"We meet in the river to wash the blood from our hands."
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In the riverlands, where ancient bloodlines converge, Lucera Waters walks a treacherous path as a bastard dragon seed of House Targaryen. Her duties intertwine with Lord Benjicot Blackwood...
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"From ruin or from ancient trees, For I would ask a question of them all." - Yeats 'The Tower'
"Fearsome fucking beasts," Ser Oscar says, his voice lingering out of the tent flaps.
"The dragons or the women?" Lord Blackwood snips out.
I unwind the silk at the mouth, stepping into the hulking war tent. The space boasts a large painted table, not unlike the one at Dragonstone. Rather than molten rock, it is composed of carved riverwood. My gaze immediately drives to a small totem in the shape of a bronze dragon, aside from two others. I believe that must be me.
"Much like the dragons, we are more pleasant once rested, my lords," I say, finding the two men standing near a makeshift hearth with their armor cast off on the soft lounge chairs. "Am I early? I was late this evening, so I thought I must make up for it."
Benjicot turns slowly, impaling me with a cold stare. The fire's proximity paints his face hues of apricot. I am not sure why his distaste for dragons is so strong; he looks quite at home surrounded by flame.
It is not purposeful; this wish to see him angry. But his existence alone irks me. Already ill at ease in the company of men, I find this one particularly untrustworthy, and the sooner I can confirm that notion, the better. I want to see his irises glow. I want to know what he is. Unlike most high lords, he does not wear a masquerade of politeness and integrity. Typically, I would find the falsity of high nobility to be disgusting. Yet his lack of it makes me more wary.
Benjicot's sharpened words and quick temper remind me of someone. And I am afraid that person is me.
"You're right on time," he says, stepping toward the table and dragging his signet ring across the boards. "You're a bastard of House Targaryen. The ward of Staunton. Yet, they've given you the second largest war bringer in the country. Why is that?"
It does not sound like an insult. His curiosity dips his voice and rises like the flap of raven wings.
"They didn't give me Vermithor," I say, "I took him. You cannot gift a dragon."
Benjicot rolls this over in his head, "Well, they've given us three, actually. So by that measure, you can gift them."
"You're merely borrowing us," my cheeks flush from the heat of the hearth. The warmth of the quarters is constricting, as if I have walked into a viper's den. "What exactly are you getting at, my lord?"
"We sent letters months ago asking for reinforcements. Yet, the prince flies right over the stronghold on his way home from the north. In the meantime, men die," he lowers his gaze, sneers, and brings a chalice to his lips before placing it back on the table, "Then, seemingly out of nowhere, bastards we have never heard of land at our doorstep on fresh dragon mounts claiming to have sworn oaths to the Blacks."
"Do you question our queen?"
"Don't be foolish. Of course not," he rolls his eyes. "I question you and your comrades. You've not been claimed by the house of your birth, yet you still fight for them. Are you willing to die for those who have spat on you? Or do you have other aims?"
