At Gwayne's words, Victaria Everfrost gave the slightest nod. Beside her, Duke Baldric Farwynd arched an eyebrow in curiosity. "Should I take my leave, then?"
"No need," Gwayne replied casually, reaching out to pluck a goblet of red wine from a passing servant's tray. He turned his gaze back to the Lady of the North. "It's about dragons."
Victaria's reply was as cool and crisp as a northern wind: "That was nothing more than a drunken rumor," she said. "I dispatched my men to investigate. No one besides that drunkard claimed to see any such thing."
"I am not speaking of just that night," Gwayne said, locking eyes with the Duchess. "I mean over the past centuries—since my death until now. How many tales of dragons have stirred in the North?"
Victaria's finely arched brow lifted slightly, and Baldric, standing beside her, shot her a curious look. "Now that you mention it… Those 'dragon sightings' do seem to be something of a northern specialty, don't they?"
"In truth, there have been occasional rumors," Victaria said with a shake of her silver-crowned head.
"There are even a few cults who venerate dragons in secret. But most of it stems from mountain folk and their old superstitions. The highlands are treacherous and storm-wracked—winds howl through the peaks, and the people there often mistake the cries of the storm for dragon-song. Moreover, the North borders the Dragonborn Principality, whose people claim draconic ancestry and openly revere dragons. Their beliefs have long influenced the highland clans, spawning strange tales and half-forgotten myths. Yet I tell you plainly: House Everfrost has ruled the North for seven centuries. In all that time, not once have we seen a true dragon in our skies."
"But I have," Gwayne said simply, his voice steady. "I watched one soar overhead with my own eyes."
"If a dragon were truly to appear," Victaria replied, her voice still like ice, "I would inform you immediately." She even allowed herself a faint smile. "For a moment, I thought you were about to ask me for a dance."
"I'll spare us both that ordeal," Gwayne chuckled. "It's been seven centuries—gods only know what dances look like now. Besides, I was never much for dancing."
He waved them both away lightly. "Go about your business. It's uncomfortable enough chatting with a seven-hundred-year-old relic. I'll amuse myself."
For a moment, both dukes wore expressions of profound awkwardness. Normally, it was they who offered such polite dismissals to minor nobles, not the other way around. It felt…strangely like being scolded by a grandparent.
But how could they argue with a Founding Duke?
As Victaria and Baldric moved off, Gwayne let out a silent sigh.
It was not so easy after all.
He had hoped Victaria's offhand mention of dragon sightings would yield a vital clue, but it seemed the tales had always been little more than mountain-born superstition—until now.
Dragons had not set foot on this land for nearly a millennium. To most races, they had become myth and legend.
But Gwayne remembered them.
Even after centuries drifting in the heavens, he recalled the rare times he had glimpsed dragons flying across the world.
And in all those sightings, without exception, the dragons had come from the far North.
Across centuries or even millennia, the pattern remained: They crossed the northern mountains, entered the heart of the continent, accomplished some hidden purpose—and then vanished once more into the skies.
Gwayne's limited vantage from above had kept him from seeing where exactly they came from.
He could not tell whether they hailed from beyond the mountains, or from another land altogether across the distant seas.
But he had a feeling—an unshakable certainty—The dragons would return.
Gwayne did not linger long in the capital.
Three days after the meeting at Silver Citadel, he and his companions set off again.
The supplies promised by the Crown would take time to assemble: Food and materials could not be sent overland—too much would be consumed en route. Instead, they would await the spring rise of the Dragon River, when river transport became viable. That would be in half a month.
Likewise, the promised hundred craftsmen and mage acolytes had yet to be selected. It would take time for the guilds and academies to discreetly "recommend" their least favored, most politically expendable members—and longer still to sort through the unlucky few and assign them to Gwayne's venture.
All in all, if the workers could embark by the time the supplies were loaded onto ships, it would already be considered lightning-fast by the standards of bureaucracy.
But Gwayne had no intention of sitting idle.
He had his Charter of Pioneering in hand. He had plans—many, many plans—and a future to build.
