ORIGIN

The children were... late.

He'd laid the stones of the lost children, they were already children and I failed- Gembound beneath the arching roots of a mangrove-like tree, piling dry materials as best he could around them as they developed and grew. He didn't want them sinking beneath the mud, drowning before they could hatch; nor did he want dangerous strangers (Baratheon flew fleeting through his mind, all arrogance and teeth) finding the chrysalises.

And then, he fretted. He'd raised a child once before--only once--and everything about these two frightened him. This gave him pause--fear wasn't something he felt often.

But the faint memories of Raheerah's jaws tossing up, crushing the lamb, crushing the bird entangled in its wool--memories of the lamb lying bleating, crying, its face a bloodied mess--haunted him. He feared that he had failed them. He feared that it would happen again. And so the would-be father busied himself with nothing. He gathered dry grass, settling it around the chrysalises, ensuring they'd be warm and dry. He dug out water and filled in mud, so they wouldn't sink when they hatched. He patrolled to ensure that no one drew too near, and he lay silent, guarding, when he didn't need to do anything else. Often, he lay sprawled across both stones, hidden beneath the tree roots, lying in shadows in a strange, hen-like attempt to keep the gemstones warm.

Sometimes, he spoke to them. He murmured to their stones of strength and shadows, of guardians and purpose, of caves and magic.

And he waited.

...And he waited...

They were late, now. Late for hatching, and he found himself studying the twin stones worriedly--the vast black stone with its star-flecked white, and the similar one with streaks of iridescent pink. That worried him most of all. He'd never seen a merged gemstone, before, but it was all he'd been able to find, the only remnants of two dead children. And so he'd given life to them both, but-... Would it survive? Would it be broken, deformed, a failed fusing of creatures? Or would it never hatch at all-?

And what of the other one?

Why were they so late--and how late was it, now..? He wasn't the best judge of time, not that either the caves nor Cetus in particular were particularly useful for timekeeping. But-... they were definitely late.

...Where were they?

The black dog's tail began to wag--slowly, at first, until it had accelerated into a whir. The stones were breaking. At last.

Twinned excitement and worry threaded down his nerves: would they be healthy? Would they be all right?

Would they remember?

Soft woofs, laced with quieter whimpers, escaped him twice as he waited. Incisors delicately clamped around shards of stone and helped pull them away from wet bodies, and then the dog set about inspecting them there in the dim dark, under the tree and the mist.

They both held elements of the sheep, one more than the other, but it was clear that one--the one with pink in its gemstone--had a little bird in it, too. So they did meld. They can, he thought, in wonder--I hope it is... safe. Not sickly. Not deformed.

"Children. I am sorry that you died. You are here, again. I am the Black Dog, and I will keep you safe," he promised them. An... odd start, to be sure, and certainly an odd introduction, but his tone was warm and gentle.

His joy flickered through him, and he thought briefly about what they might need. Magicka flared.

A moment later the hound was pressing alongside them, providing warmth--and two large bananas, which he carefully split with his long canines. "Food," he offered, perhaps a little prematurely--but he would make sure, this time, that all their needs were met. That they did not go hungry, or cold, or ever get lost.

That they didn't get thrown to a dragon.

He was not one of those particularly good at articulation, at the natural flow of conversation. He was pleased, at least, as the children responded, ate; they seemed healthy and aware.

But there was something strange in the way he acted--perhaps unnoticed by the inexperienced newborns, but there nonetheless. He cared--there was warmth in his tone, and gentleness in his eyes, even awe--but rather than relaxed, parental patience, Black went through parenting as though there'd been a list. As though it was a duty, and he was determined to do it right.

"I will protect you, and teach you. There is magic, and you must learn to use that, and to hunt. Do not go near any dragons," he added. The dull obsidian, with its scattering of stony snow, pressed into him; he eyed it. "You have a crown," he informed it, "Throne Blackstar had a crown." He studied it. Its precedessor--that had been its name. Take my stone, if I don't make it, Throne had said; and now here he was, in a sense, as if reborn.

Strange--and melancholy; for it wasn't him, was it?

He looked to the other child, the one who was eating in shakes and twitch-back gulps, pondering it with a peaceful expression. He had no helpful half-name forthcoming for this one, but he had fallen silent now, anyway: a sort of contented vigilance shrouding him beneath the tangled mass of roots above.

At length, he spoke. "I am a guardian. You may be whatever you wish."

Black was, alas, not the best at empathy and adapting to others' mindsets. Children or adults, he tended to speak to them the same. Never mind that they were more interested in play, in food and sleep, than grand questions of purpose and death.

Black was Black. But at least he was watching over them. And no dragons, this time, he warned the universe at large.

Black regarded Crown Two steadily.

"You are born of the crowned one, and the bird. It was a small bird," he informed it, "but it was brave. You also have a crown. You are both Crown," he stated, puzzled.

But--ah! A question, and one that he could answer. He turned, peering at the sheets of mist, at the wall of roots that half-surrounded them, at the gaps between them and the tree overhead. At length he picked an area that was flat enough, pale enough, to work with, and then he called upon his magic. "A dragon is very large," he told them, "with very broad wings. It is covered in scales, and it has a long tail, a half-long neck," (and this was a strange description, of the neck, given after a moment's hesitation; it was long, but not that long, after all) "and many sharp teeth. It has horns, and talons, and it breathes fire. There is fire in them. In their eyes. You can see it," he added thoughtfully, thinking of Raheerah's internal flame.

Nothing came of his attempt to form a shadow of a dragon, a vision that might have perhaps been more useful than mere words.

But the thought fell away as he watched Crown One stumble in the muck--and he pushed up, offering himself to lean on, if need be.

Determined to be a supportive father, but again not exactly the best at it, he added: "What do you want?" to them both. Apparently, their wish was his command, no matter how vague his offer may have been.