Chapter Text
Catherine stared around the empty hall of the winter palace. The fires were down to coals, and the tables were bare. The only sound she could hear was the drumming of the rain on the windows. It kept time with her beating heart.
Nine days.
Nine days she'd ridden. Nine days with no tent, living on cold beef and stale bread, craning down into rippling puddles to scrape her face. Nine days of torrential, ceaseless rain, soaking her to the skin and penetrating her heaviest cloth.
And when at last she arrived at the winter palace, ripped the cold helmet off her head and staggered from the stables, what comfort was there for her? Nothing. No one to hear her call, the great doors silent and shut. Not even a hot meal in the kitchens, just the scraps of a day-old repast with too much wine. The staff hadn't even had the courtesy to desert properly - the horses were still in the stables, and nothing of value was missing.
It was worse than deserting. They were slacking off.
This treatment would make anyone infuriated. But Catherine? A knight of the Princess's Royal Guard?
She was beyond furious. She was outraged.
She swept the uncleaned cookware off the kitchen table, seized a clean-enough-looking rag, and rubbed it feverishly through her wet, cropped brown hair. As she strode to the great hall, armor squeaking and clanking noisily, dripping onto the elaborate rugs, she gave voice to some extremely unknightly thoughts.
"The fucking nerve of her…" she muttered. "Over a week on the road, and now nobody's doing their fucking jobs. All for her pet fucking dragon."
Clasped in a golden locket on her neck was a message from the Princess for her Consort. It was probably the only thing she carried that was still dry. And she'd ridden through the storm to deliver it, with the Princess and her retinue only days away. All for her oath and duty.
She sighed. The sigh became a groan. The groan became a yell, torn raggedly from her tired body, echoing in the silent stone castle hall.
Somewhere above her, high above her, there was a responding sound.
She looked up sharply.
"You'd better be up there," she said, to no one in particular. "Because if I have to climb those stairs for nothing…"
Briefly, Catherine contemplated turning back. The Princess was only three days behind her, two if she was lucky. She could lie, say the Royal Consort had left…no, that wouldn't work at all. She could give up her banner, become a bandit…"Ah, what fun that would be," she said.
She sighed again, her shoulders sagging. No, that would never do. She had a duty - as much as it irked her - and she loved the Princess, despite herself.
Even so…it was quite a lost of stairs, after nine days on the road. And there were four floors to inspect above her.
Catherine kept a quiet pride in her physical condition. It made it all the more embarrassing that, when she reached the end of the long spiral staircase to the top floor of the keep, she was completely out of breath and staggering into the walls for support. The loud clanks her armor produced at every impact with the stone walls only served to further her embarrassment. She maintained her grip on her helmet by instinct alone.
The previous three floors had at least told her the skeleton crew of staff had not abandoned the castle. Dust was absent in the guest chambers, and the castellan's bed was unkempt and lived-in. Where the castellan had even gotten to was a completely different story. That left only the upper chambers. The Royal Rest.
So far Catherine had seen no sign of the Princess's draconic lover. She'd had few interactions with her, and despite her love for and trust of the Princess, she wasn't entirely convinced of her noble inclinations. She was a knight. Old traditions died hard. If she encountered the dragon now, in her exhausted and frustrated state, she wasn't sure how she'd react.
The door to the Royal Rest was slightly ajar. Warm light flickered through the gap. There was a real fire here. Fire meant rest. At least, she hoped. There was the remote possibility that one of the maids was burning the room down.
Brushing aside the sardonic mood, Catherine opened the door.
Her helmet slipped through her fingers and clattered to the floor.
The Consort was there, lying on the royal bed. Her tourmaline hair, her unmistakable snout, her long horns - if the silver scales didn't give it away, of course. She was naked. Her strong limbs, her graceful curves, all were on full display. She lay with her waist turned, her long tail curled below her on the mattress.
She was surrounded by women, lying in her arms or across her long legs. Others were curled in each others' embrace, or wrapped around her tail. All were naked, or in a scandalous state of undress. Everyone, the Consort included, was coated in a sheen of fluids that flickered a fiery red from the merry flame burning in the grate.
The room stank, of sex, and sweat, and something stronger and more alluring than either.
Catherine couldn't speak. Her mouth was dry. Her lips were parted. She should be shocked, Catherine knew. Somehow, she couldn't find the wherewithal to be scandalized.
At least she'd found the staff.
She watched them stir, untangling themselves from each others' embrace, and their soft hands massage silver scales, and she did nothing. Her exhausted limbs were barely able to keep her on her feet. All her blood had been redirected to more pertient places.
