The Dragon Has Three Heads (A Song Of Ice And Fire/Monsterverse);
* * *
There is a stirring, under the ice.
The king notes, to itself, that the ice was not shaped so, when it was buried; even clinging on to life by the teeth of one head, it had noticed that much. When its rival, the most powerful maggot to crawl this world, had shamelessly joined forces with one of his lackeys to strike it down.
The king shifts.
The ice above is unlike any glacier it has seen, on this world or any other. It feels almost like a rectangular wedge being driven into the king's broad, winged back.
Ah. Now it remembers; the lizard belching poisonous fire, who sat the throne of this world's beasts, had struck the king down, driving it through the ice and into the ground. Veritable mountains of snow had fallen on it, after that last clash, and that winged insect had helped her master seal the king under this sphere's skin.
It was not surprised: it could not be slain, only stalled. It wondered for how many rotations of this globe it had laid, asleep, almost dead. Perhaps it would tear the answer out of the legged snake who opposed its rule, alongside his heart.
But...did they stay? Who could've fashioned ice so? Not those two clumsy, lumbering fools, that's for certain. They'd have had no reason to make a wall, anyway, not when the real danger to them would come from below.
The king rises.
The world trembles for leagues around, as if in fear. That would be, the king thinks with something almost like a smile, appropriate.
Powdered ice falls, countless tons of it, only to be scattered to the winds by the king's winds. The sections of the ice wall that held are still shaking, as are the creatures scurrying atop them.
The king sneers to itself. They're too small, their voices too feeble, for it to even bother to understand them.
Ugly, though.
In shape and coloration-save for their pale, finely-furred heads, it sees, hidden by furred hoods that don't smell like they're part of their flesh-they remind the king of its rival. For a moment, it almost expects something else than squeaks to come out of their bawling mouths. Small sparks of blue flame, perhaps. Those would be hilariously inneffectual.
Had its rival...what, mated with this world's small, scurrying creatures? Or were these beings simply unfortunate enough to echo his form, and thus draw the king's ire?
Perhaps they worshipped him, and thus aped his visage. Disgusting.
Infuriating, too. Not just the idea; the fact they haven't shut up and died yet.
"-ragon! Drago-"
The king ROARS.
And lightning comes forth.
* * *
"...hurricanes and thunderbolts, fiercer than anything the world has seen since the Long Night. Perhaps even then. My Lord...I have looked into the flames, and they show only devastation. It is fitting, though, I would say, for the Great Other's return to be heralded by a storm to swallow all life and light."
-extract from Red Priestess Melisandre's discussion with Stannis Baratheon following the Fall of the Wall; when the Lord inquired why the "Great Other" would take the form of the Targaryen sigil (dragons being believed to be opposed to him and his creatures), Melisandre could not say anything except that, perhaps, the form was intended as mockery, for clearly the monster's power had nothing to do with fire or growth, which her Lord presides over.
* * *
There is a stirring, under the stones.
Where the deepest waters met the world's burning lifeblood, little lives, and what does is often flat and pale and misshapen, clinging to thermal vents. Such beings have never seen light, and so have learned to avoid predation with the help of their other senses.
Nothing lives now between shattered Valyria and the Summer Isles. All animals have fled, or tried to, as soon as the stirring started. Many died, caught by their hunters or killed by environments they'd never adapted to.
Perhaps they were wise.
The king stirs.
He is alone, now, he can feel, drowsy though he is. If there are other Titans to answer his call, should he summon them, he can sense none. Even she is gone, beyond his senses if not his memory.
But the intruder is not.
Call it instinct; call it paranoia. The usurper lives, despite everything. Burned down to a charred neck and head, crushed under ice, it lives, and seeks the king's throne again. He can sense the storms, even down here.
The king rises.
They should've killed it, he knows. But he was more dead than alive, at the time, and she crawled more than she flew. The usurper should've at least remained trapped, if the cold and lack of air did not finish what the king and his ally started.
