Late 289 AC - Casterly Rock
Three moons had gone by, and Casterly Rock was gradually adjusting to its newest fixture.
The household had grown accustomed to the dwarf's peculiarities over the years, but even by those standards, the girl was something of a novelty.
The servants, those who scrubbed floors, hauled water, and kept the vast machine of the Rock running, had formed their opinions within the first week. The older ones, the grey-haired matrons who had served the Lannisters for decades and viewed any change to the established order as a personal affront, were uniformly scandalized. They gathered in the kitchens, the laundry rooms, and the narrow service corridors where the walls were thin and gossip traveled fastest, whispering with fervent, self-righteous indignation.
"A crofter's daughter," Maude, the head laundress, hissed to her assistants, her thin lips pressed into a bloodless line. "Walking the halls of Casterly Rock as though she's a maester's apprentice, rather than some farm girl who crawled out of a ditch."
"Lord Tyrion has always been odd," one of the younger laundresses ventured, earning a glare that could have curdled milk. "Remember when he redesigned the drainage system? Everyone said he was mad then, too."
"That was different," Maude snapped. "That was work. This is—" She paused, searching for the right word, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper when she found it. "This is flaunting. What would Lord Tywin say?"
It was hardly unusual for a highborn lord to keep a female companion. Men of noble blood took mistresses the way others took wine, with casual regularity. What raised brows was the sheer openness of it. Most lords kept their paramours tucked away in discreet quarters, visiting them by night and ignoring their existence by day. Tyrion did the exact opposite. He walked the girl through the castle corridors, introduced her to visiting merchants, and seated her at a desk in his outer chambers where anyone passing could see her scribbling away at her ledger notes.
The scandal ought to have been enormous. Gossip was the lifeblood of any great house, and Casterly Rock was no exception. Yet when examined closely, the outrage had nowhere productive to settle. Tyrion's behavior was, by any conventional standard, absurd, but Tyrion himself was so fundamentally, so Tyrion, that scandal simply bounced off him like an arrow off solid stone. He had been confounding expectations since the day he was born, and the household had long since reached an unspoken consensus: attempting to measure the dwarf by ordinary rules was a fool's errand.
More importantly, Tyrion was useful. It was this quality, above all others, that insulated him from the consequences of his eccentricities.
In the five years since he had taken an active hand in managing the Rock's industrial operations, the fortress had undergone a transformation that even his most grudging critics could not deny. His drainage system had permanently eliminated the chronic flooding that had plagued the lower corridors for centuries. His smelting techniques produced steel that rivaled the finest smiths of the Free Cities. Even the castle brewery now produced mead and ale so sought-after that merchants from Oldtown to Gulltown sent ravens begging for exclusive contracts, to say nothing of Tyrion's own metalwork and jewelry, which were prized across the Seven Kingdoms.
And the dwarf gave it all away.
The knowledge, the techniques, the designs, he held nothing back. Any smith in Lannisport with the nerve to ask could walk into the Rock's workshops, and Tyrion would happily drop whatever he was doing to spend an hour solving their problems. He offered his expertise with the same boundless enthusiasm he brought to every hobby.
The smallfolk of Lannisport adored him for it. The merchants loved him just as fiercely, watching with delight as his inventions sent gold flooding into their own pockets.
..
Tysha, or rather, as Tyrion had taken to introducing her with a grand, theatrical sweep of his hand, "my esteemed Executive Assistant", had become a familiar sight in the fortress corridors over the past three moons. She always had a leather-bound notebook clutched to her chest like a shield and her dark hair pinned up in a practical knot. A charcoal stub rode perpetually behind her ear, her fingers stained black from the notes she took with a ferocity bordering on religious devotion.
"Note this down, Tysha," he said mid-stride, without turning his head. "We need to increase the charcoal order from the northern suppliers by a third. The new refinement process is burning through it faster than I anticipated, and if we run short before the autumn shipments arrive, I'll have to answer to every smith in the yard. Frankly, I'd rather face the Stranger."
"Yes, milord."
"And send a raven to Lord Marbrand. Tell him his commission is two weeks behind schedule because the iron ore he sent was absolute garbage, use more diplomatic language, obviously; something about 'suboptimal metallurgical properties', and that if he wants his plate armor before the turn of the century, he'll need to source better material or accept a surcharge for additional refinement."
"Yes, milord."
