A Confederate Cold One in Humanities Court (The 100/Twilight)

[FireWalkWithMe99]

Jasper Whitlock I



May 10th, 2052



As the bombs dropped, the world was thrust into chaos. News broadcasts echoed through the airwaves, spreading the grim reality of the devastation that had befallen the world. Panic and confusion ruling the streets, extending even to the once serene and largely secluded confines of the Denali property.



Tanya's voice carried disbelief and exhaustion as she shared the horrifying news. "Volterra was leveled, one of the first to be hit. It was struck by not one, but two bombs," she uttered, her words hanging heavy with the weight of the unthinkable.



Jasper's unease intensified, a foreboding sense of dread coursing through his veins. The Volturi, annihilated in a single blow? It seemed unfathomable.



"Forks... it was hit too," Bella's voice quivered with shock and despair. The depth of her grief resonated within Jasper, intertwining their emotions in a painful amalgamation. And his sweet Alice, her own feelings of loss mixing in.



"No... how could this be..." Bella's words trailed off, her disbelief palpable. Despite her anguish, she maintained a façade of composure, urging Jasper to take Renesmee to safety. Deep down, the despair still permeated.



Jasper turned to Alice, seeking confirmation, a vague hope in her eyes. She nodded, acknowledging the necessity of her foresight for the protection of both their families. Her absence would be felt keenly, but he understood better than anyone the role she held in this unthinkable situation.



With a heavy heart, Jasper rushed Renesmee off and away from the property. The sounds of destruction reverberated in his ears. He felt the surge of painful energy, the radiation that signaled yet another cataclysmic event unfolding he turned back to see the Denali property destroyed along with the surrounding area. Yet another bomb dropped on vampire territory. Could this be a coincidence.



Looking back at the remnants of the Denali mansion, the once grand structure now reduced to a twisted wreckage of shattered dreams, Jasper felt a lump forming in his throat. His eyes strained, desperately searching for any signs of life, any flicker of speed signaling the survival of his clan some hope amidst the chaos. But all he saw was devastation, a stillness that chilled him.



Minutes stretched into hours as the weight of his loss crashed upon him with limitless weight. The realization hit him with a gut-wrenching blow, leaving him gasping for breath. A sense of emptiness consumed him, a void that seemed impossible to fill. The ground beneath him felt unsteady, and he sank to his knees trembling.



The weight of the world settled upon his shoulders, pressing him farther down into the unforgiving earth. The absence of his beloved Alice, the one who had breathed life into his shallow existence, created a void that threatened to swallow him whole. She had been his guiding light, his beacon of hope in a world mired in darkness, and now that light had been extinguished.



As he knelt there, his hands trembling and tears streaming down his face, the magnitude of his loss crashed over him like a tidal wave. Memories of their shared moments, their laughter, and their unbreakable bond flooded his mind, intensifying the ache in his chest. The future they had envisioned together had crumbled to ashes, leaving him adrift in an ocean of grief and uncertainty.



He clutched his chest, his fingers clawing at the emptiness within him, as if trying to hold onto the fading echoes of their love. But there was nothing to grasp, only the cold, cruel reality that Alice was gone. The pain was raw, unrelenting, and in that moment, he felt utterly alone

---

February 23rd, 2129



Jasper moved swiftly, his lithe form navigating through the dense foliage of the forest with practiced ease. The world around him had still ravaged by the horrors of nuclear weaponry, leaving behind a somewhat desolate landscape. The once-abundant wildlife had been decimated to pathetic numbers, and those that remained often bore the mark of the radiation that now tainted their very existence. Their blood held a bitter taste, a constant reminder of the day that changed his reality.



Yet, Jasper's innate hunter's instinct refused to be deterred. Yearning for a more satisfying meal, one that would sate his unquenchable thirst. With every step, he stayed attuned to the nuances of his surroundings—the rustling of leaves, breaking of twigs, faint scents carried on the wind—hoping to catch even the slightest hint of prey.



Then, as if answering his silent plea, the distant echo of hooves reached his keen ears. A flicker of anticipation surged through him, drawing him towards the source like a magnet. His movements became more purposeful, guided by a primal pull. He couldn't resist the allure of the unknown, the promise of a potential feast.



As he closed in on the source of the sound, the forest began to thin, revealing an open clearing bathed in dappled sunlight.



