drew a deep breath and wondered if Ben had really purchased these for her or if one of the Dothraki had noticed her staring. While she was thrilled to have them, she also worried that it was her friend that had given them to her.

Despite looking youthful, maybe even in her 20s, Taliya was more akin in age to Benjen than the Targaryen. Age didn't seem to matter here. Just appearances, connections, and gold. A comely woman was a comely woman. She'd never considered herself anything exceptional back on earth, but here she supposed she was rather good looking. Lean, athletic, a symmetrical face, and a wide, pearly white and straight smile. Things taken for granted, simply 'normal' back on earth, were signs of wealth or nobility in this world. Few commoners took half as much time grooming themselves as Taliya subconsciously did.

"I heard that there would be embassies from the Red Temple, but I did not expect them to be Westerosi," Viserys parted from a knight beside him-a large middle aged-man with dark hair.

While Viserys was focused on her, Taliya knew this was the moment of truth, whether or not Jorah Mormont would recognize the man beside her. He was shorter than she thought he'd be, but was twice as broad as Benjen. Despite his exile, he still took a fancy to wearing the dark green tunic displaying the standing black bear of House Mormont. His eyes flickered between them, landing curiously on Ben, but after a lingering moment, they repositioned on her.

"Followers of the Lord of Light come in many shapes and sizes, your grace," Taliya retorted crisply. "I am Taliya Sand and my companion is Ben Rivers."

"Bastards," Viserys observed.

"Bastards can find meaningful ways to live their lives," Taliya replied in turn.

"No doubt, much of Essos is evidence of this," Viserys waved dismissively. "To what do we owe the honor of the Lord of Light's ambassadors? My own family followed the Faith."

"The Lord of Light is here to bless the wedding," Taliya said lightly, but unfurled a tight smile. "But His gaze also extends past this union and toward the future. We are here as representatives for our Lord in your future endeavors. Perhaps your family followed the Faith, but I ask you, what did the Seven do when the Baratheons stormed Dragonstone and the Lannisters turned their swords inward toward the Targaryens? Regardless on whether you decide to convert, your grace, we have come here to be of service." Brushing back her scarves, she lifted Fate from her hip, scabbard and all to prevent the Valyrian steel from seeing the light of dawn, before she knelt. Ben mirrored her efforts, head bowed as they stooped before Viserys. "If you should accept our swords."

The prince paused, his eyes flitting between the pair, before his lips curled impishly. "The Dornish allow their women to fight, don't they?" he inquired, keeping them where they knelt.

"Yes, your grace," Taliya answered.

"The Seven never did answer the prayers of the Targaryens as they were slaughtered. I'd like to hear more about your Lord of Light. Rise," Viserys decided, motioning for them both to stand. "I acquire more swords by the day," he said smugly. "And after my sister weds this horselord, I'll have enough to retake what is rightfully mine."

"Your grace, it appears the wedding is about to begin," Jorah Mormont intercepted, still sparing the both of them wary glances.

"Right, let's get this over with," Viserys waved.

Illyrio joined them soon after, huffing with each step as they stood toward the front of the crowd as Daenerys and Khal Drogo were wed. Reading about a 13 year old girl getting married in a book was different than witnessing it in real life. A child, a little older than a third of Taliya's own age, stood frightened and tiny beside the great shadow of the Khal. She was a demure thing, none of what made her a conqueror or queen stiffening her spine. Dany was young, inexperienced, and had yet to step through the harrowing trials that would fashion her into a ruler.

Had Viserys believed that this was going to be a short ordeal, a simple ceremony, and then they'd be off--he was sorely mistaken. The first part of the wedding included the words, in Dothraki, before cheering ensued and the feast was kicked off. Inside the shade of the tent, Drogo and Daenerys were seated upon a dias.

"I should be up there," Viserys muttered, glaring up toward the Khal as he called for a toast, raising a horn of wine. "I am a king."

"The rightful king of Westeros," Ben remarked evenly. "Here, we are in the Khal's domain and it is his day for celebration." This should have been obvious, but the jaded lilac eyes of Viserys pinned a glare at the Stark.

This did not get better as the newlyweds were fed first. Viserys put in another wounded comment about how a king ought to be fed before his sister and her husband. Taliya wanted to bang her head against a wall, listening to the sniveling of a teenager who thought himself a man and walked with the weight of a sword that she knew he couldn't use. She had to pretend to like him for a time, to be loyal to him, despite the fact that it was Daenerys that she and Ben were there for.

Thankfully, there was a bit of entertainment to keep Viserys from whinging the entire time, but it wasn't the most... wholesome of shows. Dothraki danced to the beating of drums, the line between proper and modest erased completely as men mounted women like animals in the open. Fights erupted over women, which devolved into fighting and blood spilling in the sand before the victor took what they had originally laid claim to. By the end of the day, there had been a dozen deaths, which meant that the wedding was going on exceptionally.

Just as they'd arrived at sunrise, it was sunset that indicated the last portion of the wedding. The dramatic huffing from Viserys indicated his own disdain for the length which this all was dragging on. While unlike any wedding that Taliya had ever witnessed, she had to admit that she wasn't bored. With the bridal gifting upon them, they were resigned until waiting their turn, which came to be after Viserys, Illyrio, and Jorah. The three handmaidens, Irri, Jhiqui, and Doreah, were proposed to Dany... Not much older than herself.

Jorah's gifts were of books in the Common tongue, which brightened the girl's face and she thanked him repeatedly. While not as luxurious or brilliant as many of the more decadent gifts, it was something she could use to pass time and for enjoyment.

Illyrio's gift of the dragon eggs drew the attention of her brother. They were magnificent and undoubtedly, Viserys believed that he deserved them more than the girl wedding a horselord. Jealousy was rapt on his face as he stood back, arms crossed, as Dany ran her fingers over the stone ripples. Once she had finished admiring them, the trunk was closed and moved aside, her eyes flicking up to drink in Taliya and Ben.

The girl had spared them a few looks between her nervous smiles up on the plinth during the feast. They were strangers, dressed queerly, and sitting beside her brother. Rather than remain stone faced and impassive, Taliya relaxed her countenance and broke a smile as she stepped forward with Ben. Bequeathed in their arms was a gift similar to Jorah's, but different. They had not been as poor as the knight, but Taliya had remembered how the books had been well received by Daenerys in the pages of Martin's writing.

"Khaleesi, our gifts to you are books from Valyria before the Doom," Taliya explained, keenly aware of how expensive the tomes were, as many men had died passing these between hands. Despite how old they were, they were still relatively intact, but written exclusively in High Valyrian. Sitting upon the bundle that Taliya held was the bouquet that she had fashioned from the flowers acquired on their way to the wedding. "None have ever returned from the Smoking Sea, so there may not be any others like this aside from at the Citadel. We hope that these gifts will suffice."

"From Old Valyria?" Daenerys muttered, but her eyes had brightened just as they did when Jorah had brought forth books. "These are wonderful, rare gifts. I'm sorry, but I didn't quite catch your names-"

"Taliya Sand and Ben Rivers, Khaleesi," she bowed her head, passing the books from bloodrider, then in turn Daenerys. "We are swords of the Lord of Light."

"The Red God," Daenerys recalled, having lived in Braavos for a time, undoubtedly passing by followers of the religion until this point. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

Turning away to let the next guests gift the Khaleesi, they settled back as the night winded down and Drogo was the last to gift Daenerys. The girl's final test of the day would be to please her husband, the very thought twisting knots in Taliya's stomach. Her arms crossed, a stiff line to her shoulders, and sharp eyes surveying the thick crowd as the newlyweds finally parted way from the khalasar and the finer attendees made to leave for the evening, including Illyrio.

"You look as if you could kill a man," Ben mused, nudging her with an elbow as they started back toward their horses to unpack and pitch their tents for the evening. They did not possess any regal yurts or beds or anything more than a bedroll and tarp enough to keep a roof over their heads and shade during the hot mornings. Here, they were not nobles, they were soldiers. Luxury was not on their side, but to be honest, she did not mind. The tent reminded her of those that she'd used when hiking long distances, intended for a single person and to be easily packed up each day.

"Perhaps I could, if the wrong one bothers me," Taliya snipped glibly, pulling down the rolls from the back of the saddle.

"It's more than that," Ben gleaned perceptively.

She wanted to curse at him, to tell him to shut up, but pursed her lips. Getting feisty with the only friend she had would do more harm than make her feel better. Perhaps he was good at reading people because he'd been First Ranger with many subordinates beneath him. "Where I come from, we don't marry little girls off like that," she sighed. "She was basically a gift horse, the cost for 40,000 swords. I can't even imagine her getting pregnant when she's little more than a child herself."

"It's not much different in Westeros," Ben admitted with a frown. "When a girl flowers, she's considered old enough to wed."

"That doesn't mean it's right," Taliya countered. "She's the same age as your niece. Could you imagine the same happening to her?"

Ben didn't seem to like the comparison. "And where you are from, how old do girls usually marry?"

"When they want. From 18 and above usually, but there are exceptions for 16 year olds. Some women don't wed at all," she shrugged.

"And you never-"

"No, I did not," she told him, her mood lightening at the questioning glance he continued to spare her. "I'm not a maiden if that's what you're continuing to wonder. Virginity is not as taboo as it is here."

"You didn't have to-"

"Oh shut up, you were wondering about it," Taliya snickered, punching the man lightly on the shoulder. "Oh Lord, you're a sweaty mess. It wasn't even that hot today," she wiped her knuckles off on her trousers, slick with the dampness from his doublet.

"Not that hot? It was blistering," Ben groused. "You would have me believe that it will get even hotter than this?"

"Mm, you'd better adjust quickly or maybe you'll melt entirely and I'll have to continue our mission on my own," she snarked.

"I'm not made of ice. I'll survive. I've survived in more austere environments."

"You've survived in one type of austere environment," Taliya corrected with a wolfish grin.

"And you're so much more experienced?"

"Actually, I am," she preened. "You've got a lot to learn, wolf-boy. I spent two years in the desert on deployment. Just a fair warning, fine sand gets everywhere. And given your fair complexion, you're going to want to cover your face."

"Wearing more clothing defeats the purpose doesn't it?"

"Unless you want an ungodly sunburn, which I have no doubt you'll get, then I'd cover up. A sunburn is worse than the extra bit of sweating you'll do. And, it's what you wear that matters. Thick wool like that will have you sweating like a pig, but silks and linen are much more breathable and will protect you from the sun. We'll see about getting you better attire before we leave Pentos," Taliya elaborated as they found a spot to pitch their tents and erect a small cookfire. The Dothraki paid them little heed, continuing with their festivities into the evening as they buckled in for the night.

"You're going to dress me up like a Dornish man?" Ben inquired smartly.

"If that's what you'd prefer, but I simply meant that we'll trade the wool for silks or linen. Call it whatever fashion you'd like."

"I'd prefer not to fall from my horse due to the heat, despite how queer I might look," Ben admitted as they both took a seat around a fire he had just lit. The evening had blown in a cool sea breeze, wiping away the worst of the day's heat as if it'd never been there.

"Do that you'll lose the respect of the Dothraki," Taliya reminded him. "I think they'll care less if you wear silks and more about you being weak."

"They certainly are... unique people," Ben admitted, utilizing the most polite manner he could to describe the barbaric displays they had witnessed earlier. "But there are things about them that remind me of the Wildlings."

"I think you'll see more differences the longer we spend amongst them. Now, let's work on your Dothraki, but it's still absolutely abysmal," Taliya grinned, watching as the bearded man frowned at the suggestion, and that the latter part of their evening wouldn't be spent relaxing, but instead practicing. Either way, she won this battle and they started going through the language once again. Ben would get better now that they were with the Dothraki and speaking their tongue would become necessary and more accessible than just muttering to one another in an effort to learn the basics.

*

The Dothraki Sea wasn't quite the desert, but it was just as sweltering and unforgiving. An expansive savannah with tall golden grass. The khalasar moved with a purpose, only the weak and the old confined to wagons where they could no longer sit a horse. Despite the plethora of things that they possessed, the horse people packed up and continued their nomadic lifestyle with ease. One would think it would be difficult to move beds, tubs, furniture without the amenities of the future, but the Dothraki had everything perfected to a fine, methodical manner.

Most often, they were riding beside Viserys and Jorah Mormont. The prince frequently wished to be right beside his sister, convinced that if he took his eyes off her for a moment that Khal Drogo would steal her away and not deliver on his promise of his khalasar. The fact that he distrusted the man so, bespoke of his ignorance of their customs. Khal Drogo had promised their alliance in exchange for Daenerys. He would hold true, despite the fact that Viserys saw the copper skinned nomads as mongrels and sub-human.

After getting past the harsh exterior and miasma of sexuality that exuded from the Dothraki on the first day, even Ben began to warm to them as he started to comprehend them better. There was a strong dichotomy between male and female life, on top of the position of slaves. Even if Taliya had been frightened of being attacked at first, she quickly came to realize that even if they did undress her with their eyes, they wouldn't lay a hand on her unless she welcomed it. She was a guest, woman or not, and not free to claim. This protection extended from Daenerys' status as Khaleesi and her connection to her brother. She did notice that the Dothraki men preferred not to speak to her directly, but supposed that was better than being afraid that she might be attacked.

Usually, if anything did need to be passed along to her, either a slave would deliver the news or they'd talk to Ben. This gave the Stark the opportunity to work on his Dothraki and understand their customs. His original trepidation lightened, conversation became lighter, and a few of the Dothraki men even asked him questions about his own customs and experiences. She knew once or twice (perhaps even more times than that) he'd been asked about their relationship, which always amused her as Ben tried to explain what it was they were, because to the Dothraki, a woman was not a warrior. She had a purpose and that was to birth children and raise them. Taliya was an anomaly, unlike any they'd seen before, and some even doubted she knew how to use the sword that she wore. Their confusion did not bother her, because as 'barbaric' as many claimed the Dothraki were, they'd been cordial until this point. A lot of that had to deal with her own understanding that she wasn't to participate in conversation without being asked a question first, which rarely happened.

That did not mean she did not have opportunities to talk. In fact, while Ben enjoyed learning about the Dothraki, she found herself having to listen to Viserys. Jorah also seemed to be growing as restless as she was when it came to tending the Targaryen prince, pretending that he cared when he had his eyes on the prize: Daenerys. Uncertain if their presence there would make Jorah act sooner on his assassination plans, she kept a sharpened eye on him, but thus far the knight had been a much more admirable companion than Viserys. Mormont women were known to pick up swords and thus, Jorah did not seem disdainful over her own choices in life and treated her as an equal. This actually sort of surprised her and while she made an effort not to let her guard down around him, it was nice to chat with someone else other than Ben on the road.

The Khaleesi took more time to warm to her, but eventually the girl's curiosity got the better of her and Taliya found herself riding beside her Silver on a fine afternoon while Drogo rode ahead with his bloodriders.

"Viserys told me that the Lord of Light sent you to him," Daenerys remarked as they canted forward.

"He did guide us in this direction," Taliya agreed cryptically. "He works in mysterious ways that we can't even begin to fathom. We only take our orders as we are given them."

"And how do you get them?" she continued, giving Taliya a sideways glance.

"Through the flames. We light a fire each night to keep away the darkness. Priests and priestesses sing to call the light back at dawn, but nor I or Ben are priest or priestess. Still, the Lord of Light gives us His messages in the flames, just as He gave us eyes that can interpret His will," Taliya answered as honestly as she could. Most of this was speculation, because the Lord of Light had never been exceptionally honest with either of them.

"I'd never heard of swords of the Lord of Light before my wedding," Daenerys commented.

"As have few others. We are well protected secret," she threw a tiny, but friendly smirk at the girl who seemed to be growing more confident with each passing day.

"Were you always a sword of the Lord of Light?"

"No, not until recently. I grew up in a family that owned a gardening shop actually. In Dorne, bastards are not scorned as they are in the rest of Westeros. But I still wanted to explore and do my own things. I loved seeing new places, exploring the wild... So I joined a sellsword company and I did travel. I spent six years going where the wind took me before returning home to take control of the family shop. My parents passed away in an accident and then the shop, which had been passed down for generations, burned to the ground. I found the Lord of Light shortly after that," Taliya told the tailored version of her history, meant to match up with her current setting more than that of earth.

"You were free to do as you pleased?"

"As are most common folk," Taliya pointed out.

"I envy that. Not having your fate decided for you, to do as you choose," Daenerys breathed loftily.

"Not every person has that opportunity, I was lucky that I had encouraging parents and enough coin to do as I pleased. Others are not as fortunate," Taliya admitted. "Be that they're too poor, uneducated, or just down on luck. I am gracious for everything I've been afforded."

"I've never wanted for much," Daenerys commented. "Material-wise," she corrected, her lips pulling up in a sad smile. "But I've never truly felt free. Viserys has always been looking out for me, making the decisions for us... Listen to me, I sound ungrateful, but here I am as Khaleesi-"

"A cage is still a cage, whether it is gilded in gold and garnets, Khaleesi," Taliya reminded her gently. "I think there are many noble and royal women who feel much the same. There are pros and cons to both origins. I suppose you just must decide which sound preferrable. Often, the grass seems greener on the other side, but I haven't a name to protect me, only my actions and sword. Additionally, in most places, I am still a woman and common born, a bastard at that. I am no one."

"I do not feel as if I am in a cage so much anymore," Daenerys admitted thoughtfully. "It was difficult at first... All of this. Even the riding hurt... but I do not feel that way now. Khal Drogo is... kinder than I thought. He truly cares for me. I do envy you though, you're free to do as you please."

"I am glad to hear that he treats you well," Taliya remarked evenly, aware that this would be the case, but it still felt good to hear it. Daenerys was so young and Khal Drogo dwarfed her like a mouse to an elephant. "But I am not truly free anymore. I serve the Lord of Light."

Daenerys pressed another smile and glanced back amongst the throng of Dothraki that rode in a file through the sea. They were rather far ahead, upon a ridge where the others were slowly beginning to catch up. The days in the saddle might've been difficult for Taliya had she not had the years of riding Balerion beneath her belt. She recalled the sores she had between her legs, the aching thighs from holding on so tight because she feared falling into the sky, but a horse was easy in comparison. She had already earned her calluses and the leathered area on her rump from where she'd grown accustomed to the relentless riding, especially bareback.

However, as both females gazed back toward the group, the pale head of Viserys was falling further and further behind. He was struggling to keep up and Taliya knew it was because he was not used to being pushed this hard. Had she been back on earth, she would've thought horseback riding was easy lest she spent this much time in a saddle. In the heat, beneath the open sun, it was relentless and a workout. The Dothraki grew up in the saddle. Ben had been horseback riding since he was a boy and as a ranger. Jorah had a similar experience in the saddle. Taliya's own experience, though limited by comparison, had been fast tracked by her griffin and riding in the air compared to the ground.

Viserys was used to being brought places or riding very short distances. Discomfort was a word he had not known in the recent years and his softness showed. Daenerys, a girl of 13, rode better than him and with less complaint. Originally, the girl had been a little battered and lethargic, undoubtedly earning her calluses and healing her own saddle sores. Now, she moved on her Silver with ease and displayed more comfort in being around her enormous husband. The shift in attitude wasn't instant, taking place over weeks in which Taliya had not been able to get closer to Daenerys. But now, the girl was comfortable enough with herself and her status to call upon Taliya.

Taliya suspected that it was inquisitiveness at first, the mystery surrounding the sword of the Lord of Light that had piqued the Khaleesi into requesting she ride beside her. Then, as Taliya noticed that the child preferred her company to that of men, she realized that she'd become a manifestation for Daenerys' attention because Taliya was all that the girl wished she could have been, romanticizing the idea that common life was free. She suspected it also dealt with the fact that Taliya was companionable with the Khaleesi, still discreet enough to address her by titles, but with each conversation the walls were lowering and she jested more often, poking fun at the girl as often and carefully that the girl might see her as not only a sworn sword, but a friend or maybe an older sibling that didn't put the fear of awakening the dragon in the girl's heart.

Each Westerosi had their own role. Jorah seemed to be the one who knew the most about the Seven Kingdoms and of her beloved, late brother Rhaegar. He filled her ears with what she wished to hear of her home, but was also honest about how the common folk wished for no war, bountiful harvests, and a summer that never ended.

Ben had earned the respect of the bloodriders, even sparring with a few of them to display his talent with a sword, while he honed his skill in their tongue. Daenerys took notice, often poking fun at Taliya for her partner's handsomeness and prowess. But the relationship that Daenerys had with Taliya did not extend to Ben. She was slightly more formal with him, but seemed to trust him as she trusted Taliya because of their mutual rankings as swords to R'hllor.

Even Khal Drogo started to tolerate Taliya more, his gaze no longer as scathing as he noted the manner in which Daenerys would spend afternoons riding beside her and not once had Taliya given him reason to worry that she was filling the girl's ears with redderict of her religion. Instead, she became another companion and also assisted Jhiqui in teaching Dany Dothraki.

"Is there a rule that you have to be celibate? I mean, you said you were not a priestess," Daenerys commented as they rode through the never ending sea.

"Lord up above, Khaleesi. I think I might drown in the amount of times you've asked me if I have interest in anyone," Taliya whistled, rolling her eyes emphatically. "I'm old and grouchy and there's other things on my mind."

"You are not that old," Daenerys retorted, running her eyes along her.

"How old do you think I am, Khaleesi?" Taliya chuckled.

"That's a dangerous game to play," Daenerys jested, but put a little thought into it. "Perhaps three and twenty, but no older than seven and twenty."