"And remind me to check the fermentation temperature on the Dwarven Fire-Ale. I had a dream last night that the casks were weeping. While I don't put much stock in prophetic dreams, the batch has been temperamental lately, and I'd rather not lose an entire brew to a draft."
"Yes, milord."
"And regarding the forge order from the Redwynes, remind me what I told their messenger?"
Tysha answered without missing a beat. "You told him there is a six moons' wait, milord. The same as the Tyrells. You said if you let them skip the line for coin, half of the Seven Kingdoms would be at your door by nightfall."
"Precisely! Consistency is the only thing that keeps a queue from devolving into an auction." Tyrion paused, tapping his lip with a calloused index finger. "And—oh, what was that other matter? I had it a moment ago. Something about drainage?"
"The eastern cistern, milord. You wanted to inspect the new filtration layers."
"Right! The eastern cistern. Good. You're paying attention - which is precisely why I hired you. Well, that and your devastating wit, which you've been keeping frustratingly well-hidden of late. I expect more banter, Tysha. A man can only carry a conversation by himself for so long before he begins to sound unhinged."
"I'll work on it, milord."
"See that you do."
Tyrion grinned, casting a side-glance at the silent, hulking figure trailing behind them. "Sandor, you're being unusually quiet. Cat got your tongue? Or have you finally exhausted your entire vocabulary of grunts and profanities?"
The Hound offered no reply. His scarred face remained impassive, though a muscle twitched in his jaw, whether the ghost of a smile or simple indigestion was impossible to tell.
He's behaving queerly, Tyrion thought, catching Tysha by her sleeve before she could step past them.
"Go on now - get those letters sent before the midday rider leaves," Tyrion instructed her. "I'll manage without your scribbling for an hour, I expect. And if Maester Creylen gives you any trouble about the rookery schedule, tell him I'll come up and personally rearrange his star charts."
"Yes, milord."
She was already turning, notebook tucked under her arm as she cut down a side passage toward the rookery. Her boots clicked against the flagstones, her dark head bobbing once around the corner before the sound of her footsteps faded into the general murmur of the fortress.
Tyrion watched her go for half a breath, then resumed his stride. Sandor fell seamlessly back into step beside him, his long legs adjusting to the dwarf's brisk pace with the ease of long practice.
Sandor had developed a grudging tolerance for the girl over the past moon. She was talkative, certainly, but she didn't flinch from his burns the way most did, and she had the good sense to keep her questions to herself. These were, in Sandor's estimation, the only qualities worth looking for in a person, and Tysha possessed both in sufficient quantity to earn his unspoken approval.
For a time, neither spoke. Tyrion's mind was elsewhere, while Sandor turned over a thought that had been sitting heavy in his gut since word came down from the rookery two days past.
"You've got a look about you," Tyrion noted, not bothering to glance up. "Chewing on something. Out with it. You've been brooding since breakfast, and your brooding face is unsettling enough to curdle milk at fifty paces."
Sandor grunted, weighing how best to put it. He had no particular desire to voice the thought, but bluntness was the only language he commanded.
"What are your plans," Sandor asked, his voice coming out flat and gravelly, "when Lord Tywin returns?"
Tyrion's stride did not falter, but there was a fractional hesitation in the rhythm of his footfalls.
"He'll be back in a moon from King's Landing," Sandor pressed on. "He ain't going to keep his mouth shut about a commoner girl trotting behind you with a notebook. Not when half the Rock is already whispering."
Tyrion stopped dead.
The corridor did not change. Torchlight flickered steadily against the walls, and the stone beneath their boots remained cold and immovable. Yet the air shifted violently. A pressure seemed to radiate from the small figure beside him like heat from a blast furnace. It was no magic, but a bloodlust so pure and frigid it raised the hair on his arms and sent an involuntary shiver cascading down his spine.
The scarred tissue along Sandor's jaw pulled taut. For a single, frozen heartbeat, the very corridor felt as though it might collapse inward under the weight of Tyrion's will.
Then Tyrion exhaled, and the oppressive weight vanished. The cold receded as if it had never been. The hallway became a simple passage once more, and the dwarf was merely a dwarf standing in the torchlight, hands clasped loosely behind his back and fire catching in his golden beard.
When Tyrion turned around, he was laughing, a sound so bright and easy, so utterly devoid of the darkness that had preceded it, that Sandor almost questioned his own senses.
"Please, Clegane," Tyrion said, his laughter ringing off the stone walls. "You know me better than that. Since when have I cared what my father thinks? Honestly, Sandor, you worry like an old woman. Has the mead softened your brain?"