He should've died and taken it down with him.
Would that have been better? As soon as he recovered, another, ocean-dwelling Titan challenged him. Half the monster he used to be, he managed to slay it still, but its death throes buried him in molten rock, and the wounds and weight of water kept him down even as he slipped into sleep to heal, to dream.
Of the usurper's last head, crushed in his jaws.
The king twists his neck, rolls his shoulders. Liquid stone, too cold for him to feel, rolls away, smoking, like the sea around, above.
The king's eyes narrow. Something unnatural happened, on the surface. It reeks of sickness, in a way that has little to do with smell. Not a poison to lay him low, perhaps, but foul still.
Tail twisting, the king begins his swim upwards.
The lands and waters have changed since he fell. That was not surprising, for he had seen the world shift, but it does show he has slept long, if not well.
In the distance, the shards of an island loom. There were volcanoes on it, once, and their remains show they burst, filling the air with killing heat and fumes. And maybe something else, something subtler - the king cannot sense any life even close to this sea.
His lips slide back from his teeth. The overcast sky has nothing to do with the turnings of air and clouds, he can tell. It reminds him of the hurricanes that follow the usurper, and his back stiffens as he raises his head, to herald his return, his ire, and his challenge.
To the alien creature who once tried to take the world from him, and now tries again.
The king ROARS.
And the sky parts.
For the first time since the Doom of Valyria, there are no heavy clouds looming over that dead land's remains. The sunlight that follows is sickly, as if made foul by the presence of the Smoking Sea, somehow; but it is cleaner than anything that has filled the skies in centuries.
As the beam disperses and fades, as the last wisp of blue-white energy vanishes, the king closes his maw with a snap.
So. Alone, with at least one enemy, and who knows how many more might come out of hiding or arise? And no allies, either.
No matter, he decides as he begins to tread water, then dives below its surface, moving faster than any ship or fish, swimming at such speeds his bulk would smash any human vessel to kindling.
He is the king of the monsters. All should beware him.
* * *
There is a stirring, under the ice.
The king notes, to itself, that the ice was not shaped so, when it was buried; even clinging on to life by the teeth of one head, it had noticed that much. When its rival, the most powerful maggot to crawl this world, had shamelessly joined forces with one of his lackeys to strike it down.
The king shifts.
The ice above is unlike any glacier it has seen, on this world or any other. It feels almost like a rectangular wedge being driven into the king's broad, winged back.
Ah. Now it remembers; the lizard belching poisonous fire, who sat the throne of this world's beasts, had struck the king down, driving it through the ice and into the ground. Veritable mountains of snow had fallen on it, after that last clash, and that winged insect had helped her master seal the king under this sphere's skin.
It was not surprised: it could not be slain, only stalled. It wondered for how many rotations of this globe it had laid, asleep, almost dead. Perhaps it would tear the answer out of the legged snake who opposed its rule, alongside his heart.
But...did they stay? Who could've fashioned ice so? Not those two clumsy, lumbering fools, that's for certain. They'd have had no reason to make a wall, anyway, not when the real danger to them would come from below.
The king rises.
The world trembles for leagues around, as if in fear. That would be, the king thinks with something almost like a smile, appropriate.
Powdered ice falls, countless tons of it, only to be scattered to the winds by the king's winds. The sections of the ice wall that held are still shaking, as are the creatures scurrying atop them.
The king sneers to itself. They're too small, their voices too feeble, for it to even bother to understand them.
Ugly, though.
In shape and coloration-save for their pale, finely-furred heads, it sees, hidden by furred hoods that don't smell like they're part of their flesh-they remind the king of its rival. For a moment, it almost expects something else than squeaks to come out of their bawling mouths. Small sparks of blue flame, perhaps. Those would be hilariously inneffectual.
Had its rival...what, mated with this world's small, scurrying creatures? Or were these beings simply unfortunate enough to echo his form, and thus draw the king's ire?
Perhaps they worshipped him, and thus aped his visage. Disgusting.