"Try about a decade more than your first guess," Taliya corrected lightly.

"I thought you were old enough to be my sister, not my mother," Daenerys snickered.

Taliya scoffed in mock offense. "I have never been more insulted in my life."

"You might run out of time to start a family at this rate," Daenerys continued impishly.

"Clearly, that's the first priority on my list," she smirked sarcastically. "A woman is not measured on her ability to wean children, but nor should she be scorned if that's the decision she wishes to make."

"I wish that were true, but you and I both know that a woman's ability to have children is most of her importance in this world," Daenerys sighed.

"And that's why I reject that reality and substitute my own. And why I'm ancient and live without a man."

"But you would really never consider Ben? Unless there are rules that you have not mentioned."

"Again, Khaleesi, it is not my priority. Ben and I have an amicable relationship, one that I would not wish to ruin by becoming romantically involved. I consider him a good friend and a trustworthy partner," Taliya insisted, but if truth be told, she did find the man attractive. It was natural to be drawn toward a person she felt comfortable around, especially since they could speak openly and honestly to one another. Still, she was under no guise that the man was task oriented and he had spent many years abhoring relationships with the opposite sex. They were partners, not lovers, and Taliya had done nothing to even encroach on blurring that line, as not to make him feel uncomfortable.

"But, if you ever wished to, you could," Daenerys pointed out. "Because you're free to love as you choose."

Taliya's face nearly betrayed her, the unspoken truth of how Ben was actually noble born and once their plans began to develop, he had substantial claim to House Stark, should Ned and his sons still perish. There would be no fooling herself as to how she'd be received, the scorn she'd meet by playing at the lover to a Stark who had much to inherit and little to gain by having interest in her--a nobody. Perhaps she had freedom, but that freedom did not include being with anyone of import. "I have many things to worry about, Khaleesi. I am not keen to add a man to that list."

"Hm, but you must know what you are missing," Daenerys quipped before kicking off on her Silver. "Stay behind with the others and have them wait for a moment. I'm going to ride ahead."

Taliya's jaw dropped at the girl's insinuation, choking back on a laugh at the little wildling thundered through the wastes and kicked up a cloud of red dust. Even if Daenerys told her to remain behind, she brought her gelding to a trot to cut the severe distance between her and the princess. While there was no one visible on the horizon, it didn't sit well to leave her on her own and she knew that her assigned bloodrider for the day also felt similar. She noticed Jhogo keeping close by as well, his dark eyes set forward to where Daenerys had stormed toward, a silver lance against the field of grass.

The day was nice, not as scathing as it could get, with a nice breeze making the tall grass dance. She suspected that Ben might even find it tolerable, having slowly adjusted to the heat of the Sea when compared to the frigid Wall that he was so accustomed to. A third pair of hooves joined the chorus with her and Jhogo, but when she turned back, she was thankful for the scarves wrapped around her head, as she'd bared a smile thinking that Ben had come to join her.

Instead, Viserys bobbed beside her, his narrowed gaze slipping from her and then to the bloodrider. "Where is my sister?" he asked tartly.

"She has ridden up ahead," Taliya informed him curtly, observing how he leaned in his saddle, not an anxious maneuver, but because he was in pain. Her eyes flitted up, poised toward Jhogo, who also had observed the gesture. "Please wait here, your grace, the Khaleesi is scouting ahead and requested that we wait-"

"My sister has ordered us to stay behind?" the young man's nostrils flared, his lilac eyes widening madly as he threw a haughty glare in her direction. "My sister, the whore to a smelly horselord, demands that I stay behind and wait?"

Taliya drew a gentle breath, controlling her own flaring anger as she tried to gauge Jhogo's reaction. He knew a few words in common as Ben had been speaking to him often, but even if he did not comprehend, he knew the tone of voice and the underlying fury in the blond's voice and that it was insulting. "Your grace, I doubt that the Khaleesi intended it to be a demand," she placated.

Viserys jerked the reins to his horse, erring uncomfortably close toward her, reaching over the horn of his saddle and yanking on one of her many scarves. "I do not need you interpreting my sister's commands, you Dornish cunt," he snarled, spurring his horse off after he'd tugged on one of her headscarves so hard that her head jerked down.

The veil of the silk fell into her face and she cursed beneath her breath, trying to fix her field of view. She had a bit of whiplash from his action, rubbing her neck as her tongue snapped behind her teeth and she snarled. For as fast as Viserys could ride in pain, she could ride faster. He had a head start, but she was vehement, beside herself with wrath that he'd touched her while she'd done nothing but tried to soothe his building vexation.

He arrived before her, Daenerys shoving him away as he spat like a serpent. For all his hissing, he was little more than a snake making futile attempts to breathe fire and not even managing a puff of smoke. His eyes widened at his sister's indignance, her rising confidence to react to his abuse, and as he raised a hand again, Taliya swept down from her saddle and smashed her forearm beneath the prince's jaw, sending him spiralling back a few paces, though he caught himself before he could fall. Her hand flew to the hilt of her sword, threatening to bare the steel if he countered.

"You whore! Do you know what you've done? You serve me. You swore fealty to me! I'll have you killed for this," Viserys snarled, his fair features blazing with crimson as if his skin had been set aflame.

"I recall asking to serve you, but I swore no oaths of fealty. I am no noble, nor am I a knight. However, you have laid hands on an unarmed woman, the Khaleesi at that, and my actions hurt much less than the misery you might've experienced had Jhogo intercepted you instead," Taliya countered vehemently. "Consider it a kindness I've done to you, because Khal Drogo does not care if you are the Khaleesi's brother, especially if you intend to harm her."

"You impudent-" Viserys fumbled, clumsily ripping his sword from the scabbard to point the steel toward her. "I am not just the Khaleesi's brother. I am a king! And a king does as he pleases! I will not be ordered around by the horselord whore or a sand bastard."

"Khaleesi, stay behind me," Taliya warned, brushing her hand back to urge the girl further from the fight.

But her sword never left its scabbard, a hissing snap echoed through the air and Viserys' blade went flying, thumping into the sand as Jhogo's whip coiled around the Targaryen's throat. He fell to the ground, choking on spit as Jhogo glared down at him from upon his steed. "Tat zalat mae driv che thash ha fin mae et nakhaan, Khaleesi?"

"What is he asking?" Daenerys stepped aside to gaze up at Jhogo.

"He is asking whether you wish for your brother to die for his impudence or if you'd prefer he injure him," Taliya translated, feeling no sympathy as the prince recoiled on the ground, his face changing from red to blue and then purple. She hoped a few brain cells died from the lack of oxygen.

"No, tell him to take Viserys' horse and make him walk," Daenerys decided after a moment of contemplation.

A much kinder fate than Taliya would have spared him, but she obeyed the girl's wishes, aware that this was an emasculating punishment. To walk was to be slow, weak, and lesser than most of the khalasar. Even outsiders rode horseback, but slaves did not. Death would be too kind, but this would make Viserys the subject of ridicule, which he was already honing such a niche. Without a horse, his fate would be sealed.

Answering Jhogo, the bloodrider nodded, loosening the whip so that Viserys could suck air in greedily.

Ben and Jorah had joined them on the rise, uncertain of what had just happened, but having heard Daenerys’ decision. Viserys scrabbled on the ground, wild eyes turning toward Jorah and then her partner. "K-kill her! Kill the sand bitch and the Dothraki too. I am a king and I will not stand being disintegrated like this-"

Neither man made a move toward their swords, eying Taliya before settling on Daenerys questioningly. Even if they'd considered obeying, what would that get them? They would be surrounded by enemies.

"Khaleesi?" Jorah entreated to the astonishment of Viserys. "He should walk."

Jhogo corralled Viserys away who spat venomously, leaving his sword behind as he was forced away. It would seem the threat of more pain was a good enough ward against his intention to do it again.

Her blood was still pounding, her ears thundering with the noise as she realized Daenerys could turn on her for lifting a hand against her brother. Lord, that had been a foolish mistake, but her fury had ignited as if the R'hllor Himself was in her. Even if she was just a girl, she had the power of her husband's 40,000 riders behind her. Swallowing hard, Taliya turned to look at her.

Daenerys was barefoot and contemplative, turning away to return to where she'd been gazing over the crest and down below at the expansive horizon. Her fingers left her hilt and she approached tentatively.

"I'm surprised I fought back," Daenerys muttered, making no mention of what Taliya had done just yet.

"He had no right to put hands on you. Not now, nor before," Taliya replied crisply.

Daenerys scoffed lightly. "I am not an amazing warrior like you, Tali. I have never had the opportunity to defend myself until this point," she sighed, shaking her head, tendrils of starlight blowing in the gentle wind. "Why did you defend me? You pledged your sword to my brother."

She stiffened and considered her answer. "I could not stand by and let him hurt you. To tell the truth, Khaleesi, my partner and I came here in search of Azor Ahai. We thought it might be your brother, but with the passing weeks, I doubt that and am beginning to believe our prince that was promised is a princess," this was not the entire truth, but the one that her and Ben agreed to cite when they changed allegiances. "And as I told him, I never took an oath, I simply asked to work in his service. However, I would take an oath for someone I believed in."

Daenerys flitted intelligent eyes up toward her, the corner of her mouth quirking, but not flipping up. "Remind me to keep account on any promises you make, it seems you're clever in finding loopholes," the girl mused. "Do you think I woke the dragon in Viserys?"

"The dragon?" she snorted, not hiding her indignance. "Cariña, he is a tiny, hissing snake without an ounce of venom." (Darling)

"But he is the rightful king. You understand this even if you are not of noble birth," Daenerys countered.

"Tell me, would you like to see him as king? Can you see him as king?"

"It does not matter what I think. The common people have been praying for his return, to be free of the Usurper," the girl raved, unconvinced, but repeating the words she'd been told so many times before like a parrot.

"With some experience as a commoner myself, I can tell you that they do no care who sits upon the throne so long as they are safe, healthy, and not caught between the wars of nobles. Peasants are often the ones forgotten and amongst the innumerable casualties when blue bloods wage battles with each other. They are not waiting for Viserys," Taliya assured her.

A blanket of silence threatened to smother them and she wondered if she had overstepped her boundaries again. Finally, "I always knew Viserys would never succeed in taking the Seven Kingdoms. I have always known deep in my heart, for a very long time. He could not lead an army, even if my husband gave him one," Daenerys declared insightfully. "Tell me, Tali, would an oath still stop you from betraying someone?"

"Perhaps," Benjen relinquished, he was not exceptionally well traveled. The idea of going to Pentos made him nervous. A queer, brilliantly colored tropical paradise. The polar opposite of the home he'd grown up in. Tabitha's features would be much less noticeable than his own, but her accent and name would draw questions once they managed to gain an audience with the Targaryens. "But do you have any idea of where that would be?"

Tabitha sucked her teeth. "Fine. What do you think would fit? I don't look like a northerner," she pointed out.

"You could be Dornish or Rhoynish," Benjen proposed. "What languages do you speak?"

"Probably none that are useful. The True Tongue--what Fang speaks, a little High Valyrian, and un idioma que nunca has escuchado , " (a language you have never heard) she spoke in the last eloquently, the slipping of the language foreign and lofty, but he'd heard it from sailors.

"You speak Rhoynish," he realized.

Tabitha blinked. "Wha-Oh, well... I suppose then it's been decided for me. I could be a Dornish bastard, my mother is from Rhoynar. Which means I'll need a new name, Tabitha isn't exactly common," she paused her work to contemplate a name, but drew a blank. "Tabris? Taliya?"

"It's the name you're going to have to go by," Benjen chuckled.

"Oh, you're laughing now as if you're going to go by Benjen Stark," Tabitha snorted, reminding him that the Targaryens most definitely would not look favorably upon his name. "Fortunately for you, you've got fire eyes now, but you still look a bit too Stark."

Scowling, he inquired, "What do you mean?"

"Grow your beard out and cut your hair shorter. You can't go by Benjen Stark. Daenerys is young and impressionable, we can win her over. Viserys on the other hand is a malicious brat who will spew poison into her ears. We cannot reveal your true name until we're established and Viserys is gone."

"Hm, I was assuming we were going to ride in on our griffins and give the girl wedding presents. That isn't the plan?" Benjen quipped, eliciting a frown from the woman.

"Never reveal your full hand," Tabitha sniffed. "We are going to be stopping in Braavos first. Hopefully, I can pick up the language a bit more before we get to Pentos. It's a bastardized version of High Valyrian, but it'll be useful either way. Dothraki more so if I could..." Pausing she narrowed her eyes at him again. "Stop evading the subject, Stark. You need to pick a name too. How well do you know Jorah Mormont?"

Sucking in air between his teeth, he obliged. "I know him enough. Saw him in Winterfell a few times when I was young, but not much since I joined the Watch. I know he was exiled for slave trade. He probably will not recognize me-"

"Unless you make it obvious," Tabitha interjected, jerking a finger in his direction. "I know how you Starks are and you better not glare openly at this man. As much as you distrust him, you can't be obvious about it."

Benjen suppressed a sigh, but knew that she was right. Jorah Mormont could get them killed if he discovered who he was. The flaming irises--more gold than orange--would make him unlike a Stark, but all it took was some well placed knowledge and a snarky jab to begin unraveling the aliases they were building. Tact had never been necessary in his line of work. He dealt in truths, honor, and by the posting he had. Now, he had none of that and if Tabitha was going by a bastard name, it was wise that he did as well. He might've been the better warrior, but Tabitha knew more about politics-a cursed game he'd never wanted to play.

"I'll think of a name," he grimaced, continuing to store his supplies. "What is your plan for gaining an audience with Magister Illyrio?"

"I'll send ravens in Braavos," Tabitha told him. "We'll spend a fortnight there so I can establish my contact in King's Landing. There's a good friend of Magister Illyrio who'd like more eyes and I think I have the right information to convince him to place a bet on us. The relics we're taking with us will sell for a high amount of coin, we'll be able to afford the necessary supplies and a gift for Daenerys after we depart for Pentos."

Thank the Old Gods that she had a plan, because his only one really had been arriving on griffin back and Torrhen wasn't large enough yet. "Who is this contact?"

Tabitha paused, lips curling in that same, wicked manner that sent a chill down his spine. The female looked exceptionally roguish and dangerous, the fire in her eyes dancing brightly. "Varys."

The Spider: a name he'd wished had not fallen from her lips or that he'd not asked at all. He had to trust Tabitha to be clever enough to fool the eunuch, but the rumors surrounding the man were abysmal. He was the keeper of secrets for a reason and the fact that the Spider had interest in the Targaryens to begin with spelled ill for the Starks. He was walking into a dragon's den without as much of a piece or armor or weapon to defend himself. Everything in his body rejected this idea, wishing for nothing more but to return to the simplicity of being First Ranger. But he could not. This second life came with a price and he had to play the game of thrones in order to save his family.

"Don't look so pale," Tabitha scolded, diverting her attention to the bags she'd finished packing. "I'll do my best to find a way to save your family. We have to start by changing Daenerys' perception on them... but your brother is a kinder man than King Robert. He is the one who speaks against assassinating her."

Those words were meant to be comforting, but Benjen was still anxious.

"I wish the king never asked Ned to go south," he muttered.

"Me too, but what we can do is earn a friend. Petyr Baelish is behind the fall of House Stark and his most staunch enemy is Varys."

"Why is that?"

"Baelish wants power. Varys wants what is best for the kingdom, regardless of who rules, as long as the common folk are treated justly. Anything we can feed Varys will help make him more powerful before Baelish's plans come to fruition will help the Starks. Varys likes the Starks," Tabitha explained, but sighed deeply afterward. "Unfortunately, your elder brother is naive and surrounded by enemies. He's also distrustful of Varys and more inclined toward Baelish, which is his first mistake. I'll make certain that mistake isn't repeated."

"How? We can't speak or write about the future."

"No, but I can write cryptically enough that all Varys will have to do is unwravel the riddles. He's clever."

"If Robert sits the throne now, why would he be looking toward the next monarch?"

"Because Robert is fat and a drunk. His health is failing. Joffrey and the Lannisters will inherit, which will begin the demise of Westeros. Having other options available is precedent, especially given the Crown's surmounting debt, circling lions, and the thin line they're riding with the favor of the commonfolk. That can all turn on a dime and Joffrey does not make a good king," Tabitha explained.

"Given what I saw at Winterfell, I'm not surprised."

"You have no idea what a tyrant he'll become. He's sick in the head," she tapped her brow. "Hopefully, we can avoid some of his wrath, but I doubt we'll be able to stop King Robert from dying."

"If we can save Ned and the girls-"

"I'll try," Tabitha insisted firmly. "But this all starts in Braavos. We need to do our part beside Daenerys to gain her favor."

Trying was all he could ask, considering he knew the true fate that awaited them all. For all that they knew, their own fate was not written in any visions or words that they'd witnessed. He did not fear for his own life, but for those he knew were going to be cut short if he failed. But to save some, wouldn't that come at the cost of others?

*

Benjen had never been to Braavos, but he had heard of the legendary Free City. Balerion had coasted far above the famed Titan of Braavos, bringing them out to a rural location miles outside the city to land unnoticed. The pair of griffins would remain out in the countryside until summoned. The larger seemed thankful not to be saddled with two adults, allowing for their supplies to be retrieved before he huffed and took off into the sky with a much lighter burden. No where he'd been had ever been as sprawling as Braavos. So choked full of buildings that trees were nonexistent, unless purposely planted in the more prestigious areas of the grey city. A plethora of languages were spoken between the canals, many of which he could not identify. Tabitha, now Taliya Sand, a traveling sellsword and linguist, picked out between the Braavosi and found a Rhonyish sailor to garner directions from.

The weather was not too hot, which he savored now, fully aware in Pentos it'd grow warmer and the Dothraki Sea would be unbearable. Wary eyes traced the streets, noticing the flamboyant colors that many bravos wore, proclaiming their profession lest any other swordsman wish to challenge them. Otherwise, most other locals dressed in muted tones of grey, purple, and dark blues. Songs floated like gondolas through the canals. Art and courtesanship prized greatly within every part of the city that they roamed. To him, it was florid, but not unbearably so. He'd trust a Braavosi before any southerner.

Within the Purple Harbor, the stretching market boasted magnificent goods ranging from Lyseni lace, desert gemstones, to Arbor Wine. There were few foreigners selling goods in this area, as only Braavosi ships were able to dock in this part of the harbor. However, Taliya made due, haggling over the rare treasures that had been preserved in the Roost. Shadowskins, golden chalices encrusted with garnets, antique daggers, fine armor that hadn't suited either of them. It had all been dead weight, things they could not carry forever, and the armor seemed to garner the most attention aside from the shadowskins. Benjen had no idea what they were saying, but the merchant before them was raving, tracing the finely hewn details and glancing up, trying to contain his delight as not to overpay for the work of art.

No sooner were their pockets heavy with Braavosi coin, did Taliya insist that they turn in for the night before darkness fell and they became open invitations for duels as they had swords buckled to their belts. They had passed a few fine establishments, but she took him aback by leaving the Purple Harbor and approaching the religious sector of the city. A large bridge led to another island, a temple of red stone looming before them. Upon the great square tower was an iron brazier as wide as the roof, containing a great fire.

To him, it was still difficult to acknowledge that his 'gods' had not saved him and that he was now in the service of the Lord of Light. A god he was not very familiar with and probably would have never cared for if not for the new life breathed within him. Part of him wished he'd died, resigning the simplicity and lack of responsibility as peace, but knew he'd not be able to save his kin had he not been given this chance.

The temple was grand, embellished with scones, braziers, and fire to emphasize the importance within the religion. It was not as decadent as any of the Septs, but was purposeful in its design. Red was an overarching theme, the priests and priestesses milling around dressed in crimson robes. Burning hearts were depicted on banners hanging from the walls, the sigil of the red god. A female paused, drinking them in, before a crisp smile broke across the plane of her features.

"Greetings," she knew they were not local, as evident by their faces.

"We seek lodgings while we are staying within the city," Taliya started, reaching toward the gloves that obscured her hands.

Benjen expected that the priestess might chuckle and direct them toward an inn. What temple would host strangers? Yet, the priestess paused, glancing between them, before watching as Taliya removed her glove and turned her palm over to reveal the Mark of the Warden. A burn emblazoned upon her left hand, just as Benjen had on his.

The priestess did not falter, but her smile broadened. "Yes, there are quarters we can afford to spare for such esteemed guests. The Lord of Light shines upon both of your faces, Wardens."

He was shocked, but why? The Lord of Light had brought them back as champions for his cause, why wouldn't those who served him know of the secret order? Returning her glove, Taliya gave a stout nod and followed closely behind the priestess.

"I must admit, I am surprised to see holy warriors. My name is Oresha and I am in your service for as long as you intend on staying," the priestess introduced, folding her hands into her sleeves as she led them through the halls and deeper into the enormous building as more braziers were lit for the evening fires.

"Then you will know that we cannot speak of our holy mission," Taliya rebuffed, not unkindly.

"As is the way," Oresha acknowledged, unbothered by this proclamation. "We know our duty to the swords of the Lord."

The main chamber led deeper into a monastery where the priests and priestesses dwelled, including those that were still in training. Night was an active period of time for the Red Temple, as prayers would be said as the shadows snuck in, whispering of the terrors that hid within them. Oresha turned a hall and entered an area with many doors, a few crimson garbed figures going in and out of rooms as they passed by. At the end of the hallway, Oresha unlocked a door, revealing a simple room with a set of dual beds. There was nothing ornate or remarkable about it. A fireplace, a brazier, a chest at the foot of each bed, and desks. It appeared to be intended for those living in the monastery and a roommate, but sufficed perfectly for the pair.