Sandor released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, allowing himself a guarded grin. "So we'll be leaving soon, then."
Tyrion chuckled, stroking his beard as his mismatched eyes danced with a familiar light—the specific brand of mischief that usually heralded either brilliance, catastrophe, or both.
"Well, we shall see, won't we?" his tone turned thoughtful. "I do have innumerable business ventures currently ongoing. It would be a shame to up and leave them all." He paused, his grin spreading wide and sharp. "Though if it can't be helped, there's nothing to be done if Tywin wants me gone."
Resuming his walk with sudden vigor, Tyrion gestured broadly. "In the meantime, we have work to do. My commissions won't forge themselves, and I intend to test a new alloy for the blade cores. Go run a message to the harbor master. There's a shipment of Dornish glass arriving on the evening tide, and if those idiots in the customs house break so much as a single vial, I'll personally feed them to the crabs."
Then, the sudden, distinct sound of rolling dice echoed inside Tyrion's head.
Here? Now?
..
[Rolling Perk]
[Beast Bond of the Aerie — World of Warcraft]
The Wildhammer Dwarves of the Hinterlands have never bent the knee to any throne aside the open sky. Where their subterranean kin dug deep into the crust of Azeroth, the Wildhammers looked up to the heavens above, soul binding themselves to the great gryphons of the high peaks. To a Wildhammer Dwarf, a gryphon is never a pet, slave, or simple mount; they are an equal partner in storm and war.
This blessing grants the first half of that bond: a gryphon hatchling, drawn across the gap between worlds and bound to you the instant it draws breath in this one.
..
A soft pop echoed through the stone hall, no louder than a cork pulled from a bottle, and something small, soft, and warm materialized in the air and dropped straight into his waiting arms.
It was, unmistakably, a baby gryphon.
The head and forequarters of a golden eagle shrank into the hindquarters and tail of a lion, the entire creature no larger than a barn cat and covered in mottled brown-and-grey down. It blinked up at him with round, amber eyes, opened it's beak, and let out a trilling, purring coo that vibrated against his chest.
Something shifted in his own soul in that same moment, a small thread reaching out and binding itself to the creature in his arms. He could feel her, a blur of feeling pressing in from that new corner of him. It was almost like peeking through a murky window, for lack of an appropriate comparison. Contentment, mostly. A thread of hunger underneath it. And curiosity, aimed squarely at the large bearded creature currently holding her.
She's a girl, he thought. Something in that murky little ball of awareness was instinctually female.
Sandor's hand snapped to his hilt, and his steel cleared the scabbard halfway before Tyrion thrust a hand up to stop him. Sandor didn't sheathe the blade, keeping it low and ready as he took a full step back from the dwarf and the purring monster in his arms.
"What in the absolute fuck," Sandor rasped, "is that?"
"Isn't she lovely?" Tyrion grinned down at the fledgling, which was currently nuzzling its beak into the crook of his elbow.
"Well, aren't you adorable."
The gryphon cooed again, burrowing deeper into his tunic and giving his knuckle an exploratory nip that barely scratched his skin, but could have taken a regular human's finger off.
"Tyrion." Sandor was still stunned. "That thing just fell out of the fucking air."
"It did, didn't it?" Tyrion turned the creature gently, inspecting its proportions, tracing a thumb along a wing still folded damp against its side. "Her talons are still hardening. She's few weeks old."
He looked up, his grin unfading. "Sandor, I appear to have acquired a gryphon."
"I can see that." Sandor kept his blade drawn, watching the creature with deep mistrust. "Where did it come from?"
"That is an excellent question with an answer far too complicated for the moment," Tyrion replied, shifting his grip as the fledgling began scrambling up toward his shoulder, where once it was seated, it let out a trill of conquest.
"Suffice it to say, I've been granted gifts before. Never one with a heartbeat, though."
Sandor finally lowered his sword, though he left it unsheathed as the gryphon settled against Tyrion's neck. "It's going to shit on you. You know that."
"Undoubtedly." Tyrion scratched under its beak, sending the purring into overdrive. "I've endured worse indignities. And frankly, Sandor, scowling at the best thing to happen to me all week is precisely the kind of attitude that gets a man left off my exclusive mead list."
The gryphon chose that exact moment to urinate on his shoulder.
"Ah fucks sake."