She heard a deep, rumbling breath from the pile of women on the bed. The Consort was rousing to life.
The dragon's eyes opened slowly, blinked twice, and cleared. Pupils like a cat's regarded the knight from across the room.
She smiled. The action put her fangs on full display. It was disconcerting, that expression on that long jaw, but…not unattractive.
"Oh, dear knight," she said. Her voice was deep, sultry, with an elemental undercurrent that vibrated in Catherine's bones. "You've found us at a poor time."
The Consort extricated herself from the maidstaff, soft touches and gentle murmurs serving to move the women in the most languid and provocative ways. Catherine did her best to avoid looking directly at their stretching bodies, but she could not block out the tired, happy whines of women basking in the afterglow of sleep after passionate, athletic sex.
The dragon picked her way towards her, tail swaying, stopping only a yard away with her hands on her hips. She was much taller than the knight, and her muscles flexed with every change in her posture. It didn't help that her breasts, full and round with dark and puffy nipples, were painted across their small and soft scales with fresh ropes of thick, white fluid.
Or that, facing her directly, her sheath and heavy balls were on full display.
The Consort's tail curled and twisted. "How may I help you, my dear?"
Catherine forced herself to look the dragon in the eye, forced herself to remember the indignation and exhaustion that she'd built over the last nine days, all directed at this creature. New life flooded her limbs, and her posture straightened.
"Lady Catherine, your Grace," she said, assuming once again the controlled and sharp tongue of a knight. "Our liege sent me ahead. She shall arrive at the castle within the week."
A bright light gleamed in the Consort's eyes at the mention of the Princess, and despite herself, a pang struck across Catherine's heart. "That is good news indeed!"
She reached for her neck and pulled the locket over her head. "She gave me this," she said, holding it out, "with a message within. For you."
The Consort extended a clawed hand and received the locket. Something in the knight relaxed when the golden bulb left her person, and she fought to keep from sagging where she stood.
The dragon popped the locket open. Inside was a small, folded piece of parchment, not much larger than the locket itself when unfolded. It looked tiny between her claws as she read it quietly.
Some of the maidstaff, waking more thoroughly, had cottoned on to Catherine's presence and were stirring the others. A number had slipped out through a side door already. Catherine gave them her strongest possible glare as they went.
The Consort looked up from the message, at Catherine, then down at the message again. "Is this all?"
Frustration smoldered in the knight's heart. "Yes, your Grace," she said.
One of the dragon's eyebrows cocked.
"Your Grace," Catherine began, her voice testy. "I have ridden long, and—"
"Of course. Forgive me," she said. She bent down, bringing her snout level with Catherine's face, coincidentally making her breasts sag to their fullest extent. Her irises were bright aquamarine, shot through with faint flecks of grey. "You must rest, Lady Catherine. Retire to any chamber you choose. In a little while, a maid will be along to assist you. Is there anything you require?"
That your little club of whores go wandering in the rain for a few days and see what it feels like, she thought. "A warm bed, your Grace," she said. "And food for my horse. That is all."
"It shall be done. You shall want for nothing while you remain here."
"Thank you, your Grace." Catherine gave a curt bow, eyes flicking over the Consort's body one last time, and turned to leave.
"Ah, a moment," she said. Catherine felt a large, heavy hand on her shoulder.
She turned her head. The dragon gave her a warm smile.
"You may call me Morgana, Lady Catherine," she said. "May your night be restful."
Near collapse, Catherine had intended to sleep as far from the dragon as possible, but she only made it to the third floor before her shaking calves warned her not to go further.
"This had better be restful," she muttered, "for all your sakes."
In the end, she selected a room at the end of the hall, far from the stairs. It was smaller than the others, but this was the winter palace. It was warm, and dry, and there was a bed, and the rain was pattering softly against the thick stone walls. Compared to the last nine days, it may as well have been the Royal Rest itself.
There was no more time for appearances. As soon as she shut the door, Catherine ripped at the clasps and belts of her armor, tearing off cold plates and scattering them across the floor. Her heavy, soaked cloth cushioning, along with her thin undergarments, fell into a heap nearby.
Naked, Catherine fell onto the mattress. It was full of feathers—after nine days on the road, unbelievably soft. Her limbs quaked and sank gratefully into the bed. She was barely able to drag a blanket over herself before her resistance failed and her fatigue closed in around her.
Her last thoughts, before her eyes went dark, were of the Consort. Morgana.
Consort or not, the dragon would answer for this.