"Is there anything I can have sent to you while you settle in?" Oresha inquired.

"Books on Dothraki and High Valyrian," Taliya asserted immediately, putting her things down on the desk. "Parchment, ink... Do you have a rookery here?"

"Yes, of course."

"Very well, I'll require any ravens that fly to King's Landing and trusted contacts in the city that can deliver the letters."

"I shall send the requested materials with a meal to this room," Oresha complied. "I shall always need to send word to Volantis and the High Priest."

Taliya pursed her lips, but gave a nod. "Very well, as long as we are not made outside the walls of the temple."

"We are aware that the Wardens must work under discreet circumstances. You are the secret flames that weave the Lord's will, not heralds," Oresha retorted.

"Thank you, that will be all," Taliya closed the conversation and Oresha took her dismissal.

"How did you know that they'd take us in?" Benjen inquired after the door had shut and a few moments had passed from Oresha's departure.

"Fang," Taliya informed him. "He hinted that the Red Temples would be our greatest resource. Seems he was right. We can trust them. They're fanatics, incredibly devoted to the prophecy of Azor Ahai. With the amount of coin we were carrying too, even the nicest establishment in Braavos would have posed risk. We already drew a few eyes today."

"We could utilize the Iron Bank," Benjen suggested.

"Trust me, considering how much things were in the market, it'll be easy to spend a good portion on a wedding gift," Taliya snorted.

"And you're going to learn Dothraki and High Valyrian in a fortnight?" Benjen inquired, finally setting his belongings down, mildly amused by the woman's ambition.

"I'm going to learn as much as I can, unless you'd like to take that burden, Ben," she emphasized his name, shaking her head at his choice. "How many languages do you know?"

He'd chosen Ben River. It was a common first name and with his shorter hair, beard growing in, and golden eyes--he doubted even Jorah Mormont would connect the dots given the years since either had seen one another. He'd been little more than a boy playing at being a man when he'd seen Mormont. "Hm, you're rather clever with languages. I wouldn't wish to encroach upon your expertise."

"Oh no, you're going to learn," Taliya insisted haughtily. "Maybe not Rhoynish, but you're a stick in the mud if you don't at least understand the dialect of Valyrian most of Essos uses and Dothraki."

He chuckled at her decisiveness, but knew she was right. He didn't understand anyone and that made him anxious. Relying only on common was a severe disability, especially if they had to be clever. Better that people thought him a stupid Westerosi bastard and it turned out he spoke enough of the other languages to follow along. "Enlighten me, wise maester."

Taliya rolled her eyes, jerked out the chair to the desk, and sat down. Just as he was her mentor in swordsplay, she had subjects to school him on. Despite her typical lack of decorum (with him, at least), she was rather perceptive and cunning. Perhaps her harsh, serpentine personality hinted at this, but he originally thought the woman lacked poise. Obviously, he'd been wrong. She only lacked it when there was no need for a facade and between him, a fellow warden, she did not guard herself. He was thankful for that, uncertain how he would have handled his Wardenship is not for a companion who was polar in nature to him. The Lord of Light had intentionally paired them, each stronger in different fields, and somehow aware that they wouldn't be at one another's throats. Perhaps the fact that Taliya was a woman had a hand in his relaxed nature around her or her courage when facing down the Other.

Despite how much the woman could bark, she was true, a trait rarely witnessed in this world. People were fickle, oathbreakers, and more willing to protect their own hide than to buckle down and remain steadfast to a cause.

While a learned man, languages were complex. Over the simple dinner they had been provided, his mind spun as she tried to impress Dothraki on him first as she learned herself. Her own ramblings, she seemed to make sense of it, but he was stuck on the harsh annunciations. Valyrian, he'd heard a few words of before, and found that it was a bit easier to follow. Still, it would be a long time before he was fluent in either. He turned in relatively early, aching from their journey, while Taliya bowed over the desk and began writing letters.

Come morning, he was astonished to find her asleep at the desk, face pressed to the parchment and candle nothing but a stump of wax with no light. Throwing his leg over his bed, he crept up to see that she'd written numerous drafts and that her handwriting was quite atrocious. However, as he pulled out a sheet, his eyes coasted over the content that flowed like rivers of prose. Ambiguous and had nothing at all to do with their plight. How would Varys be able to understand them?

"Not the hibiscus-" Taliya muttered, jolting up, a piece of parchment sticking to her face as she moved. "Oh. Is it morning already?"

"You spent all night writing this?" Ben waved the work, unimpressed.

"Takes a while to create a code and cipher," Taliya groaned, rubbing her neck, peeling off the parchment from her face to reveal a mess of equations and a more deliberately spaced version of the letter he now held. "Look, this is the key which will be sent a few days after the first letter-" she turned the page over and showed him an alphanumeric mess, launching into an explanation on how certain letters within different words corresponded to others and could be utilized to spell out entirely different sentences. The process by which she broke it down was complex, but without the cipher, the letter would just appear to be a gilded exchange about traveling through Essos from a friend.

"And you think he'll be able to crack this without a full explanation from you?" Ben inquired thoughtfully, enthralled with her diligence to get this done immediately. He hadn't considered the letter being intercepted or read by another, but perhaps that was his own naivity of King's Landing and the inner workings of politics. Until they secured a better mode of communication with Varys, it was best to adhere to a code to draw no attention from anyone who might spy the letter before the master of whispers.

"We'll find out. If not, we're going to have a fun time trying to get into the wedding," she chuckled, standing up from her seat. "Shit, I really need to lay down though. Go out into the city if you'd like, but I need a couple of hours."

He wasn't really keen on the idea of going out into Braavos without a translator, but also knew there were few moments where either of them really got to be alone. Securing a small portion of Braavosi coins, he departed from the dormitory. Where the temple had been aflame with activity overnight, it had simmered down to a quiet lull as he passed a few priests and priestesses who gave curt bows of their head, but spoke no greetings. Word had spread like wildfire and yet, as requested, they were discreet.

Sunrise on the city illuminated the grey stone with a warm, amber haze, refracting off the water in the canals and basking the people. There was still a lot to take in, bustle, and queerly speaking people, but Ben tried to relax. Courtesans milled around openly, smiling at passing men, including himself. Some rode on ornate pleasure barges and unlike those in Westeros, were treated like nobility and with care. His eyes did not linger long, but Ben puzzled about the fact that he was no longer bound to his oaths as a man of the Night's Watch.

He had warned Jon Snow of speaking away his freedoms, including enjoying a woman, at such a young age. Ben knew what he had missed, especially after he'd learned of men going down into the Gift to purchase time with harlots to sate their thirst. There had been a time, before the Night's Watch, where he had known women and what he was giving away. But as a Stark, he'd known his place in protecting the kingdom and supporting his brother from the Wall. It was easier for Ned if Ben had no claim, nor had he ever yearned for the title as Warden of the North.

Whatever oaths he had to uphold with the Lord of Light, he suspected given the fact he did not recall them meant that there were no such clauses as refraining from giving in to carnal desires. Yet, as he espied the comely faces of the women dressed in vibrant silks, he felt nothing. Perhaps because he did not know them, lacking rapport or trust, a rather bad taste situating in the back of his throat at the idea of paying for services. But this was Braavos and while he had a disliking for it, the city revelled in their differences from his home.

Ben followed his nose, finding himself breakfast amongst the stands, freshly baked sweet bread and a hot tea to enjoy by the canals. The city still sprawled before him, beckoning to be explored. Despite his wariness for the urban setting, he curiousity got the better of him. He was a ranger, an explorer in his own right. Be this a foreign city, his legs took him through the bridged paths, between the islands, and amongst the shifting colors and faces. Few paid him heed aside from a few smiling escorts, but he'd simply continued onwards, careful to evade shady alleys and remained on the main roads.

A couple of hours turned into the better part of the afternoon, as he'd managed to get himself turned around, searching for the path back to the Red Temple. After finding someone who was willing to give him directions in common, he returned to find that Taliya was awake, the desk was void of the scattered parchment, and she was pawing through the language books. Her dedication was admirable, but he wondered how she could remain holed up in the stuffy room when there was so much to explore.

"Think the priests will mind if we use their courtyard for sparring?" Ben proposed wolfishly.

"We're Wardens, they'll let us do anything short of murdering them all if it's the Lord of Light's will," Taliya smirked.

*

They kept to the strict schedule of a fortnight in Braavos. As Taliya had jested, there was substance to the claim that the Red Priests would do anything for them. Part of Taliya's plan for Daenerys' wedding went hand in hand with R'hllor and claiming to be religious ambassadors and warriors entering into servitude on the blessed wedding-as was the will of their God. The temple parted with crimson garments for them, burnishing their armor, making certain they had plenty of coin and food for the journey to Pentos. He had not thought that he would have missed the little griffin during their separation, but as they left behind the watery city and trekked back out into the countryside where they'd started in Essos, he found his heart brimming with joy as the griffins touched down and reunited with them.

While Torrhen had grown a bit over the weeks, it was still not enough to ride him. Balerion groused, but in good nature, butting playfully into Taliya as she tried to secure the saddle bags to him, tail swishing around like a cat ready to play. Each passing moment brought them closer to the beginning of their first mission and to say that Ben was anxious was an understatement. What if Jorah recognized him? What if their invitation to the wedding was not solidified and they failed? His doubts and worries did not seem to affect his partner in the same manner. She was difficult to read and aloof, her pensive expression the only inkling that she might be worried about what Pentos had in store for them.

He had to trust in their mission, but his Dothraki was poor and his Valyrian rough. For all he knew, he'd be the fool on the Pentoshi promenade. Even the skills of his companion would not save him from his own ignorance. Gods, the north was so much less complex, even with the Others lurking north of the Wall.

They arrived in the city with a few days to spare before the wedding, allotting them time to get gifts and top of their supplies. Where Braavos had been grey, mild, and riddled with more canals than streets, Pentos was warm, made of many bricked buildings and walled estates akin to miniature castles, and filled with brightly hued residents. Westeros seemed bleak by comparison and Ben was sweltering in his thin doublet, armor, and trousers. While a warm, salty breeze often blew up from the port, the high walls of the golden city often denied them of the luxury of feeling its reprieve.

While the colors of the Wardens had been dark blue and grey, they traded the typical hues of their regal to that of the Lord of Light. Before dawn on the day of the wedding, Ben had settled his wardrobe and his attire. He'd spent the better part of the night polishing his cuirass, emblazoned with the heraldry of the Warden griffin on silvered steel. He did not possess a full suit, only the breastplate, thankful that it was light. The doublet beneath was provided by the temple in Braavos, a deep, garnet red that looked almost black, threads glistening in the sunlight.

His trousers were of a loose fit, as not to make him sweat excessively on the desert plains, though he knew there would be no avoiding it. He had not been crafted to be in Essos. He was a Stark, ice and iron, not heat and fire. The shiny black boots were finer than he would have typically chosen, accustomed to the sublime and mundane as a man of the Watch. What he wore now was a little 'much' for him. Taliya assured him that it was simple, but it still felt rather decadent.

He need only remind himself of the gem hues across the city to feel less excessive. After all, there were men who dyed their beards strange colors and forked them with oils.

Taliya was much more at home in the city than he was. Over the weeks her complexion had warmed to a rich olive, which complimented the tones she wore. That morning, the woman wore a pair of slitted harem pants in a deep, vibrant crimson. An ensemble of gold and cred sashes by her waist secured Fate to her hip, before a thick leather cuirass was fitted carefully over her torso, wrapped beneath sashes that matched the trousers, encompassing her collar and neck and fluttering behind her in scarves. While he knew she had gloves to meet the tight sleeves at her elbows, she had foregone them for the wedding, revealing intricate scrawlings of black and colored ink on her left arm.

Ben had never seen tattoos so ornate or detailed, leaving yet another layer of curiosities surrounded the woman. But as he gazed at her, he had no doubt that she was Dornish, wearing the sunset as she sat astride the dappled gelding that she'd purchased for their journey. Until the dragons were born, they could not introduce the griffins and had to have their own horses to accompany the Dothraki with. Each shuffle of the horse revealed the warm skin of her smooth legs and Ben felt himself watching a little longer than was polite. It was the first time he'd really seen more of the discreet Warden since the beginning of their partnership.

Both of their horses wore blankets with the flaming hearts of R'hllor, pressed to the flanks so that people knew they were embassies of the red god. The wedding was to be held outside of the city, the khalasar so enormous that the city was wary of what the festivities might do inside the walls, given their lack of military protection. Thus, it was to be conducted outside the golden walls and within a field where the Dothraki had made a temporary camp. Running through the lines of Dothraki he did remember, he prayed to any god that would listen that he wouldn't make a fool of himself.

Their trip out of the city and toward the allotted field paused when they noticed an elaborate poliquin gilded with so much golden paint that Benjen was quite certain it could've fed the entire north for a year during winter. Taliya spared him a glance, giving him a quick nod, before nudging her gelding forward to approach the throng of plump Unsullied that were carrying it. With a click, the shutter slipped open and within they could see the greasy face of a very fat man. The man from the visions: Illyrio Mopatis.

"Ah, you must be the swords of R'hllor," he greeted in a honey sweet voice, stroking his yellowed beard that was greasy enough to paint pictures on canvas.

"May the Lord of Light smile on you, Magister," Taliya replied courteously, a staunch difference from the woman he was acquainted with. Still this was not groveling, she spoke as a soldier might to an officer, cordial and polite. "I believe a mutual friend of ours told of our coming from Braavos."

"Yes, yes he did. I am quite surprised that the R'hllor would be so interested in this union," Illyrio simpered.

"The Lord of Light works in mysterious ways. We do not question his will," Ben broke in, earning a careful, but impressed glance from Taliya.

"Hm, indeed. There are not many Westerosi who follow the Lord of Light. Given your accent, my lady, you must be from Dorne."

"I am," she conceded simply, but her voice fell flat as she did not smile or lean into the flattering tone which the man spoke with. "And there are not many Westerosi on this side of the Narrow Sea, yet here we are. The paths in which we led to get here were but the will of the Lord... It seems as if it'll be a fine morning for a wedding."

"Tell me, my lady, have you ever been to a Dothraki wedding?" Illyrio inquired lightly.

" Vo, vosma anha shillolat anha tikh allayafi me ," (No, but I believe I will enjoy it) Taliya retorted, the magister's brows shooting up. "Sorry, my Dothraki is still a bit rough, but I believe it'll get better."

"Our friend said you were clever, but I was not aware you were a linguist," Illyrio remarked.

"I'm a bit more gifted in scholarly pursuits than my companion, but he could best me with a sword any day. Perhaps the Lord of Light was aware of this when he made his partners," Taliya concluded before drawing her horse a few paces away. "We shall reconvene with you at the wedding. The night is dark and full of terrors."

"Farewell," Illyrio watched as they departed, skirting past his poliquin and down the beaten path that led to the sprawling plains where a city's worth of Dothraki were dwelling.

"Shit, I need something to sniff, that man smelled awful-" Taliya complained, rubbing her nose as they broke into a small pocket of solitude. "Could you smell it? Even the perfume didn't hide his reek-"

"No, I wasn't close enough," Ben admitted thankfully. "Who knew you could be so well-mannered."

Her infamous temper flared, eyes narrowing at him, as she opened her mouth to lash at him like a viper, "A side of me you'll never have the luxury of knowing."

He barked a laugh. "If you were being polite to me, I'd suspect death was near and the Lord of Light tasked you with killing me."

"Is it that uncharacteristic? I can be nice when I choose to," Taliya grumbled, drawing in a shimmering gold scarf.

"No one here knows you, so to them, they'd be none the wiser," he pointed out.

"But you know," she gave him a sideways glance, a devilish light playing in her fiery eyes.

"I know," he agreed, tucking away a smirk. Months of being beside her, with only her company aside from the griffins (not to include Fang's sporadic appearances), he thought he knew Taliya well enough. Still, despite all that he knew, he knew little of her history or who she was.

Abruptly, the woman reigned in her horse and dropped from the saddle in a puff of dust. Bending down, she retrieved a dagger and began hacking up a shrub of multicolored flowers, assembling a bouquet with a throng of tall grass to tie it together.

"For the princess?" he puzzled, aware that they'd already purchased excellent gifts for the girl. What good would flowers do?

"Mhm," she got back on the saddle. "Would you believe me if I told you I was a gardener in my past life?"

There would be no answers here, just eternal gripes and curiosities.

Until the darkness was juxtaposed by a flame, burning and twisting like serpentine tongues. Erring close, Benjen could see within the writhing fire, three dragons sailing overhead, toward Westeros. Death, war, famine, misery. But the dragons were not the worst of it, just a part of the machinations as the undead stole one, wielding it against their master and destroying the wall to unleash the unholy army upon the unsuspecting. No one knew that they were real. They were wetnurses' tales.

When he reached out to grab the vision, he gasped, the fire consuming his flesh and burning him. No, not burning as it should. He could feel each nerve, muscle, and fiber of his being twinging back into existence. Death had come for him, but a flaming hand had gripped and pulled him from perdition.

The ambivalence of the void faded and as he turned over where he laid, he heard voices in the distance.

"Were you told to bring him here?" he did not know this voice, but it chilled him to the bone, so youthful and yet scarred by the wisdom of centuries.

"I did what I felt was right," it was the fire-eyed woman, Tabitha. "It does not matter. He has died regardless of my help. Just as-"

"Just as intended?" the other filled in.

"I don't know! It was never confirmed, there were only theories," she hissed.

"Do you hear that?"

Only the crackling of the hearth in front of Benjen filled his ears with noise.

"No, Fang-"

But the companion had departed, leaving the woman huffing in frustration. Her footsteps drew nearer and she passed in front of the hearth, lean shoulders framed by the light as she had put away her cloak within the warmth of the room.

"What do you think, Balerion?" she spoke to another, a great shadow unfurling and tensing his heart. The creature that had knocked the Other back came into hazy focus, a thick lion's mane of feathers and fur encircling an enormous eagle's face, intelligent eyes glistening with the same bright flames as the woman who commanded him. After a moment of silence, she shook her head. "We probably won't be able to stay here much longer. Not with the Others marching. Who knows how far behind the Night King is."

"How do you know so much about them?" Benjen spoke hoarsely, his voice sounding as if he hadn't used it in days.

The both of them jumped, Tabitha whirling with her hand on her sword as she gazed down intently where he was laying. "How the fuck- " she started, interrupted only by the slapping of barefeet against stone. Turning a corner, the other voice's visage came into view, and Benjen was shocked into silence once again, staring at a boy of legend. Perhaps he shouldn't have been so startled, but clutched in his tawny arms was a miniature version of the griffin that had fluffed up indignantly. Only the feathers of the fledgling was grey dappled with black.

"Another Warden has been born," he declared, feline eyes turning toward Benjen.

"Fang, that doesn't even make sense. How could he have been..." but she didn't finish her question, dark brows snaring together. "You're still Benjen Stark, aren't you?"

He didn't understand the question, but decided to humor her. "Yes."

"I am not here to explain how things work," Fang scowled. "He has been reborn as a Warden. That means he's been given insight."

"I should get back to the Wall. If what I saw was true, I need to warn everyone," Benjen decided, sitting up and pulling back the cloak that had been strewn over him.

"Your watch ended, Warden. You died and were reborn," the creature, Fang, asserted.

"I still have a duty to Westeros, to my people-"

"Tell me, Stark, what is it you're going to tell everyone that will make them believe you?" Tabitha inquired, leaning against the forge, so that he was able to really observe the woman's face. She did not look or sound Westerosi. If anything, he thought she appeared more Dornish, despite lacking their accent. Her skin was a faded olive from missing the warmth of the sun this far north, her bright eyes framed by dark lashes, and her lips curved in a mocking manner. Dark brown hair had been shorn to fall thick and straight to her collar, parted in the middle and slightly wavy from being pressed beneath a hood. There was a roguish charm to her, nothing quite soft and dainty or willowy as most men preferred in a lady, but this woman was no flower. She had wielded a sword well enough and was tall and lean. Perhaps comely could be used to describe her, the symmetry of her face, but her eyes were also haunting.

"The Others are real and that-" he was going to express his knowledge of the dragons, that they would be coming to Westeros and that there would be war and strife, juxtaposed by the fact that the long night was looming on the horizon. Yet, as he tried to put this knowledge to word, he found himself choking on air, his voice failing him.

"That's what I thought," she remarked smugly, lifting the hand she'd injured during the fight, which was now bound. "Whatever you know, you won't be able to verbalize it. One of the Wardens' most redeeming features. For everything we know, our words shall not serve us, our actions must."

"I can warn them of the Others at the very least," he groused.

"Can you? If you return to Castle Black, they will not understand your rebirth or your need to leave on a moment's notice. We are slaves to the will of the one who saved us, the Lord of Light, R'hllor. Would it not be better for you to be thought to be dead than to have to abandon your post when the Lord of Light commands it?" Tabitha challenged.

"I don't serve this Lord of Light," Benjen rejected, shaking his head.

"Then you'd be dead. It was He who revived you. Are the words not ' Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death '? Your watch has ended and a new one has begun," Tabitha stood up, pacing the length of the room to retrieve supplies from an alcove in the stone.

"Not as if I was given the choice to make an oath in this circumstance," Benjen grimaced, wondering what else would be expected of him as a 'Warden'.