Tysha PoV
Tysha hummed under her breath as she cut across the courtyard toward the rookery, her notebook clutched to her chest. Three moons in, and she was still routinely amazed by the sheer volume of knowledge demanding to be absorbed in a single day at Lord Tyrion's heels.
He was a demanding master, she wouldn't pretend otherwise. Yet he was never cruel. The one time she had botched a critical entry, writing six moons instead of six weeks in a draft that could have cost a season's worth of goodwill, he didn't raise his voice. Instead, he made her draft the correction herself, patiently walked her through the consequences of the mistake, and never brought it up again.
He knows everything about everything, she thought, not for the first time. That morning alone, he had corrected a foreman's mental arithmetic on charcoal ratios without looking up from the letter he was dictating, then casually explained the exact chemical composition of Myrish glass to a visiting merchant. He was a vast library housed in a dwarf's body, a walking, talking compendium of every subject under the sun.
She had seen him at his true work only once. Lord Tyrion was strangely protective of his private forge, reluctant to bring her down into the deep caverns where the real work happened. She had only gained entry by sheer accident, bearing a raven's dispatch he had demanded the moment it arrived.
She remembered descending through the winding stairways, past the upper workshops where tenured smiths hammered and sweated, past the secondary forges where apprentices labored under Andrus's watchful eye, and down, down into the true belly of the mountain where the air grew thick, stifling, and heavy with heat.
The forge she found there was unlike anything she had ever imagined. Built from smooth, black stone banded with silver steel, its heart burned not with coal or charcoal, but with a channel of what Andrus called lava - molten rock drawn from deep beneath the crust through channels Tyrion had somehow, impossibly, carved himself. The heat was staggering, a dry, oppressive force that pressed against the skin and filled the lungs with the sharp scent of sulfur and glowing iron.
And there, at the center of the inferno, stood Lord Tyrion.
Heat and smoke wreathed his small figure, turning him into a mythic silhouette framed by fire and shadow. He had been laboring for hours. His hammer rose and fell in a steady, metronomic cadence, each strike landing with a force that seemed impossible for a man his size, making the metal sing in clear, resonant notes that echoed through the cavern.
She would never say it aloud, she wouldn't dare, for it sounded half-mad even in the privacy of her own thoughts, but she had come to believe it all the same: Lord Tyrion was touched by the Smith. The Seven had laid their hands upon the dwarf's brow, blessing him with a gift that transcended talent, genius, or anything mortal effort could explain, just as the old songs claimed of heroes in the Age of Heroes.
Lost in these near-blasphemous thoughts, she rounded the corner into the shadow of the rookery, a squat stone tower set apart from the main keep, its narrow slits dark with the shapes of roosting birds.
Then she stopped dead.
Cleos Frey lounged against the stone wall beside the rookery's narrow door, arms crossed over his chest and one ankle hooked lazily over the other. The smirk on his face was the same greasy, lecherous thing he wore whenever their paths crossed without Lord Tyrion present.
Lady Genna's eldest possessed none of his mother's commanding presence, inheriting instead all of his father's narrow, pinched weakness. He had watery blue eyes and thin, pale lips permanently caught in a mid-sneer. He was a persistent, low-grade annoyance who had taken to waylaying her whenever Tyrion's back was turned, though thankfully, his harassment had not yet escalated beyond venomous words.
"Well." He let the word hang in the cold air. "If it isn't Tyrion's latest fancy."
Tysha kept her grip steady on the notebook clutched against her chest and offered no answer. Three moons ago she might have flushed and fixed her eyes on her feet, but she wasn't that frightened crofter's girl anymore, or at least, she was trying very hard not to be.
"I have a letter to send, m'lord," she said, keeping her tone flat and even. "If you'll excuse me."
"A letter." Cleos's smirk widened, pulling the thin skin of his cheeks taut. "Is that what they're calling it now?"
"It's called a letter because it is a letter." She held up the folded parchment as if that settled the matter.
Cleos's watery eyes tracked the movement with lazy contempt before drifting back to her face. "A dirty smallfolk girl, playing at being a scribe. My uncle is going to have a great deal to say when he returns and hears how the dwarf has been carrying on while he's off doing actual work for the crown."
"Then you should tell him," Tysha said sharply. "Since you seem so eager."
Cleos's smirk flickered, then returned, tighter and meaner, the muscles in his jaw working beneath the pale skin. He had not expected her to hold her ground; he had expected the standard smallfolk deference that every lord's son in the Seven Kingdoms was bred to demand. The girl was supposed to wilt. That was the order of things.