So, with all due haste, he and his party departed the capital.
They had dawdled on the journey north. Now, they raced back south with all the speed they could muster.
Gwayne found himself longing for the conveniences of magic he had once read about in old fantasies—a teleportation spell, a portal that could take him straight home.
Sadly, on this world, magic was still primitive. A few could summon fireballs or hurl raw arcane blasts, but true teleportation or dimensional storage remained the stuff of myth.
Some claimed that the ancient Primordial Elves had once mastered such arts. Some said the secret lay hidden in the Dragon-Tongue Magic, the oldest language of power.
But no living soul had seen it.
Meanwhile, far to the north, Grand Duchess Victaria Everfrost had already returned to her stronghold—Winterhold.
No Duke could be absent from their domain for long. Even though the North was more stable than the East, it still needed its Warden.
Thus, once her meeting with Gwayne Seawright was concluded, Victaria had immediately flown home atop the swiftest griffin her house could provide.
Throwing her heavy silver fox cloak to a waiting servant, the Duchess strode quickly to the depths of her fortress and entered her private study.
There, a plain-featured woman with raven-black hair and black eyes was already waiting.
She placed a steaming cup of tea on Victaria's desk, then moved behind her to expertly knead the Duchess's shoulders.
"You look tired, m'lady," the woman said in a low, soothing voice.
"The Founding Duke truly walks among us once more," Victaria murmured. "The legendary Gwayne Seawright. His face, his voice, even the Pioneer's Blade he carried—it all matched the records precisely. I even dared to cast a spell of Truthsense upon him. Everything he said… was true."
The woman—who seemed a mere handmaid—shook her head slightly. "Even the best magic can fail," she said. "A skilled deceiver can fool Truthsense, and magic itself is never flawless. You mustn't rely on it too blindly."
"I have my instincts as well, Maggy," Victaria replied.
"Instincts…" Maggy mused softly. "And what do they tell you?"
"That he has no intention of entangling himself in our kingdom's present politics," Victaria said quietly. "All he asked for was his ancient right to pioneer. What concerns me more is his attitude toward the Crown. I thought he would fiercely defend the true line of House Moravien… that he would clash openly with Francis II, but he recognized the king's legitimacy without hesitation. It caught me completely off guard."
"They must have met in secret," Maggy said, pausing her massage. "You were careless."
"I was," Victaria admitted, her voice grim. "And now… the king will be even harder to control."
"Will you—?"
"No," Victaria said firmly. "House Everfrost seeks the prosperity of Andraste, not the Crown's power."
"You are too soft," Maggy said, resuming her work.
"I refuse to follow the ways of my forebears," Victaria replied, lifting her gaze toward the far wall.
There, hung the Everfrost family crest—and five portraits: King Charles I and the four Founding Knights.
Every noble house in Andraste kept similar relics.
Among the portraits was the likeness of Gwayne Seawright himself, depicted as a stalwart warrior clad in shining armor, the Pioneer's Blade in his grasp, his weathered eyes gazing into a future only he could see.
The sight made Victaria shiver slightly.
It was too real now.
"Ria?" Maggy's voice called softly.
Victaria looked away from the portrait.
"Take down the portrait of Lord Seawright," she said quietly.
"Are you certain?"
"...He himself asked it," Victaria replied wearily. "He said he wasn't accustomed to seeing his own portrait on the wall while he's still alive. And after all—he is a senior, an old friend of our ancestors. How could I refuse?"
Maggy nodded silently and moved to unhook the portrait.
As she worked, Victaria spoke again: "Maggy… you hail from the mountains, do you not?"
"I do."
"Then tell me—what do you make of the old tales of dragons?"
The black-haired woman paused. She turned her face slightly, just enough for Victaria to see the faint shadow of a smile.
"Just old stories," Maggy said. "Nothing more."
"But a dragon has truly appeared," Victaria said, her voice a whisper. "Over the ruins of Seawright's land."
"Has it?" Maggy replied, lifting Gwayne's portrait from the wall. "Then I fear… it can only mean ill."