>>6370747Tyrion snorts. “That he did. He was no real wizard, apparently.” He recomposes himself, seemingly over his initial awe. “But you are. How does it actually work, may I ask? This transformation magic of yours. Is it a gift of blood, perhaps of Old Valyria? I have read every book and treatise on dragon-lore as I can find across the Seven Kingdoms, but I cannot say I have heard credible accounts of transformations like what I’ve been told of yours.”
“Wizardry is indeed a matter of blood, in part, albeit the greater part is skill and knowledge by far - though I am certainly not the blood of Valyria, nor of any men. I should say as well there is no such thing as magic; spellcraft is a technique, no more or less than any skill of arms. Do not mistake true dragons for the sorry beasts of burden the Valyrians mounted, either. *True* dragons are immortal lords and kings, sages and scholars and hermits, not speechless animals who consent to be chained or used as weapons.”
Tyrion stares at you incredulously. “*Not real dragons?* You can’t be-”
Eva interrupts then. “There’s something here.”
You turn back to her, realising you’d grown rather absorbed in the discussion. “Pardon?”
“I can smell it. Something’s wrong, and- it’s moving.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, Eva wildshapes, growing rapidly as her limbs stretch and bend and her skin sprouts white fur, until she has taken the form of a great northern tiger, and goes bounding off under the deadfallen logs.
Wasting no time yourself, your rapier is out your Bag of Holding and in your hand before she’s even gone. “Don’t move,” you tell Tyrion. “Stay behind me.”
“What is it? What’s going on?”
“Danger,” is all you can say.
There’s a commotion in the bushes then, a mix of growling and hissing and squeaking, and a few moments later Eva returns, carrying a furry brown thing in her maw. She deposits it not far from you and Tyrion before returning to her normal shape.
“Blech!” she says, spitting. “That is just foul!”
You inspect the mangled corpse. A dire rat, by the looks of it, as large as a mid-sized dog, maybe fifty or sixty pounds.
A dire rat…
In Winterfell’s Godswood.
In the North, where dire beasts save direwolves are all but unknown.
“What on earth is this?” Tyrion asks.
“Quite probably a serious problem,” you say. “Is this newly-spawned, Eva?”
“I couldn’t say. That’s more your wheelhouse, I think. It’s a real dire rat, though, not a big rat.”
You glare balefully at the dead beast for a minute, trying to decide what it means. “Have you ever seen a rat like this, Lord Tyrion?”
He shakes his head. “There are some oversized rodents in the sewers of King’s Landing and the mines under Casterly Rock, but nothing big enough it could eat a dog.”