As Jasper drew nearer, the scene before him unfolded with vivid clarity. At the head of the group of Azgeda men on horseback stood a young woman, a captivating figure amidst the rugged backdrop of the post-apocalyptic world. Her light brown locks cascading in loose waves. The strands, kissed by golden hues, seemed to possess an ethereal quality, contrasting starkly against the harshness of her stern expression.



But it was her eyes that truly commanded attention. A predatory glint within, an untamed fire that hinted at fierce determination and great resolve. They held an intensity that betrayed her youth. Though she appeared scarcely older than Jasper was when he was turned, the lines etching her face hinted at a life lived with burdens carried.



As the leader of the group, she exuded an air of authority that demanded respect. Every movement she made was deliberate, each command uttered with clarity and conviction. The men who followed her on horseback clearly held her in high regard, recognizing the power she wielded. They maintained their formation under her watchful gaze, knowing that any lapse in discipline would be met with swift and unyielding retribution.



Jasper couldn't help but be drawn to her unwavering focus. Fixed upon those at the front lines of the group, as if she could see into the very souls of those who stood before her. It was a gaze that brooked no defiance, demanding loyalty and commitment from her followers blade in hand. Despite her youthful appearance, it was yet another indication that in this new era, age held little relevance when it came to combat experience.



Society now bore resemblances to his own past—trade outposts, bustling markets, and various clans with their own semblances of leadership. Though often rudimentary, these structures provided a semblance of order and stability. Chiefs, chieftains, warriors and clan elders guided their respective groups, navigating the treacherous currents of survival with pragmatism and primal instincts at the head of it all being the Commander. At least that was how it was said to work. Though he questioned the genuine structure. Knowing well that leadership hierarchy's often had deeper complexity.



Yet, it was the development of blade combat and a resurgence of warrior culture that struck Jasper. While soldiers in his own time may have held a certain reverence for the warrior archetype, the elevation of martial prowess and the romanticization of battle weren't as cherished a philosophy as they seemed to be among the clans now.



Jasper found himself both intrigued and unsettled by the fervent dedication that the clans exhibited towards martial prowess. The battle-scarred weapons of centuries past were now passed down as treasured heirlooms again, symbols of the warriors spirit.



The human clans' infatuation with warrior culture often raised questions within Jasper. What drove humans to embrace this path again so passionately? Was it the primal need to reclaim some semblance of power in a world that had stripped them of everything? Or was it simply a coping mechanism, a way to channel their frustrations and fears into something tangible and controllable?



Jasper concealed himself behind the cover of trees, thick branches and distance sheltering him from human sight, keen ears tuned in to the conversation unfolding among the Azgedan company.



the young woman leading the group, projected an air of authority as her voice reverberated through the forest. "We are only two days from Agra," she declared with urgency, her eyes scanning the horizon. "If we push ourselves, we might be able to make it in one and a half."



One of the men with a heavily scarred face interjected, his voice laced with concern, as he looked down at the woman's stomach, "The king wants us back Nia, but if we push ourselves too hard, it may affect the survival of you and the child."



Jasper observed the subtle change in Nia's expression. Then felt a sense joy briefly consume the woman as her hand instinctively caressed her swelling belly. The Ice Nation men accompanying her exchanged glances, reflecting a variety of emotions—hope, unease, and fear.



But as swiftly as the joy had emerged, it receded, replaced by Nia's previously stoic composure. Jasper, attuned to her emotional fluctuations, sensed the deep well of love and worry within her. At least it was a normal child he thought jokingly to himself. Feeling a brief sadness thinking about the fateful day yet again…



"I do not wish to spend any longer in these green-infested lands, in hostile territory," Nia stated firmly, her voice weary.



An older man with the jagged scar on his face voiced his doubts. "We were here on a diplomatic visit, and it ended well. I don't imagine the Commander would attempt to attack us if they were as desperate for coal as they claimed to be. You also seemed to charm the man, despite his reputation."



Nia's response carried a touch of humor. "Yes, the aptly named Shadheda does seem like a commander that Ice Nation could benefit from. In our chats, he indicated to take inspiration from our ways."



As Jasper observed Nia's poised demeanor and the way she commanded her men, memories of Maria resurfaced from the depths of his mind—a name he had long suppressed. There were echoes of Maria's calculated and strategic nature in Nia's leadership style. However, while Maria had mastered the art of false warmth and measured politeness, Nia emitted a coolness that set her apart.