"Careful," he warned softly, taking a step closer. "You're a long way from the farm you crawled out of. You forget your place."
"Apologies, m'lord. But I have letters to send. If you would please let me pass."
She made to step around him, but Cleos shifted his weight, effortlessly blocking her path. "The rookery is closed," he grinned nastily. "Maester Creylen is at his studies. You'll have to come back later."
Tysha looked past his shoulder toward the tower. Through the narrow slits she could see the dark, restless shapes of ravens shifting on their perches, and the faint, steady glow of candlelight from the upper chamber where the maester kept his desk.
"With respect, m'lord, the rookery isn't closed. I can see the maester's candle from here."
Cleos's nostrils flared. An ugly look flared behind his pale eyes as he closed the distance between them, unhurried and predatory. His voice dropped to a low, venomous whisper, pitched just below the wind off the sea.
"You think because the dwarf lets you trail behind him like a pet and warm his bed, that you've got standing in this castle? Tell me, girl - does his cock match the rest of him? Short and stunted?"
The words landed like a physical slap. Before she could command her hands, she shoved him back with both palms. The force of it was modest, a girl's hands against a grown man's chest, but Cleos was unprepared for it, and the sudden push caught him off-balance. He stumbled, one heel catching on the uneven flagstones, his arms windmilling before he slammed against the outer wall.
For a moment he stood there, mouth slack with sheer bewilderment. Then the shock curdled into pure malice. A flush of violent, crimson rage climbed from his collar to his hairline, blotching his cheeks until his eyes looked like two pale stones set in raw meat.
"You filthy bitch," he hissed, flecks of spittle catching the light. He lunged forward, his fingers snapping out to seize her arm with a grip that bit deep into the soft muscle above her elbow.
The instant his hand closed around her, the small golden pendant Tyrion had given her, a lion's tooth set in plain gold, which he had pressed into her palm a fortnight ago with an offhand "Wear it, it'll keep you safe"—flared white-hot against her collarbone.
Cleos yowled, letting out a high, startled squeal as he staggered backward, clutching his hand to his chest as though he had grabbed a red-hot poker. His fingers were already blistering where they had touched her, the skin swelling into angry, red welts.
"You bloody witch!" he gasped, his voice cracking on the last word. "What did you do to my hand? What sorcery is this?"
He took a menacing step forward, his uninjured hand balling into a heavy fist, his face contorted into a mask of fury and humiliation. Tysha braced herself for the blow she was certain was coming—
"Lord Cleos!"
The voice cut through the courtyard like a whipcrack.
Maester Creylen was leaning out of the high rookery window, his thin, lined face set in an expression of stern disapproval.
His heavy chain of office caught the morning sun in a dull gleam of silver and bronze, his grey robes hanging loosely from his narrow frame as he held a dripping quill in one hand.
"Whatever is going on down there?" the maester demanded sharply.
Cleos froze. He forced himself to take a deliberate step back, his injured hand still pressed against his chest, and managed something resembling a bow.
"Nothing, Maester," he called up, his voice strained as he cradled his blistering fingers, eyes burning with anger and wounded pride. "I was merely inquiring after our dear Tysha's health. The girl looked pale. I thought perhaps she had taken ill."
Tysha might have laughed at the blatant lie if her heart had not been hammering so violently against her ribs. She drew a steadying breath, feeling the cold knot of fear in her stomach loosen by a fraction.
"Yes, Maester," she called up, her voice surprisingly firm. "Lord Cleos was telling a joke. I'm afraid it was rather poor."
She looked coolly at Cleos as she said it, watching his face go a mottled, furious red. His jaw worked soundlessly, the tendons in his neck standing out like cords. His injured hand twitched at his side, the fingers curled and rigid, and for one terrible moment, Tysha thought he might lunge at her again despite the maester's presence.
Then he turned on his heel and stalked away.
Tysha watched him until he vanished around the corner of the rookery tower. She remained rooted to the spot, her arms wrapped tightly around her notebook as her breath came in shallow, uneven hitches. Against her collarbone, the lion's tooth pendant still hummed with a faint, residual warmth.
She drew a deep breath, held it, and released it slowly. Then she turned and walked toward the tower door, forcing her chin up and her spine straight, just as her father had always taught her.
Chin up, girl. Chin up.
The moment she stepped inside and the heavy oak door fell shut behind her, her composure shattered. Her knees buckled. Sliding down the cold stone wall, she sank onto the floor, wrapping her arms around her knees as violent tremors racked her shoulders.
