It was the rumors that drew them. Whispers suffused the area of a resistance that peopled the region, working by the dark of night to thwart the Queen and her pet dragonrider. Some said that this was a fabrication, invented by the weary minds of peasants who desired hope, but others said that it was true: the resistance was real and it lived and breathed with the eastern forests. For months, the DeGreys had been scouting the area to no avail. They rifled through the brush and climbed the highest trees, yet so far their search had turned up little and less.
As darkness fell, Charles set Roran and Arya to their rest, charging them to stay put (and hoping that - this time - they might actually listen, compelled by exhaustion). He also instructed them that, if he did not return within the hour, that they were to set out in the opposite direction with all possible haste. One never knew who one might meet in places such as these.
He’d tramped through the woods for some little time when he spotted the flicker of a light moving towards him, held aloft by a shadowy figure. Freezing, Charles reached slowly for his knife (the sword, he knew, would be hindered by the closeness of the trees) when he heard a familiar voice ring out clearly:
It was a name he had not heard in seventeen years, a name that belonged to a younger person: a happier person, a freer person. A name that had last been uttered only by Naerys as she lay dying. He felt as if a cold hand had crept up inside his chest, spreading its frigid fingers through his throat till all the air he choked in felt raw. “Promise me, Char, promise me…”
But Naerys was long dead and Charles had kept his promises and his secrets for over a decade. He had saved himself and he had used that survival to save her children. The dragons would come again…and, already, it had begun.
The voice was familiar and, as the torch swept upwards, Charles saw why. It was fitting, he thought distantly, that it should be a deadman who should again say that name. It was surreal, this feeling: seeing Alaric again after so many years passed, the world ended and shuddering into a new age of horrors.
“I thought you were dead,” said Charles, at last, sheathing his dagger again. The hiss it made seemed to revive him, bring him back to himself and, without another word, Charles grinned and came forward to embrace the man: the first true friend he had seen in over fifteen years. “But how very glad I am to find that you are not.” Pulling back, he clapped him on the shoulder. “There is much and more to tell you, my friend. Much and more.”
For a moment, Alaric thought he was dreaming.
Cassius had wiped them all out. Alaric remembered that day all too clearly. Dragonfire reigning from the sky as, one by one, they fell. Cassius had sworn to both Queen and country that none survived. How did Char come to escape? Char, who was the younger brother of Will DeGrey? Cassius would have known if he had not been amongst the dead.
He pushed those thoughts aside: there was time enough for questions later.
“Not yet,” Alaric replied, giving him a defiant grin.
Finding Char alive had given him a new sense of hope. He knew that Naerys did not survive – could not have survived. Aragoth was large and vast, but Alaric did not think that even Char could keep a fully grown dragon a secret for sixteen years. Still, Char had been dead and now he was not. He felt, also, that this meeting was not by chance. He wondered if Char had been seeking them out.
“Come,” Alaric said, “There’s a camp not far from here. It’s safe. We can talk there.”
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