Lost in his reminiscence, Jasper's heightened senses detected familiar sounds— the rustle of leaves, the crunch of dirt, the clinking of metal, and the whisper of fabric against fabric. These were not unfamiliar sounds, but it was the deep echo of breath, as if the very air was being sucked into the earth, that told him what lurked nearby. It was the reason he had chosen to keep a watchful eye on the nearest group of humans. The men from Mount Weather were on the prowl, seeking to collect more bodies.



Amidst the tension and the impending danger, Jasper's keen senses picked up on a shift in Nia's demeanor. His gaze locked onto her as she reached instinctively for her stomach, her face contorted in worry. A surge of concern coursed through him, his empathetic abilities allowing him to sense the distress emanating from her. Something was definitely amiss.



And then, in a pivotal moment, it happened—the unmistakable rupture of Nia's water breaking, a clear signal that the imminent birth was on the horizon. The gravity of the situation weighed heavily on Jasper's mind, his thoughts momentarily shifting to the fragility of life amidst the chaos of their world. However, he knew there was no time to dwell on the momentous event. The encroaching presence of the mountain men, seizing the vulnerable moment, demanded his immediate attention.



Reacting with lightning speed, Jasper's instincts kicked into overdrive. Like a coiled spring, he propelled himself forward, racing towards the oncoming threat of the mountain men. Their intentions were clear—to exploit the vulnerable state of the Azgedans to more easily collect the men and woman, jeopardizing the safety of Nia and her unborn child in the process. With hastened determination, Jasper moved to intercept the gas canisters they had callously deployed, their sandman's payload.



In a display of precision, Jasper deftly seized the canisters, his muscles coiling and releasing with the fluidity of a predator in motion. His supernatural reflexes and heightened speed allowed him to swiftly hurl the canisters back towards the ranks of the mountain men. As the canisters soared through the air, their trajectory disrupted, confusion and disarray erupted among the assailants. The element of surprise had been successfully turned against them, momentarily scattering their coordinated assault.



As the realization of the imminent danger sunk in, the Azgedans shed their initial surprise and rallied to defend themselves. The atmosphere crackled with tension as their leader's strained orders echoed through the chaos, and the warriors responded with a swift readiness. Blades glinted in the dim light.



In the midst of activity, Jasper became a blur of motion. His movements going beyond human limitations, propelled by his vampiric speed and agility. With astonishing swiftness, he engaged the current enemy, skillfully navigating the chaos with precise strikes and calculated maneuvers. Seamlessly transitioning from one target to the next, With each fallen body drained, Jasper fought to maintain his composure. The crimson stains on his lips and the satisfaction that coursed through his veins were reminders of the fine line he treads.




Jasper couldn't escape the seductive allure of the fresh blood that spilled around him. The metallic scent hung heavy in the air, mingling with the energy of battle. Tugging at his senses, whispering promises of strength and satiation. His finely tuned vampiric instincts, wrestled against his restraint, tempting him to succumb to the primal hunger within.



An Azgeda warrior, fueled by adrenaline and a intense rage, unleashed a barrage of throwing daggers into the chest of an opponent tearing well past his hazmat suit several times over. The sound of impact reverberated through the air. Jasper's eyes flickered to the man momentarily, a hunger within and immense pain felt, as he fixated on the crimson tableau before him.



In testament to his practiced discipline, Jasper resisted the call. Firmly holding his focus on the task at hand, recognizing that succumbing to his primal desires would jeopardize the safety of those he sought to protect.



As the skirmish raged on, a realization dawned upon Jasper. He noticed that the distant mountain men, were retreating. The shift in their demeanor and the distance between them signaling respite.



While the temptation to revel in triumph tugged at his thoughts, Jasper remained focused. As the mountain men fully retreated, their presence fading into the distance, Jasper turned his attention back to the Azgeda warriors. Their eyes held an unspoken threat, a reminder that the battle may have subsided for now, but tensions remained. It was then that he noticed Nia still on the ground, the early stages of labor evident in her pained expression stare focused on the now dead steed she was riding only moments ago. No doubt it died of shock from his actions… he thought guiltily.



Approaching her cautiously, Jasper introduced himself, his voice confident sending compassion. "Ma'am, I believe I can help with your predicament. I have experience delivering children," he offered, his eyes meeting hers in a moment of shared understanding.



Nia's gaze shifted from the dead horse, no doubt a long held companion, to Jasper. The weight of her gaze bore a predatory intensity, rivaling that of any vampire he had encountered. The primal instincts within him recognized the scent of her blood flowing, triggering a surge of hunger. Yet, he maintained his composure, aware of the delicate situation at hand.