Hot tears rolled down her cheeks and dripped off her chin onto the notebook in her lap, darkening the leather in uneven blotches. She pressed the heel of her hand over her mouth to muffle the sound, biting down on her palm, but the sobs only came harder.
She wasn't blind. She had heard the whispers, the laundresses in the scullery, the guardsmen in the corridors, the serving girls who fell silent when she passed, only to erupt into hissed gossip the moment her back was turned.
She had seen the looks: envy from the women who resented her proximity to a lord's son, disgust from the men who assumed the worst, and disdain from everyone who believed a smallfolk woman had no right to walk the high halls of Casterly Rock.
She pressed her forehead against her knees and wept until her ribs ached and her throat burned. Against her chest, the pendant continued its low, steady vibration, pulsing in rhythm with her labored breathing. Gradually, so slowly she hardly noticed the transition, the shaking subsided. The sobs quieted to hiccups, then to ragged breaths.
She sat there for a long time in the dark corridor, lit only by a single torch flickering in an iron sconce further down the passage. Shadows pressed close around her like a shroud.
Eventually, she wiped her face on the sleeve of her dress. She scrubbed at her eyes with her knuckles until the skin felt raw, then drew a steadying breath that rattled in her chest. Pushing herself to her feet, she smoothed her skirts, tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, and picked up her notebook.
The only remaining trace of her breakdown was a faint redness around her eyes and a slight tremor in her hands, which she forced into stillness through pure discipline.
Chin up.
She opened the inner door and stepped into the rookery.
The chamber was small and cluttered, dominated by a massive oak desk piled high with scrolls, inkpots, and the detritus of a maester's endless correspondence. Ravens perched on wooden roosts spanning the room, their dark eyes glittering in the candlelight as their feathers rustled with dry, papery sounds.
The air hung thick with the scents of parchment, iron gall ink, and bird droppings.
Maester Creylen sat at his desk, his grey robes pooling around him. His thin fingers were gently manipulating the wing of a raven lying on its back across his lap. The bird's plumage was ruffled, one wing hanging at an unnatural, broken angle.
The maester's lined face remained impassive, his bushy grey eyebrows drawn low over eyes that offered no hint of curiosity, concern, or interest in the girl who had entered. He did not look up when the door opened. His hands moved with practiced precision along the bird's wing, probing the joint with an austere expression.
Tysha crossed the room and laid her letters on the edge of the desk, arranging them in a neat stack with the addresses facing upward. The parchment was slightly damp where her tears had fallen, though the ink remained crisp and unsmudged.
Still, the old man said nothing. The raven let out a soft, pained croak, and Creylen's fingers paused briefly before resuming their methodical work.
Tysha turned to leave.
"Pay heed to your surroundings, my dear." The maester's voice was dry and papery, like the rustle of old parchment. He still had not looked up from his work, his fingers working the joint with unhurried care. "Be careful who you trust, and who you do not."
Tysha paused, turning back to face him, but the maester's gaze remained fixed entirely on the bird.
"Yes, Maester Creylen," she said softly.
She waited a beat for him to elaborate, but no further words came. The maester had said his piece. After a moment, Tysha turned and stepped out into the courtyard, the heavy door swinging shut behind her with a soft, definitive click.
Outside, the courtyard stood deserted. The morning sun had surrendered to a heavy, overcast sky, and the air carried the sharp, metallic bite of rain. Tysha stood at the base of the tower, looking out across the battlements toward the sea.
On the horizon, dark storm clouds gathered in a thick, bruise-colored bank stretching as far as the eye could see. A distant rumble of thunder rolled across the water like the growl of a lion.
Tysha wrapped her arms tightly around herself at the sight, and a cold dread settled deep in her chest.
Dark times, she thought, the whisper of her subconscious surfacing for a moment. Dark times are coming.
She stood watching the storm swallow the horizon for a long moment, then turned and walked back toward the keep.
Above her, high atop the rookery roost, a solitary white raven cocked its head, its dark beady eyes tracking her retreat into the keep. It let out a single, sharp croak that echoed off the courtyard walls, before launching itself into the rising wind, turning its wings toward the north.
________
Hope you enjoyed the chapter!
I've uploaded a picture of our baby Gryphon mascot for you guys to view for free if you're interested (linktr. ee/DarkeBones.)
If you want to read TWO chapters ahead of my public release, please see:
linktr. ee/DarkeBones.