"Don't sound so thrilled. I wasn't given a choice either. Burned to death and woke up here with Balerion," she jerked her thumb over toward the magnificent beast. "Trust me, it doesn't make much sense, but I've just learned to stop questioning it. Here, you must be starving-" she returned with a waterskin, jerky, and black bread. Sitting nearby, she placed her elbows on her knees and hunched forward.

"Burned to death?" Benjen considered, glancing over her once again. "This Lord of Light really knows how to pick his champions, hm?"

The woman snickered. "I didn't feel it. Was unconscious from the smoke beforehand," her eyes flickered over toward Fang. "But this little welp is yours, just as Balerion is my partner. A Warden is a guide, a keeper of knowledge, and wargs-" The griffin was set on the floor as she continued to explain their plight, waiting on the Lord of Light to task them with their duty before sending them on the holy mission to aid in altering the future. While she spoke, the young creature, no larger than a house cat, stumbled on weak feet and tumbled unceremoniously before him, head too heavy for the rest of its tiny body.

He could not deny that there seemed to be a connection between them, the excitement palpable and rolling of the griffin in waves. The features of the little one were unlike the large obsidian one across the room, lacking the immense mane. Rather, his fur was thicker, the plumage of his feathers not as defined or prominent. In a way, the griffin had more canine features, a thick tail, and broader ear tufts.

The Wardens themselves were a rather ambiguous group, something he'd never heard of and yet here he sat with one and their griffin. Had it not been for his own revival from death and the mythical beast pawing at his leg, he might've scoffed at the information being passed over to him. One oath down and a new job set before him, Benjen resigned himself to the fact that his life was eternally destined to be interlaced with servitude. Only now, the complexities of magic and the fantastic had their own roles to play. Everything he'd thought was little more than old wive's tales, turning out to hold substance. Even the legend of the Children of the Forest was worth its salt, Fang erring near the entrance of the warm hearth room as Tabitha explained that their days were numbered.

Finally, the short being departed, leaving just the Wardens and their partners in the room. By now, the griffin had found its way into his lap and had curled up, wrapping its tail around its talons. "They won't do us much good against dragons, but so far I don't regret having Balerion by my side. We wouldn't have made it out of the haunted forest without him."

Dragons. His interest piqued, wondering how much she knew about the topic. "Dragons are dead, aren't they?"

"For now, give it a few more months' time-" Tabitha snorted, brows snaring together as the comment fell from her lips. Confusion was blatant on her face, her spine stiffening as she sat up and stared at him, almost in an accusing manner. "Dragons are going to be reborn once Khal Drogo is burned on a pyre. In which Daenerys Targaryen shall acquire 3 dragons."

He knew that name. The daughter of King Aerys, who had somehow survived the sacking of Dragonstone. Her family wasn't as fortunate. "You know then... That they're going to come here and one will fall into the clutches of the Others-" His tongue was no longer tied, the future spilling from his lips unhindered.

"I... know a lot of things," Tabitha admitted darkly. "Wardens can share information with Wardens..." she muttered, rubbing her face thoughtfully before glancing back toward him. "Makes sense, I guess... I suppose we'll also be able to tell when there's an eavesdropper or intruder."

"So Daenerys Targaryen is going to come to Westeros with 3 dragons," Benjen pieced together, the images he'd seen not possessing a narrative to go along with it.

"Yes, with intentions of taking the Iron Throne for herself. She will realize she needs to help destroy the army of the undead, but there's still a lot of unknown... how dominoes might fall now that you've survived," Tabitha sighed.

"I wasn't supposed to survive?"

"You were supposed to disappear and be presumed dead," Tabitha told him. "As far as I know, you never returned... but then again, all I know is script, not images."

"Then... if we're to be successful, I need to understand everything."

"If I tell you everything, you must understand that we have to adhere to what we're assigned to alter, because a lot of it has to deal with your family," Tabitha warned.

"I've taken oaths before and sworn myself to other causes. I think I can handle what you have to tell me."

That is what Benjen thought before Tabitha sighed and started from the beginning, recounting things that she was not around to witness, speaking in poetry like a prophet that had written the lines of their lives on parchment. She was right, he was not prepared for the intricacies of the world that he would have been better off being daft to. His derision and distrust of the Lannisters deepened, his breath quickening as he learned that it was they that hurt Bran and wished his death. But that was only the most minor of the plights to face House Stark. From the death of his brother at the hand of the Lannisters, to the rise of his nephew as a king, the betrayal and hurt was too much to bear.

Yet, Benjen sat, as it was his duty as a Warden. The web was not only woven with the Starks, but many other faces and names, some of which he was familiar with and others he was not. For as snarky as the woman seemed, Tabitha had an impeccable memory and a talent to retell this all like a story.

When she stopped, he lifted his head to gaze intently at her, his chest aching, but wondering why she'd ended so abruptly. "What happens after? With Jon, with Arya-"

"I can only speculate, that is where my true knowledge of the events of the future ends. You tell me that Daenerys will come to Westeros and lose a dragon to the Night King. Jon will likely be revived by the Lord of Light... Arya will continue her trials to become a Faceless Man, but the others--if we change the future, none of this is certain," Tabitha pointed out tenderly, remarkably softer than she had been previously.

He shouldn't have expected for all of the answers, especially given how much she knew and the years between now and when she'd ended, but... he really wished he knew what became of them. Already, he knew that many of them would die, including Ned, Robb, and Catelyn. In his gut, he wanted to go to them, to free them of their fate, but as he'd had his duty to the Watch, he had to trust in the Lord of Light to give him the opportunity to save them.

"I'll... give you some time alone. I know it's a lot to process," Tabitha stood up, stretching her back like a feline that had lounged out in the sun for too long, before striding away, glancing toward her griffin companion before departing from the chamber.

Benjen sat in silence, wondering if he would have been better off dead than with the vast knowledge and pressure he now felt.

*

"You're leaving yourself wide open," Benjen chastised, smacking Tabitha hard on the side of her arm with the flat of his blade.

"Right, well, my sincerest apologies for not wielding a sword since I could walk," she combatted haughtily, frustrated by her inability to best him.

It wasn't that she was a bad swordsman. In fact, she was quick as a whip and relentless when she was on the offense. However, she seemed to forget that her advantage in speed was outweighed by a man's strength. She often put herself in positions in which she could be placed out of balance and then open for attack. The form was there, as was the finesse, but he had learned by now that Tabitha had a bit of a temper that he could play like a harp. Against most men, she'd win, but against true savants or those that had spent years honing their craft, they'd pick up on the same chinks in her skill as he did.

The Roost was not a bad place, nor his newest companions too disagreeable. It had taken him a little while to grow accustomed to Tabitha's frank attitude and lack of decorum, but he likened it to comrades speaking to one another, not a woman to a man. Putting aside the facets of gender, Benjen found that Tabitha was responsible, reliable, and someone he would have liked to work alongside in the Night's Watch had she been a man. Now, as two Wardens with the task of saving the future that they knew, he was glad that he was with someone as capable as Tabitha, who seemed to have an uncanny memory and been given a scholarly education.

"React less emotionally," Benjen challenged, unable to stop himself from grinning as he thought of the times he'd told Jon the same thing when he was just a young boy. Or perhaps even Arya, who would have loved to be given the chance to be a warrior as a woman. He did not know how Tabitha's talents would transition in Westeros, given the fact a woman wielding a sword was nearly always unacceptable. Trying to think of her in a dress was amusing, as he'd only ever known her in trousers and armor, seemingly somewhat of a permanent fixture for the woman in place of what he'd grown up knowing females should wear.

Her nostrils flared and she came at him again, twisting Fate around in a counterclockwise motion before he parried the blow. The weight was light, barely a kiss of steel against steel, warning him that he'd fallen for the feint. Still, the man was quick enough to see as she redirected herself. Twisting his wrist to counter the next, he was astonished when she dropped beneath his blade and swept her leg beneath him, hooking a boot behind his leg and jerking him right off his feet.

Benjen slammed down hard on his back, collapsing into the remnants of an old nest, muscles groaning in protest from the hard, stone floor than embraced him. Tabitha loomed over him, pointing the triangular tip of her longsword down at him.

"How long?" he muttered, sitting up and accepting the glove she'd offered him to pull him back to his feet.

"How long what?" she asked, feigning ignorance.

"How long were you pretending to cross?"

Tabitha scoffed, as if offended that she'd play that game, but sheathed her sword. "I figured it out a couple of days ago. You always pointed out my anger, so I decided to set a trap."

"It took you a couple of days to set the trap?" Benjen poked.

"Well, there'd be no fun in closing it right away. Especially when you were being wary of me calming down enough to give you a run for your coin," Tabitha shrugged. "Still don't think a trick like that will be enough to defeat an Other, but it's progress."

"Probably not," Benjen agreed.

Tabitha's head whipped toward the grin in the mountainside where the griffins could come and go as they pleased. She had a better sense of when Balerion was arriving, her warging abilities more finely tuned over the years than his own. While he might be a better swordsman, Tabitha had him in the category of magic. "Look who's brought back quite a catch," she whistled, placing her hands on her hips as Balerion flung an elk corpse in through the opening. "Let's carve it up before it decides that we're supper."

The powerful griffin landed soon after, followed closely by Torrhen, who was a little uncertain on his wings, but managed to keep up as he grew into a gawky state where his talons were becoming too large for him to know what to do with. Dropping his own prize of a fat rabbit, he glanced expectantly toward Benjen, waiting for praise.

“Better than last time,” he remarked, bending down to brush the thick ears of the griffin down affectionately. “You’d better eat it quickly.”

Torrhen glanced from his rabbit and then to the elk, poising the silent question as to if they needed to share his catch too.

“No, you’re growing. Eat that yourself. Balerion brought plenty enough back to share.” No sooner had he said that did the massive beast dig its talons into the back of the carcass. Twisting, it snapped the spine and helped divide the elk in half, leaving the left side of the body for them to dress. Dragging the rest away, Balerion threw an expectant look at Torrhen, the tiny counterpart hobbling after his much larger brother.

“Ruined the pelt,” Tabitha chastised Balerion, who let out a huff in disdain at her dismay. She drew her knife and began working, Benjen crouching beside her to assist. It was dirty work, but the griffins were keen on the organs and head, so there’d be no reason to dispose of the waste, instead leaving the mess clustered in the roosting area of the mountain as they divided the remaining elk and dragged it toward the Hearth.

Sitting by the warmth of the eternally burning forge, they worked in relative silence. There wasn’t always a need for conversation and Benjen was unbothered by the woman’s company. Salting and hanging large haunches in the back of the room, the work took a few hours, but would result in a couple weeks worth of food for the both of them. The griffins had been retrieving food as of late, Fang citing that it was too dangerous for them all to go out and hunt after hearing the harrowing tale of their encounter with the Other.

Tabitha sat up on one of the benches, rubbing the arm that he’d taken the flat of his blade to absentmindedly. Her eyes were fixated on the twisting wreath of flames within the forge. A forge that neither of them knew how to use, nor why it was in this mountain. It gave them warmth and protection from the darkness of the frozen north, but otherwise its existence was a mystery. Her brows pressed together and she stood, taking a few paces toward the fire.

Benjen tilted his head, gazing toward the hearth in an effort to notice what she was transfixed upon. Tongues leapt out at him, images burning a path across the fire, a dragon’s shadow lifting to reveal a beautiful city and a crowd of impressive, queerly dressed people as they gave gifts to a young girl. A rotund, greasy man opened a chest and presented three calcified eggs.

“It’s been decided,” Tabitha muttered.

Did she see what he saw?

Never had she thought there'd be so much to surviving in a medieval world, taking for granted everything she had back home. From the gross pit she had to utilize to go to the bathroom-which froze her ass off when she did pull down her pants-to the fact that they didn't have food readily available, she had to relearn everything. How to hunt, how to track, how to map topography, how to tell the time by the position of the sun in the sky which was also dependent on where she was and what time of year it was. There was so much. Riding Balerion was no easy feat either. While her partner had a perfect nook to slide into to ride between his shoulder blades, the lack of a saddle meant that she rode bareback. Only, unlike a horse, a griffin was a much more perilous ride. By the end of their first ride, her legs were throbbing from being clenched so tightly, Fang bemused by her harrowed expression and near fainting from when Balerion had turned 90 degrees to sail up a current in the wind flanking the mountain.

The north was cold. There had been placed where Tabitha had been nearly frostbitten, but she'd never embarked on a journey into the tundra, which was basically what she'd compare the Frostfangs. Unironically, there was more territory to the North East that hadn't been officially mapped by men, but Tabitha knew what laid there: a desolate icescape with few living creatures roaming the white, featureless plains. She wondered if the Night King would come from there or further north, descending from the Thenn. Either way, she suspected she had time, but the wind continued to nip at her in a reminder that it could become much colder.

She remembered a rough quote about the place that had become her home, that there were giants, wargs, and worse things in the Frostfangs. That's what she was, wasn't it? Warden was a fancy title, but truthfully, she was a warg.

The abilities seemed complicated at first and she drew upon her knowledge from the books and chapters in Bran's perspective. Even with that as a guideline, she found her expectations were a mere shadow of what it truly meant to be bonded to an animal. She had known Balerion since he had been a kitten, raising him, taking him everywhere with her until their paths became this and he was no longer just feline in nature. There was an innate bond, the ability to sense each other's emotions without making much effort, their beings interlaced together like fingers holding one another. She always could sense how he felt, just as in turn, he could sense her disquiet or a ripple of emotion.

Sometimes, she would dream of his midnight hunts, viewing the world from above as he went in search of large game to sate his hunger. Under the cover of night, his dark feathers and fur made him a shadow against the sky, nearly impossible to see when the stars were blotted out by clouds.

Under Fang's guidance, there had been a few instances where she had forced the switch, taking control of Balerion. However, she found that she did not like the feeling, thrusting his own sentience to the side, when she trusted the griffin's judgement just as much as her own. While there would undoubtedly be benefits to this ability, she found no use in it now.

Days bled into one another, becoming weeks and months under the tutelage of Fang. Daily sword practice, bi-weekly hunts and trapping, lessons in the True Language and of the intricacies of the Others, Fang knew not where she would be needed first, but he wanted to be certain that she would not get herself killed and could survive even in the most inhospitable of environments.

"I've been to a lot of places," Tabitha told him, savoring the fresh venison from the successful hunt that morning. Dressing the beast had become second nature and the rest had been preserved, some being smoked now to turn to jerky. Thankfully, given the frigid temperatures, she could utilize it to save the meat for later. "Mountains, oceans, jungles, deserts. Of course, I had more supplies and equipment than I do here, but I did manage to survive out there."

"If you can survive in the two extremes the world has to throw at you, you're well off," Fang commented.

"Mm, but I'll need to go into cities, mingle with people..." It had been a long time since Tabitha had any company aside from just Fang and Balerion. The idea of trying not to stick out like a sore thumb in a major city made her heart flutter, stomach churning as she thought of high society and how ill prepared she was to face any sort of nobility or royalty. She had a callous mouth, cursed worse than a sailor, and knew that while she had a sharp enough tongue to elicit chuckles at her quips, that might as well get her killed for being impudent with the wrong person.

"That was always a possibility," Fang shrugged, wrapped in a thick shadowskin where he sat against the wall. "But at least you can carry that sword well enough now to fend for yourself. A couple of years ago?" He let her oafish swinging come back to the forefront.

"Hey, I didn't know how to use those muscles. I told you I'd never lifted a sword in my life," Tabitha snorted indignantly, jabbing a gloved finger in his direction. "And for as good as I 'might' be with it, I've yet to fight anyone other than you, pipsqueak. If I were to come face to face with someone like Jaime Lannister, I know I'm like to get myself killed. A few years of steadfast practice doesn't make a master."

"At least you're not arrogant enough to think so," Fang pointed out.

"Yeah, well, I'd like to not die," she huffed. Not die, again. With her luck, she'd go on the first task laid out before her and get murdered. She had a rather cynical outlook on life, given that her second chance was albeit shoddy, riddled with clauses, and was forcing her to play a role she'd rather neglect. Honestly, she could've flown out to Essos and found a city to explore and enjoy or other natural features she could witness with Balerion beside her, but somehow she knew that the magic that had brought her here wouldn't allow it. She was bound by it, a fiery contract that she had not willingly signed. She knew not the details of the contract, only that Fang insisted that she had to do what she was told to.

A good soldier could take orders, but Tabitha had left those years in the army behind her, and it wasn't as if she had great rapport with her commander--which she was beginning to suspect more and more was somehow tied with the Lord of Light.

A west wind blew, biting through the layers that she wore. Despite the thick bundles in which she was swaddled in, there were some chills she could not chase. Groaning, Tabitha drew her cloak in and continued to trudge through the snow. A new blanket had fallen, making it a bit more difficult to traverse through the woods to check her snares. Better to be overprepared with food in the case there was a dry spell of hunting, but she hated leaving the warmth of the forge behind. She hoped her first task was someplace south and warm, not amongst the ice and stone.

Throwing back her cloak as she dug through the snow to check the snare, she heard a soft scittering beneath the white blanket. Had a scavenger gotten to whatever had been frozen beneath? Sighing, she removed her dagger and began to peel away the layers. What she hadn't been expecting was the rabbit to still be alive.

No, it was not alive, but it continued to move. Lashing at the rope snare that had snapped its neck, the head cocked at an unnatural angle as it twisted around. The eyes were a piercing blue, burning around the edges of the fur as it set those blazing irises on her and tried to pounce on her. This was the first creature she'd seen that had been turned into a wight and the implications disturbed her. Didn't an Other need to be within a certain proximity for the wighting to happen? They were coming and still, she had yet to be given a task. What had already occurred in the books that she could have prevented?

She drew her sword, killing the undead rabbit a second time, aware that the steel would stop it from rising again. No longer would traps suffice if they'd just rise again and she wasn't keen on trying wight meat or discovering its side effects. There was enough meat back in the Roost for her to wait for another big hunt. With Balerion to take it back up into the mountain, she wouldn't need to worry about it coming back to life, especially if she finished it with her sword.

The Haunted Forest was a bit of a flight from the mountains where the Roost was situated, but it was the biggest range for food. The Frostfangs had more shadowcats than worthy game. Laden with snow and icicles, the trees were depressed beneath the weight of the world around them. Daylight was fading and she knew she ought to call Balerion to head back to the safety of their home. But she was drawn in by the winter wonderland around her, to include a white mist, her steaming breath more noticable behind the thick fold of her fabric of her scarf that helped keep her face warm.

A warning flag raised in her head, recalling Fang's warnings, in tandem with the rabbit she'd found. It was time to go. It was time to-

"Who goes there?" A gruff voice asked, the audible crunching of noise taking her aback.

She swung toward the nearest tree, pinning her back to it, fingers grazing the hilt of her sword. Straining, she could hear men nearby, but couldn't say if they were wildling or Crows, she hadn't seen them. Of course there might be rangers. Thus far she'd not crossed anyone, but nor had she been exceptionally careful aside from being wary of the Others. Regardless of who it was, they probably wouldn't care for her.

Two, three, four... five? No, there were more. Call Balerion and risk him getting hurt or make a dash for it?

"You!"

But the voice that called wasn't gesturing toward her, she saw the mangled furs bundling up a figure and wondered what a lone wildling was doing. From their lumbering gait, she didn't have to puzzle for long. Just as there had been an undead rabbit, the wildling was definitely not alive. Rooted to her spot, metal sang out of scabbards.

"They don't look right," a different voice commented.

"There's another over there."

"And there. What's with their eyes?"

Crows. They learn the hard way that these bastards wouldn't go down easy, but it was not her job to help them. Until this point, she'd not been given any guidance on what to do. Hopefully, they'd survive and escape back toward the Wall. Time to go. While they were distracted she could escape whence she had come and pretend this had never happened.

Yet, as Tabitha rounded, her stomach dropped and she noticed that there were many wights lumbering from out of the fog that had thickened to a dense wall that was nearly impenetrable. They cared naught if she was a brother of the Watch of a wildling. She was alive and thus, a target. Her movement caught their attention and she had no choice but to rip her own sword out from where she'd sheathed it.

"Fine, bout time I killed a few wights," Tabitha commented to no one in particular. Originally, she had thought they'd be slow, but the ice zombies were feral and quick if their limbs were intact. Despite the encumbering snow, they lurched forward like a pack of wild dogs and she raised Fate to cut down the first attacker. The vibrant blue eyes flickered like a light switch being turned on and off, before fading entirely. There was no time to admire the success of her blow as she turned the sword, taking a step back and rooting herself before parrying the next and hacking down upon the neck, severing the head clean off. "Fuck," there were too many. She was forced back, step by step, toward the Night's Watch men that she did not want to encounter.

If they cared who she was, they did not voice it, because she was another sword amongst the horde and her sword seemed to be putting them down. Tabitha suspected it had to do with how she was dressed, in midnight blue and grey, obviously not a wildling. Perhaps they even mistook her for one of their own, her face obscured so they could not see she was a woman. Given her lean, tall stature, she could have easily passed for a man if she did not speak.

"First Ranger, what do we do? There's no end to them-ERG!" Beside her, one of the Crows was staked through with a roughly hewn spear, the undead wildling twisting the stone deeper, blood frothing to the man's lips.

Tabitha hissed and darted forward, but it was no use. Even as she killed the wight, the man would die from the wound in his chest. The light was fading and she knew that he too would turn. Rather, she spared him a pitiful glance before taking her sword and driving it down to deliver him quick mercy.