Nia, her face twisted with pain. "The Bane of the Mountain? So you truly do exist!"



Jasper acknowledged Nia's remark with uncertainty. "If that is what they call me," he responded. The growing folktale surrounding his name among the clans, the Bane of the Mountain, was both a source of intrigue and concern to him. He understood that his reputation as a formidable killer carried weight, and the implications it held in moments of desperation. Though something felt wrong about being so openly talked about even if many dismiss it as legend. The Volturi were gone now… as far as he could tell yet he still felt uncomfortable about letting this information slip. Humans had enough problems these days without learning that those who went bump in the night existed.



Nia, her eyes glanced up and down at Jasper. "You? But how can I trust a stranger with something so important?"



Jasper's gaze softened as he spoke, his words carrying a genuine sincerity. "I may be a stranger, but I have witnessed the miracle of birth before. I wish to ensure the safety of you and your child. Please Mam, let me lend aid."



The scarred man stepped forward, his voice filled with caution. "This is too great a risk. We can't rely on an outsider for something so crucial."



Jasper pondered his response, understanding the deep-rooted values of the clans and the importance they placed on combat prowess. He needed to find common ground while addressing their concerns. "I understand your hesitation. I am known as a skilled killer, but my training also includes knowledge under a great healer. I have been taught how to bring life into this world, not just take it away. I assure you, I want nothing more than the well-being of both you and the child."



Nia, her eyes filled with doubt though he sensed desperation within, finally spoke up. "The stakes are high, and time is not on our side. If there's a chance that you can help us, then we have to take it." Nia her head over to the scarred man, "Surely he could kill us all easily enough if he wished after that display"



The scarred man hesitated, his gaze shifting between Nia and Jasper. "Very well," he conceded. "But know this, stranger, if you betray us or put her or our future at risk, there will be dire consequences."



Jasper nodded solemnly, acknowledging the weight of the trust they were placing in him. A guilt washing over him, with the knowledge they could never make good on their thread even if all went wrong. "I understand the gravity of the situation. I will do everything in my power to ensure a safe delivery for the child."



The tension in the air eased slightly as the Azgedans reluctantly accepted Jasper's offer of assistance. With their guard still up, they formed a protective circle around Nia, ready to intervene if needed.



Jasper approached Nia, his voice gentle yet filled with resolve. "Take deep breaths, Nia. We'll get through this together. Trust in your own strength."



The scarred man seemed bothered by something he said, but before he could say more Nia silenced him with a dismissive wave.



With that, Jasper focused all his attention steadying himself. He had no room for distractions, no leeway for his vampiric instincts to interfere.



As Jasper knelt by Nia's side, he guided her through each contraction, offering words of encouragement and support. He could feel the shared pain, amplified by his empathic abilities, coursing through his veins. A bittersweet reminder of the past, when Maria had forced him to kill innocent newborns. But this time, he was determined to bring life into the world, to counterbalance the darkness that had tainted his existence.



As Nia's labor intensified, beads of sweat formed on her forehead, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Jasper's eyes narrowed with concern as he recognized the complication. The baby's position was presenting a challenge, threatening to hinder a safe delivery.



Drawing upon his memories of Carlisle in his element. Jasper took a deep breath, channeling his focus and expertise. "Nia, there seems to be a small complication, The baby is not in the optimal position" he spoke softly. "But I know a technique that can help reposition the baby. It may be uncomfortable, but it will increase the chances of the babies survival. Are you ready?"



Nia nodded, her strength conveyed through her pain. "Do whatever you need to do," she managed to utter, her voice like ice.



Jasper positioned himself carefully, his hands hovering over Nia's abdomen. With gentle precision, he palpated her belly, feeling the baby's position. Then, with a careful motion, he skillfully maneuvered the infant, turning them within the confines of the womb.



Nia's face twisted in discomfort, tears streaming down her cheeks as the maneuver took effect. The Azgeda men begin approaching, then Her grip on Jasper's hand tightened. "You're doing great, Nia," he murmured, his voice a steady anchor as he tried to lessen the mountainous pain emanating from her. "Just a piddlin more, and we'll have this settled." With that the Azgedans' concern seemed to abate. Though feelings of distrust emanated strongly.



Time seemed to stretch as Jasper continued to guide the baby's repositioning feeling the weight of Nia's own suffering, his touch both gentle and firm. Finally, a shift occurred within Nia's womb that indicated success. The tension ceased as the baby settled into the desired position. Jasper's own muscles relaxed, a surge of relief flooding through him. He wiped the sweat from his brow, his gaze never leaving Nia's face. "We've done it," he said,



Nia gave him a look that seemed a bit less cool than typical. He took this as thanks enough.