Infuriating, too. Not just the idea; the fact they haven't shut up and died yet.
"-ragon! Drago-"
The king ROARS.
And lightning comes forth.
* * *
"...hurricanes and thunderbolts, fiercer than anything the world has seen since the Long Night. Perhaps even then. My Lord...I have looked into the flames, and they show only devastation. It is fitting, though, I would say, for the Great Other's return to be heralded by a storm to swallow all life and light."
-extract from Red Priestess Melisandre's discussion with Stannis Baratheon following the Fall of the Wall; when the Lord inquired why the "Great Other" would take the form of the Targaryen sigil (dragons being believed to be opposed to him and his creatures), Melisandre could not say anything except that, perhaps, the form was intended as mockery, for clearly the monster's power had nothing to do with fire or growth, which her Lord presides over.
* * *
There is a stirring, under the stones.
Where the deepest waters met the world's burning lifeblood, little lives, and what does is often flat and pale and misshapen, clinging to thermal vents. Such beings have never seen light, and so have learned to avoid predation with the help of their other senses.
Nothing lives now between shattered Valyria and the Summer Isles. All animals have fled, or tried to, as soon as the stirring started. Many died, caught by their hunters or killed by environments they'd never adapted to.
Perhaps they were wise.
The king stirs.
He is alone, now, he can feel, drowsy though he is. If there are other Titans to answer his call, should he summon them, he can sense none. Even she is gone, beyond his senses if not his memory.
But the intruder is not.
Call it instinct; call it paranoia. The usurper lives, despite everything. Burned down to a charred neck and head, crushed under ice, it lives, and seeks the king's throne again. He can sense the storms, even down here.
The king rises.
They should've killed it, he knows. But he was more dead than alive, at the time, and she crawled more than she flew. The usurper should've at least remained trapped, if the cold and lack of air did not finish what the king and his ally started.
He should've died and taken it down with him.
Would that have been better? As soon as he recovered, another, ocean-dwelling Titan challenged him. Half the monster he used to be, he managed to slay it still, but its death throes buried him in molten rock, and the wounds and weight of water kept him down even as he slipped into sleep to heal, to dream.
Of the usurper's last head, crushed in his jaws.
The king twists his neck, rolls his shoulders. Liquid stone, too cold for him to feel, rolls away, smoking, like the sea around, above.
The king's eyes narrow. Something unnatural happened, on the surface. It reeks of sickness, in a way that has little to do with smell. Not a poison to lay him low, perhaps, but foul still.
Tail twisting, the king begins his swim upwards.
The lands and waters have changed since he fell. That was not surprising, for he had seen the world shift, but it does show he has slept long, if not well.
In the distance, the shards of an island loom. There were volcanoes on it, once, and their remains show they burst, filling the air with killing heat and fumes. And maybe something else, something subtler - the king cannot sense any life even close to this sea.
His lips slide back from his teeth. The overcast sky has nothing to do with the turnings of air and clouds, he can tell. It reminds him of the hurricanes that follow the usurper, and his back stiffens as he raises his head, to herald his return, his ire, and his challenge.
To the alien creature who once tried to take the world from him, and now tries again.
The king ROARS.
And the sky parts.
For the first time since the Doom of Valyria, there are no heavy clouds looming over that dead land's remains. The sunlight that follows is sickly, as if made foul by the presence of the Smoking Sea, somehow; but it is cleaner than anything that has filled the skies in centuries.
As the beam disperses and fades, as the last wisp of blue-white energy vanishes, the king closes his maw with a snap.
So. Alone, with at least one enemy, and who knows how many more might come out of hiding or arise? And no allies, either.
No matter, he decides as he begins to tread water, then dives below its surface, moving faster than any ship or fish, swimming at such speeds his bulk would smash any human vessel to kindling.
He is the king of the monsters. All should beware him.
Statistics: Posted by Strigoi Grey — 2025-02-07 12:03pm