"What are you doing?!" A hand gripped her bicep, tightening painfully, as she was forced to gaze up into slate grey eyes.

"He'll turn! He was dead anyways," she snarled, ripping her arm away and glancing amidst the crowd drawing in.

"A woman-"

She'd betrayed herself, but didn't care at that moment. Two of the seven Crows were dead, but the strangest bit was that the wights had paused, forming a semi-circle around them where they panted, steaming hot breath in front of them. With the pause in the slaughter, two of the men exchanged tremulous glances and before anyone had so much as lowered their weapons, they turned heel and ran, cutting through the small gap between the wights and plunging into the wilderness to abandon the other three of their brothers that had survived.

The man that he gripped her snarled, his brows furrowing in frustration, but he did not call after them, too preoccupied with what was going on.

"Why have they stopped?" The question hung open in the air and Tabitha had a very bad feeling, her stomach nearly in her toes as she licked her lips.

"They were commanded to," she answered, the only logical explanation as to why the mindless hive would relent their assault.

"By what?" Tension was high, a stodgier Crow snapping at her, his eyes wide with terror.

"What do you think, chuckle-fuck? What controls wights?" Tabitha snapped back.

"The Others," the ranger beside him was quiet, voice barely above a whisper as the four of them contemplated their options.

"We need to get out of here. We can't fight them," Tabitha told them, her hands shaking. The Others were expert swordsmen, where she was just a novice. Even with three years beneath her belt, she didn't think she was even close to a match for them. "They had the right idea. We need to run-"

But the horses they'd come with had fled and the gap that once existed had closed. Tabitha knew she could flee, but not without condemning these men. Despite owing them nothing, she couldn't help but think 'no soldier left behind'. She was not their friend, perhaps they would have simply killed her had the wights not interrupted, but in this moment they were temporary allies.

Before them, the wights parted and an ethereal figure stepped out. Tabitha was shocked, finding not the zombie-esc being depicted in the show, but a strangely elegant, alien creature. He was made entirely of ice, glistening in the low light of dusk from the greyed sky. Eyes brilliantly, devilishly blue, another flaming pair dancing amongst the crowd that followed him. Each step refracted off his armor, which picked up the images around it, appearing see through. Gripped fast in its hand was a pale, wicked sword of crystal that would shatter any steel aside from that forged by dragon fire.

There was no moment for her to warn them, to say not to attack, but all logic had been tossed out the window. The stout ranger roared and charged forward before she could open her mouth. If they killed the Other, then the wights would stop, wouldn't they? No, not unless this was the Night King. But he did not know this and Tabitha's words were lost amongst the screeching of the crystal sword as it collided effortlessly with the ranger's. Her ears balked, the high pitched wailing of crystal to steel sounding like an animal being tortured. Then it stopped, all time ceasing as the steel shattered into a rain of silver fragments and the ranger's eyes widened in astonishment.

All of them stared in horror as the Other spoke, no one could comprehend the noises, akin to the cracking of ice in a winter lake. Even Tabitha, who knew the True Tongue, had no idea what he said. Given the mocking tone of it, she suspected he was condemning them all to death or challenging them to be as foolish as the first.

"Will killing it save us?" the man who'd grabbed her earlier asked.

"If we can kill it? No, probably not," she conceded.

The moment the sinewy ranger heard this, his fingers tightened on his sword and he spun on his heel, cloak flapping like a bird's wing as he tried to run toward the largest gap he could find. But they had all closed, thus he tried to force his way through, hacking and slashing, until the wights stirred and fought back. The flurry of activity halted, the man falling to his knees as he was punched through the stomach with an axe, cold hands tearing him apart.

"What's your name?" the man asked her, expecting that these fleeting moments might very well be their last.

"Tabitha Flores," she answered, calling for Balerion, wondering if they could escape into the sky without him being injured.

"I wish I could say it's an honor to meet you, but at least it was an honor to fight beside you. I am Benjen Stark, First Ranger to Castle Black of the Night's Watch," he introduced, a sad, but whimsical edge to his tone.

"Hey, don't be counting the daisies you'll be pushing before you've stopped breathing," Tabitha muttered, realizing now what she'd ignored at first. First Ranger. This was where Benjen disappeared and never returned. He was supposed to die here. Or maybe he wasn't. "Who knows, maybe killing this fucker will solve our problems." Hopeful thinking, but she was the one with the Valyrian steel. She needed to at least distract him enough that Balerion could sweep in unimpeded.

Her body screamed against it, instinct telling her to turn tail and run, dash herself to death into the wights just as the other ranger had done. Instead, she leveled her sword and prepared herself. A few minutes. If she could survive just a few minutes.

The chilling laughter of the Other ripped through her, clenching her heart, as he entertained her. Until this point, she'd not traded blades with anyone other than Fang. The wights were clumsy and unskilled, despite how fast they could be. But the Other was fluid, graceful, and did not strike without fully intending on killing. The first blow jarred her shoulder, her nerves twinging as she wondered if her sword would break beneath the crystal, but it held true. The Other noticed this, gaunt face drawing pensively, as her muscles quivered from holding the parry.

He shoved off, sending her a few feet back. Catching her balance, Tabitha raised her sword in the nick of time, struggling to keep up with the relentless hail of blows. Until she couldn't. Her slowing down had left an opening, the crystal blade cutting as true as any steel would, slicing into the meat of her left hand. She jerked back, her spasming hand tossing the sword behind her and into the snow, droplets of crimson splattering in the white to create a blooming of tiny bloody buds. He raised the sword, intending on spearing her through, but she had enough energy to roll out of the way, panting as she clutched her injured hand.

The sword had plunged into the earth where she had once been, her eyes widening as she scrambled back trying to find her feet and the only sword that would protect them against the Other. Rounding on her again, Tabitha still scrambled, unable to get back up as she pressed her palm to her chest and tried to stand. Again, he aimed for her and this time she knew she had nowhere to roll, lest she wanted to tuck right into a throng of wights.

Her eyes scrunched shut, but there was no pain, only the high pitched wailing of steel against crystal. When she peeked from out of her narrowed eyes, she saw that Benjen stood above her with Fate in his hands, holding back the swing that should have killed her. He forced the Other back, the harkening of Balerion above the trees reminding her that they needed to flee. Her hand was throbbing, blood staining her doublet as she managed to finally get up and whip her head towards the sky. Her eyes came back down and she saw Benjen continue to fight the Other, his own skill with the sword out matching her own as he was a more formidable match for the creature.

But it would not be an easy victory. The Valyrian steel bit against the Other's arm, hissing as it marred the brittle flesh. For that, he snaked past Benjen's defenses and caught him hard along his left side before he could turn the blade.

" No !" Tabitha knew that it had cut deep, even if the black fabric betrayed nothing.

He still stood, parrying the next and staggering back as he clutched at his flank. The Other was smug in his supposed victory, snatched only when Balerion bellowed again and nose dived between the branches, seeping from the night sky like a shadowed hellion. Talons outstretched, he caught the Other by its armor and flung it across the field and into a tree. It was not dead, but stunned, leaving them with a few fleeting seconds as Benjen crumpled to his knees, leaning upon the pommel of Fate as he panted.

Tabitha ran, the griffin encircling them and expressing his dismay loudly and with reproach, as if to challenge her. Why hadn't she called him sooner? "Get up, we need to go," Tabitha told Benjen, uncertain if Balerion could fly the entire distance back to the Roost with the both of them. She had to hope that he could. Her own injury seemed trivial in light of the Stark's, her hand flying to the gash to apply additional pressure.

Balerion knelt as she helped her charge onto his back, mounting behind him and keeping her arm pressed into his wound. No words needed to be spoken between them, onyx wings beating as he launched them off the forest floor and into the sky. He was dead weight, sagging slightly in front of her, threatening to slide right off. Balerion steadied himself, trying to keep as even as possible as Tabitha fought to keep him up.

"Balerion?" she called, her hoarse voice echoing through the cave. None of this made sense. One moment she had been passing out from suffocating on smoke and now she was in some icy cave? Maybe this was hell. That's what she got for her years of service, somehow avowing that killing for her country was somehow not murder. God seemed to think not and thus this was his version of purgatory or hell. Who would've thought that hell was frosty? Grumbling, she clambered to her feet and glanced around, uncertain which direction was deeper into the cave and which was out. Either way, she needed to get moving because she was going to freeze her tits off at this rate.

Trailing into the abyss, she continued along the only path set before her, curious if some demon or spectre would greet her in the afterlife. Would they tell her she was an idiot for not taking the offer of money? Or that somehow that condo company had a hand in her death?

There was a light up ahead, brightening the shadows that she was having difficulty glaring through. Did all cats go to heaven and she was damned? At least death hadn't been that painful, just like going to sleep before the tidal waves of fire consumed them. Out of all the things that Tabitha could be thinking, she thought about how crappy it was that this fire had to happen right before the trip of a lifetime she'd been waiting for. Iceland had been the most anticipated trip, even bigger than Denali. So much for celebrating her big 3-0 in the fjords and ice. Now she'd rot in the ground at eternally 29.

The mouth widened in front of her and a chill breeze swept right through her, making her shudder, as she drew her arms closer. Shafts of grey light filtered in through slats in the stone, the cavern dome-shaped and wide open. Dried grass and leaf litter was scattered against the ground, almost in the shape of nests, but they were long abandoned. In front of her, she thought she saw a fleeting bit of moment, a dark shadow slinking along the perimeter of the room, but doubted herself. It wasn't until the pool of darkness flew across, pouncing on her, that her heart leapt up into her throat and her body collided back with the hard stone flooring. Gasping, trying to flounder for air that had been driven from her lungs, she was eye to eye was a behemoth creature.

Brilliant fiery orange eyes blinked at her, set into a raptor's face, only the head of the bird was larger than her own. Obsidian feathers encircled its face, a wickedly sharp beak preening close to her face, a set of long tufted ears twitching. Undoubtedly a demon of hell, Tabitha was convinced, wondering if she'd screwed up her descent into the layers or if she should have tried running. She need only wait for it to disembowl her to begin her eternal torture in this frigid wasteland, but it was acting strangely. Tilting its head to the side before a soft murmur, almost like a huffing trill-similar to that of a cat caught between a purr and meow-blew her hair back. No, she knew those eyes. She hadn't thought of them like fire before, but more like pumpkins.

"Balerion?" she whispered, afraid that speaking any louder would enrage the creature.

The raptor pushed its face into hers, nuzzling the shiny ink black beak into her cheek, before clambering off to allow her to sit up. Tabitha was startled by what she saw, her cat's feline form condensed to only the frame of which he now possessed, his bottle brush tail sweeping behind him, a thick mane of feathers and fur clustered around his neck and throat, akin to a lion. But his front paws were talons, sharper than knives, fashioned for killing. Yet, the griffin's mannerisms bespoke of her soul mate.

"What the fuck is going on?" she managed, pushing herself to her feet to trot toward him, burying her fingers in the warmth of his feathers. Damn, it was cold here and Balerion was radiating heat. "Man, we're definitely not in Kansas anymore, are we bud? You're... huge." Trying to fathom how it was possible her house cat had turned into a griffin, Tabitha continued to puzzle as she kept close to him.

Another trill of agreement before the feline pulled away, ear tufts twitching, before he let out a low growl, beak parting in fury. Suddenly, she was thrust behind him, barely able to glance over the broad set of wings he was unfurling to challenge the person approaching them. However, the initial reaction simmered down, the heat dialed back as a voice spoke in a soothing language that she did not comprehend.

"Please. Warden. Come out," the voice was youthful, childish, but within the timbre of the tone there was a great weight, almost as if there was a deep ancient wisdom contained within. A shiver lanced down her spine as she stepped out, pressing her palm against Balerion's muzz-er-beak to quell him. Despite the young voice, the small being in front of her was not inherently child-looking aside from the short stature. Just as she'd been startled with the griffin, the nut-brown skin dappled with spots like a baby deer caught her off guard. Its ears were also reminiscent of a doe, large and prominent as their slitted eyes.

He wore a cloak of leaves, his dark hair intertwined with vines and lichen.

"What... are you?" Part of her recalled the descriptors deep down, but it seemed too farfetched just along with the rest of this queer world.

"The humans call us the Children of the Forest. We call ourselves those who sing the song of the earth in our True Tongue," he answered cryptically, confirming what her heart had suspected. The revelation stole her breath away, the shock of falling into the depths of a book she'd had on her nightstand the evening of her death bone chilling. "I am called Fang."

"How are we here? This should be impossible," Tabitha muttered, convinced this was a coma dream. Still, it felt so real. Maybe they had survived the fire and her dying brain had concocted this dream state to float in while she healed. Whatever it was, being dropped into the realm of A Song of Ice and Fire without any blood ties to nobility was real shitty.

"I didn't think that another of your kind would awaken. I've stayed here a long time, protecting the Roost . The last of its kind after men hunted the griffins to extinction," Fang explained, gesturing to the nests, in which Tabitha could see were more figures. However, upon scrutiny she realized that they were stone, trapped eternally in their slumber. "But it was told that for every griffin here, there is one Warden, another half to their soul, waiting to rejoin them in this life."

"Excuse me for not being aware of what my sacred, foretold destiny is, but can you enlighten me? What exactly is a warden?"

Fang was more than keen to oblige, the years of solitude in this cold cavern grating on him. "Wardens are keepers of knowledge. Wargs in their own right. Warriors and guides during times of extreme strife."

"Never heard of them," Tabitha remarked, racking her brain for any lore on Wardens, but had never recalled seeing them in the books. Maybe they hadn't been recorded for a reason, a loophole that could change the tide of what had been written, never quite taking on a form themselves since they weren't nobles or remarkable characters aside from trying to subvert plotlines they knew were going to happen. Griffin-wielding-wargs. That's what she was now. "Then... Are we north of the Wall?" Where else would a Child of the Forest be? Unless this was well before when the books she'd known were set, this was the last frontier the Children had left.

"Yes, we are... You are familiar with Westeros' geography?"

"I am," Tabitha admitted grudgingly. "So, Fang, what's the plan? I mount up on Balerion and we fly off to try and change the world?" That was a fanciful way to put it and putting way too much hope in the fact that they wouldn't get shot right out of the sky while flying over the Wall.

"No," Fang shook his head. "You are not ready. You are not equipped for the journey. And unless you'd like to perish before your quest has even begun, you'd be wise not to just show up at any doorstep and hope for safe harbor, especially as a woman."

So Fang wasn't stupid. Tabitha's lips quirked up. "Then what do we do?"

This question would soon be answered, as Fang led them out of the cumbersome room that had wind ripping through it with icy, gnashing teeth. The cave went deeper, illuminated by strange blue lights contained within gnarled tree branches, more for her than it was for Fang, so that she might see where she placed her foot as they descended. Still, she wondered how any of this was real. How such a thing existed. Quietly, she amassed a collection of questions to ask Fang once they arrived at their destination.

The caverns grew warmer, the heat of a primordial hearth burning deep within the heart of the mountain. It took Tabitha a moment, staring at the grooves of the stone, the purposeful counter set in front of it, to realize that this was a forge. Fang paused, cocking his head and tilting his feline eyes back up toward her.

"This forge only lights when a Warden has awoken," he told her.

"When's the last time you saw it lit?" she asked.

"I have never, but before me, the time of dragons and conquerers came with the forge was bright and hot," Fang replied, skirting the room to place small hands on slate slabs that had been hewn into the wall, similar to a tomb.

"Lot a good a griffin must have been against dragons," Tabitha spoke her thought aloud, wondering how that would have sufficed. Balerion was large, perhaps even big enough to ride, but in comparison to the real Balerion? He was a pup, a mite without scales to protect him. Depending on when they were, dragons might fly again and be creatures that she'd have to be wary of. The thought of the flying reptilians made her shudder, Balerion pushing his head into her side as he noticed that she was disturbed.

"Griffins are fast," Fang countered, pushing the stone slab with a shocking amount of strength. "Faster than dragons perhaps. But they're not here to serve the same purpose. Balerion is here as a partner and an escort, not to raze cities or conquer empires."

"Good, I don't think that was on my bucket list," Tabitha quipped. "What year is it? Do you know?"

"If I've been keeping good enough record, 294 AC," the stone had been removed entirely and in its place was the hollowed out tomb filled with items.

294? That was a few years before the events of the first book. While she might not have been ready to embark on any crusade to change the ill fate of many characters, she realized now that she had time to figure out what the hell she was doing. "Well that's a relief. Would've sucked to show up after-" but the words didn't form, her tongue twisting in her mouth and becoming slow and dumb. She tried again, trying to explain the situation that would play out in a few years time, only to find that she could not speak it aloud at all.

Fang turned, his lips curving up in a smile. "Ah, so it is true," he commented, looking more his age than childish as he crossed his arms. "Legend says that for all the knowledge the Wardens might have, they cannot speak it to another."

Tabitha wanted to dash her brains against the stone. She knew all of this shit and she couldn't tell anyone? Couldn't write it down? Now this threw a bigger wrench in her plans. For if she came to a situation where she could save someone by simply saying 'hey look out for the Freys', she could not. "How am I supposed to do anything?" she hissed irritably.

"You'll know. Just as the forge beats with the life in your heart, you will know when it is time to make yourself known and to help change the tides of fate. Actions speak louder than words," Fang retorted, pulling out a thick, padded doublet that was within the stone storage. "Here, these should fit you. It is cold outside the forge and eventually, you will have to brave it."

Accepting the attire that had been stolen away for centuries, Tabitha was more than eager to put it on in place of her own thin clothing. Things could not be simple. She could not have the power over death in words, she would have to be clever, strong, resilient and work her way into politics without the cushion of a title or lands. Christ, that was going to be hard and even having Balerion beside her seemed more like a burden than a saving grace. No, she was thankful he was there, her dark star amidst the turmoil and confusion that was the world she'd suddenly been thrust into, but she felt daunted.

While Fang continued to rummage through the ancient artifacts of Wardens passed, she sat on a bench made of rock, hewn into the wall, and stared into the dancing flames of the hearth. Fire had taken her from her past life and now a new fire was ignited. Her fingertips swirled along her open palm, feeling the strange new mark that had found its way there, that hadn't been there. A swirl shaped like a griffin's head, rough around the edges, and akin to a burn--as if it had been branded into her skin. It did not hurt, but she wondered if this was her boon as a Warden.

To save Westeros. Obviously, the Night King would be the largest priority. Given that she was north of the Wall, she had to assume that her 'in' would be with the wildlings or the Night's Watch. Again, her head throbbed in worry, wondering how she'd manage to convince others that she was worthy of their time and not just a good lay, rape, or twat. She could not speak of what she knew, so she had to count on her actions and the cleverness of her tongue to aid those that she knew Westeros would be better with. Could she make it to Winterfell before Ned Stark left for King's Landing? Could she stop Bran from falling from the broken tower? Did she want to stop him? So many questions that had no answers and yet the fire danced madly in front of her, beckoning with flaming fingers, whispering into her ears.

"We shall guide you."

Through fire there had been rebirth. Not in the same manner as Dondarrian when he had a priest bless and revive him, but in another ancient method. Between worlds and veils. The fire had claimed the Warden and then spat her out into the arctic mountain that would suffice to become her home for the next few years as she gained her feet. A modern woman in a dark, twisted medieval fantasy. Not once had Tabitha yearned to be tossed amongst the pages she read with delight, because she knew that life was fickle, dangerous, and uncertain. No one was favored, even the main characters could die.

"Here," Fang interrupted her train of thoughts, breaking her line of sight with the fire that she had fallen into a trans with. He held up a scabbard before her, the sheathe a dark midnight blue, enameled with white gold detailing. Not too much, simple and clean, just enough that it wasn't utterly nondescript. The weight felt heavy on her lap, her fingers turning around the straps of the belt before she gripped the handle and pulled part of the blade out.

For a sword that had been collecting dust for more than a hundred years, it was honed and sharp. No, that was not right. There was a reason for that. Tabitha pulled it out entirely, the rippling waves in the folded steel catching the light of the fire and throwing refractions around the space like a mirror held to the sun. This was Valyrian steel, with no need to be taken to a whetstone.

"Can I help you?" she asked sharply, coming around the polished wooden counter to assert her place.

"Yes, is the owner or manager in?"

The fated question, one that made her blood boil each time the casual, yet scathing glance was set over her, as if a woman in her late twenties couldn't be said person. It happened yet again and Tabitha forced herself not to snort in indignation. "I am her," she replied evenly.

"Wonderful," the man drawled, withdrawing a manila folder from underneath his arm. "As you're likely aware, my company is purchasing property in the vicinity. There are a few stores, this one included, that are refusing to sell. I've come with an offer-" he opened the folder, images of the supposed development and work ushered beneath a contract and a hefty sum with quite a few zeroes.

"Then you would be aware that I, like the other few businesses, are still refusing to sell. Listen, this street prides itself on historical shops and architecture. I know that we're prime water view property, but I'm not selling, and I know for certain that my fellow business owners are just as adamant in our position. I don't need the money," Tabitha didn't touch the paper. He could have added more zeroes and she wouldn't have cared. This was principle, her family's lineage, and she wouldn't be a sell out.

"Please, these prices are negotiable. My company is really eager to develop here and keep to the charming architecture on the street. Won't you consider it? You could always reopen in a much larger shop down the road," the man suggested.

"It wouldn't be on Main Street," Tabitha pointed out. "Look, sir, I've got nothing against you, but I don't appreciate being badgered to sell. I will never sell. Your company should either take what they've got or look elsewhere. Now please, I'm just about to close."

"Nothing is going to change your mind, miss?"

"Nothing," Tabitha assured him, closing the folder and sliding it back over toward him.

Escorting the man to the door, he paused to glance at the fire alarm posted near the entrance. It was a bit old, but the pipes had been updated within the last decade. "Old system here," he commented.

"The shop is as humid as a rainforest, I'm not too worried," Tabitha shrugged, opening the door. Perhaps she should have thought about the oddness of the comment more, but she didn't. A lot of things in the shop were old, considering how long the building had been standing. She had put a lot of money into reinforcing the structure and replacing the old with new so that the beautiful piece of history could be continuously preserved. Shutting the door behind him, she locked the glass door and flipped the sign over to ‘closed’.

There were a few chores to finish up around the shop, to include changing out bug sticky tape and sweeping up dirt. After balancing the register, she locked up the cash, and shut the lights off. Through the back of the store, there was a locked door that led to a staircase, revealing a set of stairs that ascended into her apartment that was situated above the shop.

Her head ached, them pestering at least twice a week to sell her home and livelihood just to relocate. That wasn't it. Aside from the principle of it all, she would also have to find a house and a new store. Who knew if she'd be able to buy it outright or what she'd be getting. Then the stress of moving alongside of wondering if her typical clients would follow her elsewhere. No, it was too much and she wouldn't do it, even if she was the last one on the frontier against this condo company. Maybe if she had some family to help her she would've grudgingly considered it, but already she was spread thin between all her work.

A loud meow greeted her as she pushed open the door to her flat and she smiled, the tension of the day slipping away as a fluffy black cat stood on the arm of her couch and beckoned with his tail to be given attention. Letting out another shouting protest, Tabitha chuckled and brushed her palm over the feline's head, the long hair cat pressing into her hand as she raked down his spine. "I know, I know, I kept you up here all day. I'm sorry Balerion. Bad cat mommy," she hung her smock up and bent down to pick the fluffy monster up, the baby curling into her arms like a babe as he mewed in content. "But you know I'm going to make it up to you. Tomorrow we're going on another trip, aren't we? Hollis is gonna take care of the shop while we're gone."

The plan was to head up to Iceland for the hike and climbing trip that Tabitha had been saving for for years. Balerion was her partner on all escapades, a willing participant in hikes and her little buddy even in rockclimbing as he'd be situated in a special backpack where he'd be fully strapped in. Already the feline had been with her to the Amazon, Alaska and Denali, Scotland, the Azores, and Hawaii. He seemed to love the adventure, which was uncommon for cats, especially given the strenuous conditions they were sometimes subjected to. However, even if Tabitha was miserable, Balerion was always kept warm, dry, and safe. She had friends, but Balerion was her soul mate.

"Let's go through our packing list one more time, we don't want to forget anything," she said, reminding herself more than him as she brought him into the bedroom and plopped him down onto the bed. Balerion flopped down, hanging his meaty paws over the edge as she opened her suitcase and hiking pack to double check the supplies. "Now it'll be summer there, so lots of hours of sunlight, but still quite mild. Want to make certain we're warm enough at night. Shouldn't be as bad as Denali though."

After checking the list thrice more and comparing it to what she had laid out, Tabitha decided that the two of them were ready for the journey tomorrow. Dinner was simple to prevent much to clean before the two of them settled in for the evening, a book on her lap as she re-read through one of her favorite series: A Song of Ice and Fire . The place where she'd gotten Balerion's name from. She barely managed more than a chapter, too excited to board the plane at the crack of dawn to Iceland with her furry companion.

Tugging the blanket up, Balerion curled up by her side, Tabitha set her alarm on her phone and tried to get some shut eye. It was difficult at first, the anticipation clawing at her, but eventually she slipped away from reality. Cascading into a dreamless sleep, she was awoken by the worried yowl of her cat, which roused her. Eyes burning, Tabitha turned over in an attempt to grab her phone to check the time. It wasn't often that Balerion made such an awful noise. Usually when he wasn't feeling well and was going to vomit. However, as she turned on the night lamp, she noticed a thick haze permeating the room. Balerion was no longer beside her, but she could hear his crying, loud and insistent.

Smoke. It was smoke.

"Balerion?" The moment she opened her mouth, she drew in a copious amount of smoke and choked on it. Sputtering, she rolled off the bed and crawled, looking for her pet. "Bale, come here baby. Come here!"

She didn't hear the fire alarms going off. If there was any sort of fire, the alarms should have been ringing. Ducking underneath the bed, she found him cowering in the corner, reaching beneath to drag him out toward her. Fire escape. There wasn't time to think about what had caused the fire, nor where it had originated. Her mind was fully in survival mode. This was the second floor and the ceilings were quite high, her best hope would be utilizing the escape to get as close to the ground as she could before dropping down.

Tabitha made it to the window where the escape was, standing up enough to try and glimpse outside, but was horrified by what she found. There was a glass pane to look through, but a curtain of fire as the flames had consumed the exterior of the structure first. She had replaced a good portion of the interior, but the outside was still the same old shingles. Wherever the fire might have started, it had lanced up around the outside, beginning to eat in through the roof before billeting up through the flooring of her apartment. It was possible that the wet atmosphere of her shop cocooned the apartment temporarily, but in the meanwhile the rest of the older parts of the structure went alight.

Panic consumed her as Tabitha dropped back down to the ground and hoped that maybe the nearby fire department would get inside before either of them perished. Keep low to the ground, try not to breathe in the smoke.

Crawling away from the window and doorway, Tabitha slid next to her bookcase, glancing over at the picture frames and the years of her early twenties depicted in photos of her when she'd left the confines of her small town home to embark on a journey in the military. Those years, while she'd complained a lot about them, had helped put a backbone in her and set up a foundation for schooling and regiment. She still enjoyed rucking-or backpacking as the civilians called it, never quite trading in her boots in.

"Noo, this is gaunnae sound mad, but yer gaunnae want tae run right into that wall yonder," Angus gestured up ahead to a brick wall.

"An illusion?" Nessia speculated.

"A threshold," he corrected lightly. "Och, let's go. We're gaunnae be late."

With only a few minutes to spare before the train was to depart, Nessia drew in a deep breath, holding it in her chest before she flanked her grandfather and sprinted toward the impassive brick wall. Had she not been raised a witch, she might've been more apprehensive about trusting the idea that she'd not take a terrible spill all over the platform where Muggles would talk and snicker. However, the moment the carriage grazed the barrier, it slipped through as if the bricks weren't even there—because, they weren't.

Steam billowed around the track, casting pale fingers around their ankles and filling the area with a haze as the whistle made its last call. Angus was jerking her along, trying to get her up to the nearest entrance as he yanked the trunk clean off the carriage as if it weighed nothing. Given how big the man was, perhaps to him it was nothing. But to Nessia, she eyed the battered leather hull and nearly fell over when the handle was thrust into her hand, barely getting a second to slide her leather backpack onto her shoulders before her grandfather was kissing her brow.

"Make sure ye write me whit house ye get into. I want weekly reports of school," Angus was saying quickly, fussing with a few stray curls, tucking them behind her ears. "Dinnae let anyone step on yer toes. Yer a MacDougal and we fight fang and claw. Here's a couple of sickles to buy some candy. Noo, get on the train 'fore it leaves ye here."

"Tha gaol agam ort, Bahn!" Nessia nearly dropped her trunk on his foot to embrace the bear. Bidding him a sweet and loving goodbye in Gaelic, he chuckled and rubbed her head, returning the words before sending her scampering into the train just as the wheels were beginning to squeal like pigs being corralled into a pen.

Nessia's trepidation redoubled the moment that Angus wasn't by her side and the girl froze like a deer in headlights as people rushed around her, reuniting with friends, and talking to others that they knew from childhood. She didn't know anyone. Silently, she cursed how reclusive her family was, dragging the trunk behind her as she sought out a cabin to sit in. Given how late she had been, they were all full and she didn't have the gall to ask any students she supposed might be her age for a spot.

Instead, she found an open caboose with rows of seats. Not quite as cozy and private as a cabin, but it would have to do. At least here she might be able to pull a book out and stare out the window as the English countryside milled by, finding solace in her solitude as she often did. Only when she'd struggled with putting her trunk up above on the rungs did she realize that she might've chosen a poor caboose. Edging toward the window of the row she'd chosen, her verdant eyes slipped across the other students and she saw the emerald peeps dashing the collars of those that had already changed.

Trying not to look conspicuous, especially after what Logan had told her about Slytherin, she grabbed the edge of her hood to her cloak and tugged it casually toward the base of her head. Withdrawing a book, she leaned against the wall and stared out the window, hoping that the disinterested and quiet posture would blend her into the background, causing little attention or notice. Already other students were conversing loudly, recounting their summers and what they had done over the break.

"I spent my break in France," a girl bragged in front of her, so audaciously that it was difficult to focus on the open pages of the battered book on her lap. "My family has a manor in the countryside, near some of the most magnificent beaches."

"Well, I went to South Africa," another poised, as if it were a competition for extravagant vacations.

Trying not to eavesdrop, Nessia couldn't help but listen as each of the girls detailed the extravagance and obscene amount of floridity that they experienced. Nessia had never wanted for anything and for that she considered herself rather fortunate. Practicality took over wasting money, thus she didn't mind taking the hand me downs for books. From the sound of that, those in front of her would have scoffed at the resewn binding, the hackwork that Nessia had made as to preserve the object further. Fortunately, they hadn't really noticed her and instead continued about things like caviar, foreign wizarding candy, and exotic pets that they'd seen while abroad.

"You two are first years, aren't you?" an older student glanced over toward the pair in front of Nessia, who could've shrank into the woodwork to avoid being spoken to.

"Our lack of a house on our robes give it away?" one girl chirped.

"And the fact we haven't seen you around before," the boy remarked, but was amused by the whip-like retort. "What house do you think you'll be in?"

"Slytherin obviously. Just like all my family before me. I'm a Murk, you see," the girl proclaimed.

"I'll probably be Slytherin too," the other sighed.

"What about you?"

Nessia froze, realizing that the boy was addressing her, and that other eyes were turning to gaze at her. "U-uhm," she stammered, immediately hearing a few snickers at her inability to find words. "I dinnae."

"You 'dinnae'?" the Slytherin repeated, albeit haughtily as he mimicked her thick accent. "Where are you from?"

"Caithness," Nessia answered easily, noticing the befuddled expression. "Northern Scotland—the highlands."

"Ah a Porridge Wog," he realized, which was like a slap across Nessia's face.

No one, absolutely no one, had ever used that term with her before. It was rude and derogatory, which made her loosen her jaw in astonishment at the gall of the student who didn't even know her. Whether or not the others knew what it meant, they laughed all the same at the jape. "Am a MacDougal," she spat, surprising herself with the fury that bubbled up in her chest as she snapped her book shut. "Who're ye? Anyone important? I think nay."

"I'm Joshua Harley and you're just a first year. MacDougal or not. Don't be getting a big head around here—"

"Or whit?" Nessia challenged, spurred on further by the boy's sputtering. He wasn't half as scary as some of the centaurs that roamed the moors. In fact, she thought he was rather pitiful and she'd dealt with the centaurs on multiple occasions. "Ye hae me quakin' in me boots." Opening her book again, she resigned herself to ignoring the flabbergasted boy as he glared at her.

One of the girls sitting in front of her peered over the edge of her seat, down at the pages that Nessia was reading. "Are the MacDougals poor?"

Nessia felt another twinge of irritation, glancing up to throw a seething look at the girl, who challenged her back with impassive venom green eyes. "Whit's that hae tae do with anything?"

"Your book is old and tattered. Are the MacDougals poor like the Weasleys?" she continued, lips curving at the delicious thought that another pure-blooded family was poor in the face of Nessia's pride for her clan.

"Nay, we jus dinnae see a point in wastin' money when there's a perfectly good book layin' round. Me brother finished schoolin' a few years ago," she explained evenly.

"Or you're poor."

"I dinnae see why that's the only logical option," Nessia blinked. "There's better things tae use money for than tae compare tae yer friends when ye get back from break."

"Do you think you're better? Better than us that is?" the girl continued curiously.

"Who're ye again?"

"Ismelda Murk," she preened.

"I dinnae think I'm better. I dinnae ken ye. Not that I started any o' this. Makin' fun o' me cuz of me accent. And whit's wrong with bein' poor? I met the Weasleys and they seemed much nicer than the lot of ye," Nessia sniffed indignantly.

"Being poor is being poor. Can't afford anything aside from second hand or used, if even that. Seems luck favors those who don't sympathize with mudbloods," Ismelda pointed out. "What do the MacDougals think?"

"Aboot blood?" Nessia blinked. "Me mum was muggle-born so whit do ye think? And she was one of the most brilliant witches Hogwarts ever saw."

"Was?"

"The war had casualties on both sides."

"My parents are still alive," Ismelda remarked.

"Och, so I'm expectin' they fashed aboot being Imperius'd like the Malfoys and barely lifted a wand other than tae pay for lobbying for Ye-Ken-Who," Nessia drawled, arching a dark brow and relishing in the girl's reaction as her fair face began to turn crimson with rage. "Me parents were heroes. Doubt I could say the same aboot yers."

Where this confidence came from might have been partially to do with the heat of her wand in her pocket, humming with her emotions as she slapped back with snarky remarks. Logan would have been proud, but he also would have warned her that she was being too braw and was surrounded by Slytherins. A little cub in a pit of vipers. What protection she thought she might've had was little to none and she had no hope in taking on an entire caboose of Slytherins.

Tossed unceremoniously on her rump into the hallway with her trunk, Nessia rubbed her back, and should have been thankful that being ousted only included a boot and not a curse or hex. The gravity of what she'd done only smacked her when she realized that she was about an hour into the several hour trip and had nowhere to sit. Every cabin was full and the original moxy she had was overshadowed by the shame of being a bit rude. Finding a nook between two cabins, she shoved her trunk in and sat down, back against the wall and sighing heavily as she opened her book again. Why her grandfather couldn't have just delivered her to Hogwarts, she would never know. Rather than making friends, she'd definitely gotten on the wrong side of an entire house.

How could she not? They'd been incredibly rude, called her an awful name, made fun of her accent, and then accused her of being poor—not that there was anything wrong with that, but the assumption that being less fortunate made you a worse person rubbed her the wrong way. The Weasleys had seemed quite nice! Not that during her brief minutes hearing conversation exchanged she could make a full assessment, but money had nothing to do with how 'good' people were.

The spot she'd found was uncomfortable and stiff, not really the best for a ride all the way to Hogwarts. At least she was unbothered and had a full view of wide windows that flanked the hallways, displaying the changing English scenery. A blanket of rolling verdant hills, a clear day with puffs of clouds that zipped by as the train steamed along.

It wasn't until the light began to fade from the horizon, replaced with bleeding crimson, tendrils chasing away the last of the purpled blue curtain that lifted up and away from where Nessia could see as the window broke her field of view. She had nearly forgotten that there was to be a trolley roaming the train with treats, preoccupied with the distraction her books provided after her embarrassing bout with the Slytherin caboose. Undoubtedly, she would not be sorted into that house and if she was, Nessia knew she was in for a world of misery.

"Anything off the trolley, dear?" a plump witch in a plum set of robes had stopped at the nearest private cabin.

Nessia poked her head out of the alcove to glance at what was on display, eying the pumpkin pasties, cauldron cakes, and licorice wands. Her back protested from her dormant and precarious position, intended more for a statue than a person. In fact, she was so well hidden in her spot that the witch nearly passed by her without noticing that a girl had stuffed herself into the groove.

Fumbling for the change that had grandfather had given her, she held the sickles expectantly before her. "Can I hae a pumpkin pasty and two licorice wands, please?"

"Oh! Dear me, I didn't see you there," the witch squeaked, but in good nature as she doled out the items requested. “There seems to be plenty of room in the nearby cabins, why don’t you ask to sit in with one of them?” the witch suggested jovially.

A tantalizing prospect, but after a silent second of deliberation, Nessia shook her head while in possession of her newest fixations: the treats. “Ooh, it’s alright. I’m comfortable here,” she assured the trolley witch, despite lying right through her teeth. She couldn’t wait to get to Hogwarts and stretch out

Floating in her head was the name of the girl that had been fastidiously convinced that the MacDougals were poor and prodding at Nessia as if that were the worst plight in the world. Taking a ravenous chunk from her pumpkin pasty, Nessia returned to her book and tried to remind herself to stay centered and to not bother herself with the opinions of sheep. Even if the result had been a less than stellar entrance to the beginning of her years at secondary school, she could write Logan and boast about how she'd stood up for herself and the MacDougal clan.

Lamps flickered to life around her, warming the hazy darkness of the corridors as the last fleeting slivers of light were chased into the dusk's curtain call. Night fell and Nessia took her cue to grab her robes and change out of her normal attire. She thought it looked a bit plain without the highlight of a house's tie or embroidered crest, but supposed she'd need only wait until the end of the night to discover which gem tone would sit upon her breast for the next seven years.

Even if she was placed in Slytherin, her grandfather would be proud of her. She had to remind herself over and over again, smushing her face between her hands as she stared into the mirror and sighed. Wishing at least one familiar face was around, she resigned herself to exiting the stall so that someone else could utilize it as a line had formed outside. The heat of her wand on the inside of her robe pocket made her reach inside, thumbing the wood contemplatively as she returned to her trunk, paling at what she discovered.

"Och!" the girl exclaimed, the trunk sitting open with all of her things strewn around the hall as if the thing had burped them all up. It hadn't crossed her mind that someone might go through it or upend it, but knew immediately that it had to have been the Slytherins. The corners of her eyes burned as she scurried to pick up her knickers first, shoving the once neatly folded fabric into her chest as she made an attempt to control her breathing. Crying on the first day at school? Classes hadn't even begun yet and already Nessia had ostracized herself by being too braw, by trying to be like Logan and bhan. However, the difference between them and her was that they had the prowess to back up their willfulness. All Nessia had was her things tossed about like a tornado had whipped through.

"Here, let me help—" a girl approached, bending down to help collect the disjunct ensemble of supplies. "What happened?"

Nessia had managed to get her underwear into the trunk and was frowning at the books she'd rebound, one of which had been ripped clean in half. "Stepped on some toes earlier. I didnae think they'd do this when I went to change, already kicked me oot of the caboose," she answered dolefully. 

"What for?"

"Might o' been a bit rude aboot their parents. Called em something like Ye-Ken-Who sympathizers," Nessia surmised quickly, turning to look at the girl who was helping her. She had a curtain of inky hair cropped to her collar and piercing blue eyes set on a fair face. "Thank ye."

"You're from Scotland?" the girl inquired.

"I suppose me accent gae that away," Nessia joked weakly, closing up the trunk, which squished down with a creak as the items hadn't been packed neatly. 

"And that big blanket you had in there. The plaid?"

"Tartan," Nessia corrected, realizing the girl was referring to the MacDougal clan's tartan that she'd taken with her, as it was rightfully hers. She intended on draping it over her bed at Hogwarts since it couldn't be worn in any fashion with the uniform. At least the Slytherins hadn't messed with the tartan. 

"Tartan," the girl conceded easily. "I have some family from Edinburgh, but that's pretty far south from most of the highlands and your accent is much thicker than theirs. My name is Poppy Mason."

"Nessia MacDougal," she responded in turn, pleased that Poppy had an inkling about the highland heritage compared to most others. "Where're ye from?"

"Wiltshire," she answered, placing her hands in front of her and twisting anxiously—an action that Nessia noticed as she plopped back down on the top of her chest. "I think we're almost to school. Do you know at all what the sorting challenge will be like?"

"Challenge?" Nessia echoed, brows furrowing. Truthfully, she didn't know much about how they were going to be put into their respective houses, but she hadn't been told by either her grandfather or brother that she needed to prepare for a 'challenge'. "I didnae think it's anything that complex."

"How do you know for certain?"

"Oh, I dinnae. I just think me family woulda warned me, ye ken?" Nessia shrugged, astounded that in this moment she was more level headed than the stranger that had just offered her help.

"You're from a wizarding family then? I guess it would make sense that they'd warn you if there was anything to worry about," Poppy sighed, shaking her head. "This is all pretty new to me. Still in a right bit of shock that all this exists—" she motioned to the train around them and then rubbed her face. 

"Well, dinnae fash. Yer not the only one here who comes from a muggle family. Fact, there's plenty o' other students like ye,'' Nessia assured her, but couldn't name any of these students seeing as the few that she'd met so far were worthy of less than a mention aside from Poppy. 

Before the conversation could continue, the train lurched to a halt, brakes squealing like a horde of angry serpents and nearly sending a few unwitting students off their feet, including Poppy. Both girls exchanged glances before Poppy took a tentative step. 

"I guess... I'll be seeing you?" Poppy presumed, needing to make her way back toward her cabin to retrieve her belongings.'

"Likely. Thanks again," Nessia replied before getting to her feet and arching her back like a stretching kneazle. The ravenette disappeared amongst the bustle of bodies as other students began to file out of their abodes with trunks in tow. Grimacing at the idea of having to heft the luggage again, Nessia sucked in a deep breath before rolling her sleeves up. 

Night had consumed every golden fiber of light, save only for the lanterns illuminating the station, the stars dotting the sky, and the flood lights from the train itself. Thick wafts of steam billowed up, less contained that it had been in King's Cross, but it still pooled by the feet of the eager students who were abuzz with chatter as they naturally started to coral toward horseless carriages. Nessia was about to follow in turn when she heard a voice boom over the cacophony of young witches and wizards.

"First years! First years, this way please!"

Doing a complete 180, Nessia followed the sound of the bellowing tone and found herself clustered with the other first years, craning her neck up to gaze intently toward the behemoth of a man that wielded a large lantern in his hand. 

"Leave yer trunks behind, they'll be brought up to yer dorms once yer sorted," the man assured them from beneath a wiry beard, black beatle eyes twinkling from under heavy brows.

Bhan always said you could tell a person was good just by looking at them. Nessia knew in an instant that—despite how imposing and large the wizard was—that he was good. There was no malice in his tone, nor the way he surveyed the children in front of him, making certain that the train had emptied entirely and the first years had cordoned themselves off with him before turning around, a blazing beacon amidst the cool autumn night. A few other students shuddered from the cold, punctuated by the lack of cover from the neighboring lake, which allowed for the wind to sail right up and rip through them.

Nessia grinned, taking the frigid gust in stride, beaming at the familiar weather despite the nearby copse of trees. Not quite her home, but it was the northern part of the country and just how she preferred. 

They were led down a hill, toward a wooden boathouse where there were small vehicles waiting for them, moved entirely by magic, a lantern gracing the bow of each. 

"Three to four to a boat," the man instructed, lining up the children so that they could file in an orderly fashion.

'

Nessia didn't end up on a boat with anyone she knew, which was both a good and bad thing, seeing she only knew a handful of first years. Not that it mattered much, because the moment they'd broken the threshold of the dock's boathouse, they were each shocked into silence by the mere beauty of the sight that sprawled before them. 

The loch would have been a perfect mirror-like surface if not for the cruising boats, gliding gracefully across the water like swans, causing gentle ripples along the inky water. Stars still managed to cling to the blanket beneath them, shimmering iridescently as they prowled closer to their destination: Hogwarts. Spanning up above on the outcropping of a rocky mountain, the castle was magnificent with its many spires, towers, parapets, and halls. Haloed by the light of sconces, torches, and other candles—she glowed like a savior in an eternal night. 

Once, Nessia had thought that the MacDougal cottage and grounds was the most beautiful piece of architecture she'd ever seen, but her opinion was blown completely out of the water as she stared open mouthed at the castle. Part of her wished that the boat would stop, just so that she could sit there and admire the fine detail of everything she was trying to commit to memory, almost as if she would forget what the school—that was to be her home for the next seven years—would look like. The fleeting thought was silly, but as they approached a rocky edifice with twirling ivy obscuring the entrance to a cave's mouth, Nessia felt the stinging bite of disappointment as she could no longer see the school and was disembarking on a new dock. 

Becoming a clump of muttering black robes, the first years waited until the large man had joined them and led them up a twisting, stony staircase which seemed to be endless. Eventually, they popped out in a hall, where Nessia could be challenged further to stay with the group as she admired the intricate medieval details of the interior of the castle, the smooth stones, the sconces made of animal horns, and the various pictures that muttered and conversed as Hogwart's newest pursuers of knowledge walked between them.

The door waiting for them at the top of the stairs was a double set of oak wrought with finely hewn details. Shut solidly in front of them, the doors were flanked by variously adorned stone suits of armor. Some had halberds, others had maces, a few had swords. Curiously, Nessia cocked her head and inspected them as a low hush of whispers began to overtake the students that were tittering nervously outside the Great Hall.

Sweeping fluidly from out of the doors, a witch in emerald robes so dark they nearly appeared black, she set a pensive gaze down on all of the students. While not specifically picking Nessia out from the crowd, she felt her own spine stiffen under the unimpressed scrutiny of the professor as the crowd hushed. 

"Welcome to Hogwarts," the witch greeted cordially. "The start-of-term banquet is beginning shortly. However, before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses. The Sorting is a very important ceremony because, while you are here, your house will be akin to a family within Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your house, sleep in the house dormitory, and spend free time in your house common room amongst other places.

"The four houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin—" the professor continued to list the details about the houses and that each, regardless of what other people might say, had merit of their own. Additionally, any rulebreaking would result in punitive measure for the whole house, causing a reduction in points toward the House Cup. "The Sorting Ceremony will take place shortly."

Stepping back into the Great Hall, the professor disappeared for another minute, allowing for the voices of the children to creep back up in worried whispers as no one was quite aware of what their test would be to get Sorted. Nessia didn't feel the same bit of anxiety the rest were undergoing, which was albeit odd considering usually she would have been a fretting mess about going in blind. However, she found herself trusting more in the fact that she hadn't been warned by her family, thinking that it was possible there was nothing to worry about. 

Despite her ignoring, she did overhear a girl muttering beneath her breath about several spells she had learned in hopes of being placed into Ravenclaw. The exuberance of her tone and the nervous nail biting of her companion told Nessia that the witch's knowledge in spells compared to her friend did nothing to quell the rising tide of doubt that she'd be Sorted anywhere. Even if Nessia knew a couple of spells her brother had taught her, she didn't see how those made her any more brilliant than those around her. After all, they'd all learn them in due time and there was bound to be several subjects that Nessia didn't like. 

Rubbing her face, she hoped that they'd soon be let in, because honestly, her stomach was beginning to growl like a pack of ravenous wolves. The few snacks on the train hadn't made up for the fact that she'd eaten little for breakfast and hadn't had lunch. 

Finally, the professor returned, opening the doors wide for the convoy of little witches and wizards to stare slack jawed at. Four long tables were filled with older peers, donning pointed black caps as they turned expectantly toward the newest additions to the school. However, the most amazing detail in the hall was not the plethora of magnificent paintings, not the decadent high table where all the professors stood. Instead, it was right above them where the ceiling arched into the heavens, quite literally vanishing as candlesticks floated in dozens, capping out over a thousand, brightened alongside an enormous hearth and braziers held by eagles. Rather than finding stone above their heads, the crisp Scottish evening was bare before them as if there were no top to the hall at all. 

Gasps of delight echoed amongst the filing students, rowed in pairs as they craned their heads up in an effort to admire the scene, but also had to pay enough attention to watch ahead to where they were walking. Finally, they pooled at the end of the hall, before a plinth where a single stool sat. No absurd trial seemed to be waiting for them, unless the stool was actually a monster of some sort that they each had to defeat.

There was little respite, the quiet sighs of relief chased away as silvery spectres swooped overhead and startled a few of the first years who'd never seen ghosts before. While never seeing so many in one place before, Nessia had met a few ancestors that prowled the gated cemetery on the MacDougal grounds. They were interesting folk, but trapped within their own misery and not half as chipper as the majority of the Hogwarts ghosts seemed to be as they settled in to witness the youngsters find their new homes. 

A wilted piece of fabric had been set on the stool, sagging forward as if it'd been beaten into submission. However, before Nessia could spare a minute to wonder what it was, the hat popped up and a seam running along the bottom opened like a great mouth. Bouncing with lively exuberance, the cap broke out into song about the school, how it would sort them into a house, and how each house was spectacular in its own way. Of all the curious things that Nessia had seen in her life, never once had it been a singing cap.

"Now, when I call your name, you will come up here and take a seat before heading over to your assigned house," the same professor as before instructed, unfurling a long piece of parchment with the names of the first years etched on it. "Ali, Badeea."

A girl wearing a black hijab stepped forward, her eyes still ghosting along the paintings in the room before she slowly approached the stood where the professor lifted the hat, bringing it down upon Badeea's head. She jolted slightly as the cap contemplating, chewing on its thoughts before shifting and deciding finally, "Ravenclaw!"

There were quite a few names to listen to until reaching her own, splitting students between the four houses, to which there seemed to be more in Slytherin and Hufflepuff. 

The original calm that Nessia had felt was soon replaced with twinging nerves, plunking dissonantly as she stood amongst the dwindling crowd wondering where she was going to be placed. Sure, the task to be Sorted wasn't hard like she had thought, but that confirmation didn't quell her initial fear to disappoint the MacDougal Clan. Even if bhan had told her that it didn't matter, deep down she knew it did. What if it was Slytherin? What if—

"MacDougal, Nessia."

She could hear the imaginary bells tolling, taking to rest with her the solemn knowledge that she was probably going to be a 'Puff' like Logan had said or worse—a Slytherin. Her eyes drifted toward the table, where some of the students she'd had a row with were eying her curiously. Finally, her leaden legs brought her to the stool where sweaty palms gripped the edges. 

"A MacDougal!" the hat exclaimed upon being placed on her head. She hadn't heard it talk to anyone before, but perhaps no one could hear it as it contemplated a home for her. "I know just what to do with you," the hat didn't seem to be mulling about it all, in fact, it seemed as if it had rather made it mind's up.

Scrunching her eyes shut, the hat bobbed and declared, "Gryffindor!"

The roars from the table dashed by crimson and gold made her heart leap up into her throat, blinking back the initial misery and replacing it with disbelief as she plopped down and trotted over toward the Gryffindors who welcomed her with open arms and brazen smiles. This was what she had wanted. Why was her heart racing? How come she felt like she was going to cry over it? The Sorting Hat had heard her name and known she belonged right in Gryffindor, even when she had doubted it herself. She barely heard the congratulations around her as the next person called up was Poppy. The hat contemplated which way she'd be sent, before deciding on sending yet another lion to the Gryffindor table.

"Wow! I can't believe it—" Poppy gasped, her fair cheeks flushed as she plopped down beside Nessia. "I was really hoping I'd get in the same house as you. I just can't believe I did."

"Whit?" Nessia croaked in mild disbelief, finally speaking properly since being Sorted. "Why'd ye want tae be in the same house as me?"

"You seemed... cool," Poppy admitted shyly, glancing down at golden charger set before her. 

"Real cool with me knickers strewn aboot the train," Nessia laughed hoarsely, her own cheeks heating at the compliment. Truthfully, she was glad that Poppy had been Sorted into Gryffindor, because it meant one more familiar face that she could talk to and the other girl had been quite nice about helping her. 

The rest of the Sorting commenced with a few more additions to Gryffindor, including the boy she'd met in Diagon Alley. After a few announcements, to include Albus Dumbledore—the headmaster—keeping his own short and to the point so that food could be served, it blossomed on the tables in front of them hot and steaming. Gasps of reverie echoed amongst those who'd never witnessed such a spectacular feast and Nessia was eager to get herself some of the haggis she saw which smelled divine. 

"We met in the Alley, didn't we?" the red haired boy across from her asked, recounting when they'd been out shopping for supplies. 

"Aye, we did," Nessia agreed jovially, as she was as happy as a pig in mud between the choices of food in front of her. There was so much to pick from that even Hoggle's feasts were no match. Then again, he never had to cook for this many people, but the array of choices had the girl boggled. "Yer brother in this house too?"

"Yeah, he's a little ways down the table," Charlie gestured and she spotted the tufts of coppery hair sticking out from under his cap. "Don't think he wants to be caught around his little brother."

"I think the same would happen if me brother were here too. He's older though, by ten years," Nessia explained as Poppy eyed a lump of buttered up mashed potatoes. "Ye need a hand?"

"Please," she requested, too far from the mountain of mash.

While she was spooning Poppy food, Charlie continued, "He's an Auror, isn't he? I think my dad knows him too."

"Aye, just like me bhan-er-grandfather. Me mum and dad were Aurors too," she informed him. 

"What's an Auror?" Poppy popped in. 

Nessia's mouth went a bit dry, trying to find a way to explain it in muggle terms, but coming up a bit short. "Law enforcement," Charlie offered. "Hunt down dark wizards. Difficult job. You have to be really good at nearly every subject to become one."

"Oh, so like the police in their own way," Poppy realized, eyes brightening. "Do you want to become an Auror like the rest of your family?"

"Probably not," Nessia admitted sheepishly. "It's a really tough and dangerous job. I dinnae think it's a good fit for me. Only Merlin might ken that and we haven't even started classes yet. I'll see whit tickles me fancy, though I do really like plants and herbology. Whit aboot either of ye? Did ye read ahead?"

"There's so much, I got in a little over my head and lost," Poppy sucked down half of her pumpkin juice. "Transfiguration seems hard."

And it was among some of the subjects that Nessia worried would prove to be challenges for herself, however she didn't voice that to Poppy. "It's a tough subject," she agreed. "Whit aboot ye, Charlie?"

The owl preened, feathers lifting momentarily before it allowed her to take the parcel and bunkered down in the sunlight that streamed against the window, basking in the warmth.

Nessia hummed, turning the letter over before realizing what it was, her fingers becoming clumsy and wrists quivering in blistering excitement as she started to vibrate at the sight of the Hogwart's crest. Now, she'd known that one day that the school would send her a letter, just as all young witches and wizards in the area received one. However, she'd felt anxious because she didn't display her magic as brazen or spectacularly as Logan had when he'd been her age. Hoggle had told her all about how he'd caused a mess of the manor, from causing statues to come to life from laughs that echoed like lion's roars and knocked paintings from the walls. The most that Nessia had ever done was hiccup out a bumblebee, which Hoggle said was much more preferable to Logan's messes.

Breaking the seal, Nessia's eyes became watery, as if she'd gotten potting soil in them again from rubbing her face with filthy hands. This was no farce, written in beautiful emerald script was a letter addressed to her, welcoming her to Hogwarts for her first year, and hosting a list of supplies required as a student. Finding the acceptance form in the very back, Nessia scrabbled for an inkwell and signed her name, aware that the resting owl was roosting for the journey back and likely to also send her own reply so that she could officially be added to the roster. She wondered if anyone ever declined.

"Och," she placed the new letter before the owl, an orange eye blinking open suspiciously. "When yer all good and rested, can ye take this back? Ye can stay here as long as ye need. Here's some water too," Nessia grabbed one of her pails and filled a cup she had laying around in her room, pushing it up her desk toward the raptor. "Mind the plants, but make yerself at hame."

The owl shook its feathers out and gave a low, trilling hoot before bending down to lap up some of the offered water. Nessia took the pieces of parchment, threw on a proper dress—which was little more than a corduroy sack over her shift—and burst out of her room with more fervor than the typically quiet girl displayed. Sputtering around a corner, her socks slipped beneath her and she slid an extra few paces before a hand snapped out and gripped the bannister, redirecting her path so that she could sprint toward her grandfather's solar.

Located on the opposite side of the heirloom cottage, the home that she'd grown up in as long as she could remember, even when her parents had been alive. The MacDougal Manor, situated within the misty rolling hills of the Scottish Highlands, flanked by Loch Linsor and relatively removed from neighbors muggle and wizard alike. Despite the sheltered, rural location, the home was a hive of familiar faces including Hoggle, the house elf, to other friends and servants. In the lake was a pod of merrow, many of which didn't mind popping above the surface to spare an afternoon of conversation with Nessia, to their gardener, a centaur named Rowan who was estranged from the local clan and happily made his home amongst the MacDougal family.

Even if their own grounds were limited to those that worked and kept stock of the care and daily routines, they were often frequented by visits that related to her grandfather's connections. He had been an important man in his prime and despite the years of his youth slipping through the hourglass that was time, many still came to him for advice or whispering happenings within the shadows.

Being so early in the morning, Nessia hadn't expected it to be another day where Bhan was entertaining a guest, sputtering to a graceless halt in front of the oaken door wrought with intricately carved designs depicting the MacDougal alliance with the centaurs and merrow of this area of the highlands. Their family had always had close ties with other Beings (even if the merrow and centaurs disregarded this classification), including their own house elves which lived a much more comfortable life than most elves in similar positions. She had only just raised a tanned fist to knock upon the door when she overheard voices on the other side.

"He's escaped Azkaban?" it was her grandfather, Angus, hissing in frustration at the revelation. "How in Merlin's name? If I werenae so hoachin' I'd join the hunt for him meself. Where aboot did he get loose?"

"Further south and put a little more faith in the department assigned to hunt werewolves," the other person retorted calmly.

"Faith?" Angus huffed in indignation. "I had faith that the sleekit dug wouldnae escape from Azkaban in the first place!"

"Things happen, Angus."

"Things happen, me arse. When I worked for the Ministry this wouldnae happened. Folk be gettin' too relaxed noo that Ye-Ken-Who is pushing daisies. Noo the Ministry gets all gallus and let's a bloody lycan loose. How many ye think will be turned or killed, eh?"

"Angus, I only came here to deliver the news so you could keep your eyes and ears sharp. I doubt he'll come up here, not when there's nowhere to hide and far too many centaurs roaming the moors," her grandfather's companion sounded bone weary, exhausted by toiling with the idea that innocent people were going to be cursed, maimed, or killed.

"Makin' a habit o' eavesdropping?"

The sound of Hoggle's voice made Nessia leap up, fumbling her letters before giving the house elf a bashful, guilt ridden look. "I-I," she stammered quietly, worried that those inside the solar would hear her. "Got me letter to Hogwarts. I only wanted tae show Bhan."

"The MacDougal has a guest. Come downstairs fer now and break yer fast," Hoggle shook his head dismissively, but a tight smirk betrayed the elf's amusement by the girl's dolefulness. "A letter tae Hogwarts noo? Suppose it's aboot time ye had yer own turn there."

"Do ye ken anyone who works there?" Nessia trotted after the house elf, his ragged tartan swaying behind him, pinned in place by a rusty pennancular pendant that Hoggle took deep pride in.

"Got a few cousins who do work in the kitchens," Hoggle admitted, giving her a sideways glance. "Course they're nothin' like me."

"No one is like ye, Hoggle. Everyone's different," Nessia pointed out chipperly.

"Nay," he shook his head, batty ears swaying from their position where they'd been slicked back like hair. "The MacDougals are a fine clan. Good witches and wizards. Treat all their servants right. Hogwarts is good too, but... most places dinnae treat me kind like people. The MacDougal gae me a room, a stipend, clothes—this is a job. For other elves its servitude, slavery and they bow willfully. We were made that way... tae want tae serve. I wouldnae trade whit I hae here for anything. Me cousins... they're happy, because the folk at the school are kind and they dinnae ken better. So they might seem a bit odd compared tae me."

Nessia cocked her head, having never met another house elf aside from Hoggle. Truth be told, she thought all of the elves were servants who had their own respective quarters and free time. But slaves? Her wide lips pulled down in a frown and her steps started to trudge as she contemplated the situation others of Hoggle's kind might be subjected to. "I'm sorry, ye sound sad."

Hoggle blinked. "Is na yer fault, Nessie. Jus' the way things be."

"That's wrong though. Just like it's wrong that the centaurs and merrows are classified as beasts," Nessia huffed.

The house elf's lips tugged up in a smile. "World needs more witches who think like ye, Nessie. Be a much kinder place."

"World would be weak if it were more like me," Nessia muttered, mostly to herself as the pair stepped into the kitchen. Yet another one of her favorite rooms in the house, with high ceilings, a long table in the center of the room that functioned as both an island and where informal meals were hosted. With a wave of a knobbly hand, a stool danced toward Hoggle and he hopped up onto it.

"The world needs kindness, Nessie. It doesnae make ye weak," Hoggle assured her. "Yer bhan is kind."

"But he's also braw," she countered, plopping down on a barstool by the island.

"Och, yer bum's oot the windae, int it?" a third voice joined the conversation, the tall visage of her adult brother sauntering into view as he fixed his tie. The siblings, while having the same parents, reflected each parent in their own way. Nessia took after their mother, with tanned skin, thick curly black hair, and a flat nose-smattering her nose like a constellation was her father's Scottish freckles and the MacDougal green eyes were another telltale sign of her heritage. Whereas Logan was a shade fairer, strong jawed, tall and broad, a head of russet curls hashed with strands of auburn and gold. Whilst he looked more akin to their father, Bhan always claimed he had their mother's fire burning in his heart. Despite their differences, they did share their mother's nose.

"Ah umnae!" Nessia squeaked, cheeks darkening at the insinuation that she was talking rubbish.

"Whit hae ye got there?" Logan gestured to her folded parchment while he was adjusting the cuff links on his shirt.

"Oh! Me letter to Hogwarts," she stood on the pegs of the stool and leaned over the counter to wave it at him.

In just three strides, Logan met her and took the parchment from her, whistling low as he thumbed through it thoughtfully. "Who wouldae thought they'd accept a lil mandrake like ye. Did ye send a letter back sayin' ye'd only want tae study plants?"

"I can learn other stuff," Nessia grumbled, crossing her arms as her brother.

"Well, if that's the case, when ye get yer want, how aboot I teach ye some spells?" he offered, handing the parchment back and pouring himself a cup of tea that Hoggle had on the stove.

"I thought I couldnae practice magic outside o' school," Nessia recalled smartly.

"In front o' muggles. Otherwise, who's gaunnae stop ye? Most other students are na lucky enough to hae a big brother who's an Auror," Logan retorted glibly.

"Am not tryin' to be an Auror," Nessia reminded him.

"Och, yer too wee tae ken whit ye'd like tae do yet," Logan played off dismissively. "I do ken we hae a lot of the supplies ye need here—like the cauldron, scales, phials, telescope. I might even hae some of the books, I ken ye have the One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi one in yer room."

Nessia gave a stout nod, pleased that she wouldn't dirty new books, as she had the uncanny ability to smear dirt on them as well as the inclination to make notes in the margins. Even if the clan had a manor, comparatively Nessia wouldn't claim they were the richest or most influential family. Most of the sacred twenty-eight turned their noses up at the accepting tendencies the MacDougals practiced. They lived comfortably, but if items could be repurposed or recycled, there was no use in wasting it. Both Nessia and Logan had been raised to be appreciative of what they had, what they acquired, and to not discard belongings without regard. An old book still held the same words as a new one and personally, the old one had more character.

"Suppose I'll need tae get a wand and robes, ye were a skinny malinky longlegs when ye went tae school," Nessia pointed out.

Logan sputtered into his mug, Hoggle chortling at the description.

"Keep the heid, young master," Hoggle taunted before the man could offer rebuttal.

"Whit's this noo?" Heads swiveled in the direction of the voice from under the awning, Angus having his hands propped up on his hips as he surveyed the crowd and began carving his path toward the tea kettle. "Yer gaunnae be late fer work, eh?" he prompted, turning verdant eyes to pin Logan where he stood, still gobsmacked from Nessia's prod.

"It's an important day. Na everyday that yer little sister gets an acceptance letter to Hogwarts," Logan preened, taking a glance at his watch.

"Sounds like an excuse tae me. Whit time are ye supposed to be in?" Angus countered suspiciously.

Logan grumbled. "Och, I'll go!" With a snap the man's silhouette rippled inward and he disapparated from the kitchen, fluttering a nearby towel that was folded over the oven handle.

Plates were beginning to float from the stove, landing soundlessly on the island as Hoggle moved as if he were conducting an orchestra. Silverware, plates, and cups followed—the door banging open, followed by the clopping of hooves as Rowan entered.

"Mornin'," he greeted, pausing to wash his hands in the sink.

"So ye got yer letter to Hogwarts? Aboot time," Angus remarked, returning to the island to glance over the parchment. "Might be time tae head to Diagon Alley for the rest o' yer supplies. Hoggle, ye think ye can scrounge up the auld books? I ken Logan had a few of these."

"O' course," Hoggle agreed.

Diagon Alley had been a less than often frequented place of Nessia. To be honest, it was busy, overwhelming, and cramped. Nothing about London was favorable to her, especially when she was so accustomed to the wide open moors and the loch that spanned her home. Additionally, it was humid and frizzed up her curls, turning them into a deplorable helmet. Usually, she let her bhan go without her, but managed to suppress a sigh because she knew that this outing would result in acquiring one of the most important items as a witch: a wand.

"Dinnae look so driech," Angus chuckled.

"It's gaunnae be gross, I jus' ken it," Nessia pouted, spooning hash onto her plate and settling on a scoop of eggs to join it. "Hogsmeade is closer, innit?"

"Tis," Angus mused. "I jus' thought ye'd want the full experience."

Nessia arched a brow at him. "Full experience? I'd prefer na tae sweat me breeks off."

"Lassie dinnae care fer the Sassenachs," Rowan observed mischievously. "Cannae blame ye for that."

"Most o' yer peers are gaunnae be Sassenachs," Hoggle wagged a wooden spoon at her.

"Well, if I can put off meetin' em for as long as possible-" Nessia suggested lightly, shoving some food into her mouth.

"Feart not," Angus declined. "We're gaunnae go to the Alley."

Nessia let out a plainative groan and nearly choked on her eggs, chasing it down with orange juice. The rest of breakfast went on as usual before she was sent off to get ready for the afternoon. London was going to be quite a bit warmer than the highlands, which forced her to choose thinner robes that she preferred to wear. Bundling her hair in a bun at the nape of her neck to save her the embarrassment of it being frazzled to hell, Nessia slipped on a pair of Wellies and trundled grumpily out of her room, the owl having left before she returned.

Upon passing her grandfather's solar, Nessia paused momentarily to reflect on what she'd overheard. Lycans? Escape from Azkaban? She hadn't caught a name, but a shiver traced down her spine at the thought of werewolves roaming the countryside in search of unsuspecting victims. Living in the highlands, she was reminded duly of the protection she was afforded so far north, so removed, and by plenty of other creatures that would chase the werewolves across the moors before letting them bunker down and cause a ruckus.

Waiting by the main hearth, Angus had already dressed in his afternoon robes, including a small sash in the clan's tartan which slashed across his breast. Adjusting his balmoral cap, his heavy brows raised at his granddaughter.

"Try na tae look too enthused," he retorted sarcastically, mustache twitching up at the 11 year old's dismay.

"It's gaunnae be driech, Bhan," Nessia whined, dipping her hand into the basin filled with Floo powder. "And they talk weird."

"Whit if we're the ones who talk weird?" Angus challenged.

"Doubtful," stepping into the fireplace, the sand sifting between her fingers, Nessia tossed the powder down with pizzazz. "Diagon Alley!" Careful to speak clearly, envious green flames lanced up in front of her, obscuring her vision completely. Holding her breath to prevent breathing in the fumes and ash, she narrowed her eyes in an effort to witness her voyage up out of the tippy top of her home's chimney. Arms pinned, up becoming down, skipping from north to south, Nessia groaned when she made impact with the public fireplace of the Alley.

Immediately, she was rebuffed by the humid air of London, the cool and refreshing summer of the highlands replaced by an unusually hot day, peaking at the high 20s (nearly 80F). Pushing a few stray curls from her forehead, Nessia grimaced and stepped out of the way as the chimney above her thundered with the warning of another traveler approaching. Never a pleasant experience, her nose wrinkling as she huffed a sneeze and barely managed to move as a wizard threw a haughty glare in her direction. Rolling her eyes, she waited another moment before her grandfather materialized, dusting off his robes and tartan, ruffling his mustache and sneezing just as loudly as she had.

The mimicked fashion made her grin widely and he chuckled. "Blasted Floo. Never been tae fond of it," he grumbled, striding up to meet her.

"I dinnae think anyone 'likes' it, Bhan," Nessia pointed out to his chagrin.

"Shoulda just disapparated," he muttered, rubbing beneath his nose again. "Noo, where do we need tae go?"

Unfolding the list from her pocket, Nessia could already feel sweat beading on the back of her neck. Maybe she'd worn too heavy an outfit, the corduroy like a smothering blanket amidst the humidity. Thank Merlin Hogwarts was in Scotland. "Robes, parchment, note books, a wand-" she recited, aware that most of the other supplies could be scavenged around the MacDougal grounds. Hand-me-downs didn't bother her too much, though it wasn't as if they couldn't afford newer items; Nessia just didn't see a point when there were perfectly good ones at home.

"Generic supplies," Angus admitted. "Och, well let's get started then. Get ye some robes, 'course yer wand—it's the most important item ye'll get. Maybe if yer not too cheeky, we can stop for some icecream."

Nessia beamed in spite of the blistering weather and flanked her grandfather as they started through the brimming streets of Diagon Alley. From the sloping roofs held up by only magic, defying gravity's expectations, to the gayly hued robes that bespeckled the populace, she settled into the hum of activity. From the freshly baked pastries that filled her with fragrant thoughts of Hoggle making holiday desserts to the owls ruffling their feathers within their cages, she relaxed slightly, keeping close beside her grandfather who parted the crowd as if he had a wand out and was thrusting folks aside. Be it the prowess the broad man moved with or just the heavy expression he always wore, most steered clear of the highlander. He was easily recognizable from his hints of traditional garb and the pride each shoe fell with.

Nessia wished she possessed an ounce of her grandfather's confidence or vindication, but as close as they were they couldn't have been more unlike each other. He was outgoing, strong, ambitious, wise, and willful. Nessia was quiet, reclusive, and shy. Only those that she knew did the girl have the heart to sass, but under the scrutiny of strangers she felt nervous and sweaty. The sheer idea of having to go to school without him made her falter. For today she should have been rejoicing, as excited as the other children around her that she would be going to school soon and beginning the next endeavor of her life. Truthfully, Nessia was terrified.

"Bhan, whit house do ye think I'll be in?" she asked him as they continued down the road toward the wand shop.

"Dinnae, bit o' a toss up for ye. Yer smart, so maybe Ravenclaw. Yer also too nice fer yer own could, ye could be in Hufflepuff," he answered honestly, which made her frown slightly.

"Weren't ye in Gryffindor, Bhan?" she prompted.

"Aye, do ye think ye'll be put into Gryffindor?"

Nessia wanted to be in the same house as her grandfather, almost as if it'd prove that there was more to her than the demure plant-loving witch, but she didn't think herself very brave. Just contemplating how desperately she wanted to be in the house made her eyes prickle with tears, which she quickly blinked back. "I hope Ravenclaw," she decided, knowing that Logan wouldn't let her live it down if she got placed into Hufflepuff. Not that the house sounded bad, but when her family came from a long history of Gryffindors, it made her balk at being placed in the 'softest' house at Hogwarts. After all, she was a highlander and only Ravenclaw or Gryffindor would do.

"Dinnae fash. Ye'll do well wherever ye are, lassie. Ye ken I'm proud of ye, even if ye got placed in Slytherin. No house will change me mind," Angus assured her, tapping her on her nose, having noticed that she was fighting back tears.

The shop in front of them was dusty, but then again, many of the store fronts around here were. It was strange, considering how busy Diagon Alley was, that time was rarely allocated to clean off store fronts or afford a new repaint. Considering all it would take was a swing of a hand or wand to set brooms or dustpans to work, Nessia cocked her head as she stared at the grimy pillow in the display and itched her nose at the anticipation of stepping into the shop. Hoggle would have lost his mind.

Bell tinkling upon their arrival, Nessia shielded her eyes—not because the shop was particularly bright, in fact it was rather dim. No, it was the chain reaction that her presence caused, a box on the wall jetting out amongst the rank and file and pinging right into the side of a rickety desk. An elderly man jumped, his thin white hair going astray as he glanced from the box, the mess the wand had created by acting so spryly—spilling at least two dozen others from the wall—before bending down to pick it up.

"Mr. MacDougal," the shopkeeper smiled, placing the box up on the counter and glancing between them. "I don't think either of you will be spending very long here."

"Nice tae see ye, Ollivander," Angus greeted, palming his granddaughter's back and thrusting her forward from where she'd frozen. "Seems yer wands got minds of their own."

"I see it... from time to time," he smiled gently, turning his wizened eyes down toward Nessia. "This must be Nessia? You look a lot like your mother when she came to get her first wand."

"You remember her?" Nessia's trepidation was trumped by the man's memory of a mother she barely recalled. Both of her parents had been killed when she was little, amidst the wizarding war that had made for a tumultuous childhood for her.

"I remember every person I sell a wand to," Ollivander winked, lifting the lid to the box and revealing a wand. "She had a 12", dragon heartstring cored wand, made from red oak. A very handsome wand."

"Whit happened with that wand?" Nessia inquired, gesturing to the one that had flown clean off the shelf.

"Ah, well let's take a look," he picked up up, holding it to the oil lamp beside him, scrutinizing the ribbing and the fine lattice work of knots around the grip. "Made from vine. They have a tendency to display their attraction to potential partners. I've only seen it happen a few times before, but they're not always quite a brash as this one."

At the insinuation that the wand had reacted to her, Nessia's tanned cheeks darkened and she sputtered. "M-me?"

"Certainly not your grandfather. I'm afraid this wand would not suit him," Ollivander betrayed. "This one has been collecting dust for a while. A very long while," he insisted, reaching over to offer it to Nessia. "I made it many years ago, while I was still experimenting with other cores aside from dragon heartstring, unicorn hair, or phoenix feathers. Honestly, I thought it might never sell. Griffin feathers are quite particular, perhaps even more so than phoenix feathers. Prideful creatures."

Accepting the wand, a tingle lanced up her hand, into her elbow, and caused the girl to shudder all over as if a strong gust of cold highland wind had knocked right through her. She could smell the rain on the moors, fresh air whistling through her thick curls, and roasted apples over a fire. A smile curled her lips and she opened her eyes to glance curiously at the wandmaker.

"A perfect fit," Ollivander declared. "It would seem MacDougals are always the quickest shops. I seem to remember when my father had a wand nearly jump into your hands, Angus."

Her grandfather snorted, removing his wand to offer it to the artisan, who ran his fingers along the wood with a sad, but pleased reminiscent expression upon his face. "Nessie's a MacDougal through and through," he puffed up in pride. "Griffin feather, ye hear? Makes sense, a good deal of griffins migrate to the highlands in the warmer seasons."

Always having felt that maybe being a witch was not suited perfectly for her, Nessia clutched the wand. She couldn't have wished for anything more than this perfect union with the unique wand. A tendril of confidence bolstered the girl's frail spine and she grinned up at her bhan. A griffin feather? Of all the cores, she wouldn't have expected such a braw one to choose her, but her heart soared like the creature it was made from.

"I always thought your core was so strange. How my father managed to acquire will-o-wisps and fashion it into a wand always eluded my skill," Ollivander commented, turning Angus' wand over a few times. "I would have expected the reverse for the two of you, but such rare cores are fickle and don't sell often enough to warrant making them in masses. I realized this once I had taken over, but it still warms my heart to see these wands finally find their partners."

"Served me well, it has," Angus assured him. "And dinnae forget that I wasnae always how I am noo. Nessie's got a much better head on her shoulders than when I was a lad," he patted his granddaughter affectionately.

"You were a bit naive if I recall correctly. Bright eyed and bushy tailed," Ollivander chuckled, returning the wand as he began drafting up a hand written receipt.

"Bhan?" Nessia gasped, as if the idea of her grandfather being anything other than the strident retired Auror that she'd known for the entirety of her life.

"We all grow up, Nessie. I was no exception," he mused, mustache twitching in amusement. "Mr. Ollivander is one of the few who still remembers. Though I hae no doubt Professor McGonagall might as well. We went tae school together."

"I think there are still quite a few more who do, but you're unwilling to admit," Ollivander smiled. "That'll be 10 galleons."

Mr. Ollivander packed up the wand for Nessia, which he shared was about 13.5" and had a relatively hard flexibility to it, but he assured her that the wand was rather delighted to have her. Keeping the bundle tucked close to her chest, she followed her grandfather through the streets which had only grown more busy and sweltering as the afternoon peaked. Past the shops with the pets again and to the robes shop. They passed the front of a second hand store, about to continue when a voice called out.

"Oh! Mr. MacDougal—"

Nessia didn't recognize the voice as one of the typical visitors to their homestead and glanced up inquisitively toward her grandfather who froze and wrinkled his nose. A bemused smile tucked on her face as he turned mechanically and forced a pressed, but polite look onto his face. "Allo there," by the second hand shop was a man with a head full of bright, coppery red hair. "Been a while, Arthur. How's the Ministry?"

Arthur was tall, had a face full of freckles, and beamed excitedly up towards Angus. Beside him were two boys, both of which appeared to be of similar age to Nessia, but she didn't know for certain. Just as ginger as their father, they spared her curious looks. One tall, the other a little shorter and broad. Subconsciously, she waned toward her grandfather, but still stared nonetheless.

"Not half as well since you left for good, but it's nice to see you. I hear you don't often leave the highlands, so I'm surprised to see you in London," Arthur admitted politely. He didn't look like an Auror, but Nessia supposed that was a rather rude thing to think by assessing his weathered robes.

"Me granddaughter, Nessie, starts Hogwarts this year. We came tae get the last few things we needed. Logan had quite a bit o' supplies she can put to good use again," he patted her back. "These yer bairns?"

"Ah yes, my eldest Bill, who is in his third year. My second eldest, Charlie, is starting this year. Perhaps the two of you will be in the same classes or house," Arthur suggested, motioning to his sons respectively. "Boys, this is the legendary Auror, Angus MacDougal. He headed the Aurors for many years, fought against Grindelwald and helped during the Wizarding War with intel. I'm surprised you didn't stay around, join the Wizengamot-"

"Bunch o' pompous pr-" Angus started at the mention of the Wizengamot, cutting himself off before he cursed. Nessia snickered behind her hand. "Ah, too many years workin'. Aboot time I enjoy me home, avoid the stress of the Ministry. How's work been for ye, Arthur?"

"Good!" Arthur chirped, but even Nessia caught the fleeting anxious look on the man's face and her grandfather stiffening. "Busy as always," he chuckled, scratching the back of his head.

"Well, it was nice to see ye. Nessie and I still hae to get some supplies before headin' back north. Tell Molly and the other bairns I've said allo."

"It was nice tae meet ye," Nessia squeaked quickly, following Angus' lead, but still finding her manners. "I'll see ye at school."

"Will do. It was nice to see you," Arthur said, parting ways.

Once out of earshot, Nessia glanced up at her grandfather. "Ye dinnae seem tae happy to see him."

"Arthur is... very passionate," Angus grumbled. "He's a good man, but he's obsessed with muggles. Half the time I see him, I worry I'm gaunnae be stuck listening to him prattle on for hours."

"Oh, he's not an Auror?"

"Oh, nay, nay," Angus shook his head. "Works for the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts. Tae be honest, that department's a bit ignored and underfunded... Ministry doesnae see the importance of it much, but we could learn so much from the muggles if we allowed our folk to study with better pay. Used to run into him when I grabbed me morning tea. Realized who I was, was a bit feart at first, but warmed up when he realized I wasnae gaunnae bite his head off. I suppose many other Aurors got their heads far up their own arses. Think they're better than people like Arthur. If any of them had as much passion for their job as Arthur, perhaps we wouldnae had so much of an issue with dark wizards like Ye-Ken-Who."

"Clan MacDougal always mingled with muggles."

"Aye, before Catholicism took hold. We had tae hide our abilities after, but we remained friendly with the muggle clans in the highlands," he added duly. "But not every wizardin' family thinks the same as we dae."

"I ken," Nessia shuddered. "That's why ye never accept those invitations that come from those other families. The Malfoys? Rosiers?"

Angus hummed in agreement. "Jus' posturin' to them. 'Look at what we have', when they dinnae work a day in their lives. Jus' takin' up space and lookin' pretty."

"They dinnae work? Whit do they dae?"

"Merlin kens," Angus rolled his eyes.

Madam Malkin's had a violet store front, a dapper, well dress family in the store display. She thought this one was considerably less dusty, as the mannequins were probably changed out enough that they didn't have enough time to collect half as much dust as the pillow in Ollivander's window. A plump, bright witch hummed around the shop and had her laden with packages as Angus commented about how thick the cloaks were and that a true highlander wouldn't need these to brave the winters in Scotland. While growing rosy cheeked at her grandfather's complaining, they acquired the necessary materials and hurried to collect the last few miscellaneous items. Without having to struggle with books, a cauldron, and the other items they had at home, they were able to easily settle down at the ice cream shop for a much needed treat amongst the heat of a strangely warm afternoon in London.

The path to the Floo hearths was a little choked up, various other patrons just as eager to head home after a successful day in acquiring their needs on Diagon Alley. While waiting in line, Nessia glanced up toward Angus.

"Bhan, we dinnae hae tae come back here, dae we?" Sweat was pouring down her neck, trickling down her back.

"Nay, not til September when ye hae to catch the train."

"The train!" Nessia whined. "But Hogwarts is not too far frae home."

"It's aboot the experience. Ye may meet yer best friends on the train," Angus wagged a brow at her.

Grousing quietly to herself, Nessia didn't shed light on the anxiety she felt surrounding the idea of having to find somewhere on a train to sit, let alone deal with not knowing a single soul. Sure, she knew the names of those two boys, but she didn't know them. To be fair, she didn't really know anyone. It was easy to get lost amongst her jungle at home, the pages of her journal, and the garden outside. There was Hoggle, Rowan, and Logan. Plus the merrow in the loch, which were quite conversational once she'd learned how to understand them. The centaurs were a bit standoffish, but they'd been polite to her.

Hoggle had located the books she needed for school, a couple of which were nearly falling apart because Logan had abused the spines. While the pages were intact—minus his maddened scribblings in a few books—she had to do some repairs of her own to prevent them from breaking further and threatening to actually spill necessary reading material everywhere.

"Knock, knock future Puff," Logan announced his presence, rapping upon the frame of her open door as he poked his head into the jungle.

"Och, ye dinnae ken that yet," Nessia huffed, blowing a few strands of hair from her face as she was sewing another binding back into place.

"Where else would ye go?" Logan stepped in, teasing his younger sister. "Ooh, sorry there. Those look as if they've weathered bein' beat by hippogriffs."

"Oh, yer sorry? Might've fixed 'em before ye handed em down tae me," Nessia quipped, but honestly wasn't that upset. The books still functioned.

"Well, how aboot I make it up to ye?" he offered.

"Ye gaunnae buy me new books?"

"How aboot I do ye one better? Ye got yer wand today, didn't ya?"

Opening the box in front of her, Nessia pulled out the pale wooden wand. "Aye, but I'm not supposed to practice magic outside of school."

"Not around Muggles," Logan corrected. "And if I remember correctly, there arenae any here. Yer perfectly allowed tae practice at home and we're quite remote. If anyone questions it, ye got me to vouch for ye."

Her brother's beguiling reassurances did little to quell the twanging nerves, plucking like an out of tune violin as she contemplated taking the bait. "Whit are ye gaunnae teach me?"

"A few defense spells—Och wait!"

"I dinnae need those. I'm not ye! I'm not gaunnae get into any fights—" Nessia objected immediately.

"Better to ken them and not need them than to be dumped on yer arse. Yer a MacDougal. Like it or not, we have a reputation to uphold and while Bhan will not say anything aboot it, I want to be certain no one picks on ye," Logan interrupted, raising a hand to deflect her disquiet.

"No one is gaunnae pick on me," Nessia snorted. "It's not like when ye went to school."

"Slytherin is still just as nasty as when I went. Yer better off, Nessie."

He wasn't going to drop it, causing her to groan at his insistence. "Fine, but I ken I'm gaunnae be foul at spellwork. Never been good at it before."