Jasper nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "You're incredibly strong, Nia. Both you and your baby. All will be well."



Nia's muscles strained with each powerful push, her body trembling with the exertion. She let out a guttural cry.



Jasper's senses heightened, aromas of sweat and the metallic tang of blood. Causing his vampiric instincts stirred, fangs elongating ever so slightly in response to Nia and the Child's life being in his hands. The battle within intensified as his mind fought against the primal hunger on the brink of consuming him.



Gritting his teeth, Jasper directed his gaze away from Nia's being, locking his eyes on a fixed point in the distance. He dug his nails deeper into his palms, the sharp pain serving as a reminder of the control he needed to maintain.



With unwavering focus, Jasper channeled his energy into supporting Nia. He positioned himself at her side. "Push, Nia," he encouraged, his voice laced with determination. "You're almost there."



Nia's eyes bore into Jasper's, She harnessed her resolve summoning a reserve of strength, as she pushed with all her might, willing her body to cooperate.



Time seemed to suspend as all held their collective breath, the air thick. And then, a profound moment of triumph and relief washed over the space as Nia's final push brought forth the emergence of new life. The cries of a newborn filled the forest



Jasper's struggle momentarily faded into the background as he beheld the miracle before him. He marveled at the delicate features of the newborn boy, their tiny fingers grasping the air, their lungs filling.




"Roan," Nia whispered, her conveying ambition much to his surprise though he sensed love and sorrow within her. "May your name carry the strength and spirit of the cherished steed I've lost this day." She gazed at her baby boy with a tender longing, cherishing the bittersweet connection between her newborn son and the fallen horse.



Jasper gently helped Nia to her feet, supporting her as she regained her balance. The scarred man approached, his eyes displayed gratitude and surprised. Nia took a deep breath, her joy shining through despite the underlying strain of pain. She held her child close. Jasper eyes locked onto his tiny face, etching the image of the boys arrival into his memory.



"Azgeda owes you a great debt," the scarred man began, his voice diplomatic and appreciative. "And we would be honored to introduce you to our people, to share our gratitude and respect. No doubt the king would love to put a face to…" But as the scarred man turned to gesture towards Jasper, confusion washed over his face. He scanned the area, finding no trace of the vicious warrior and healer who had guided them through the delivery.



Jasper watched silently from a distance, hidden amidst the shadows. He knew he couldn't stay, his own primal instincts and the ever-present thirst for blood beckoned him away. The pull was too strong, and he knew that to protect those he aided, he had to maintain his discipline and distance.



As the Azgeda company begin their leave, Nia and her child embraced in their care, Jasper felt a great longing. Yearning for the connection and understanding he once shared with Alice. He knew that without her, he could never reach the same heights of insight and control that his father, Carlisle, had achieved not without his guiding light.



Jasper's keen hearing caught a snippet of conversation among the departing Azgeda men. "That man looked like he was the one having the child," one of them remarked



The scarred man spoke up, "Great power and victories present at our dear prince's birth. This bodes well for the future of the Royal Line," he declared.




With a heavy heart, Jasper turned away from the scene, his speed leading him into the depths of the forest canopy. Perhaps… there is still joy in this dark era of mankind.

---

A.N. Hello fellow readers this is yet another crossover, this one I have some plans for. Curious what everyone thinks. I know twilight typically isn't looked at too fondly but theres a lot to work with in regards to some of the side characters honestly a shame how underutilized Jasper is.

This story will explore more of his darker history, in the confederacy as well as a vampire in general, and I intend to hone in on his canonical interests as well Philosophy, and Psychology.

There will be a decent jump a head in time, though it still will be before the dropship. This story is sort of a semi prequel, in the sense the early chapters will take place pre drop ship, but ultimately will get involved with the canon era, Skaikru, Trikru and more.


Also just in case it was unclear im not making Nia a romantic interest, just showing that she caught Jasper's interest for several reasons. His intervention here will play a part down the line, but roan will be closer to his canon age when we next see him.

 

[FireWalkWithMe99]

Jasper Whitlock II


Jasper's presence in any village was never entirely explained, not in words, at least. He preferred it that way, allowing the villagers to come to their own conclusions about the quiet man who passed through their settlement from time to time. In truth, he had found a peculiar role for himself in these scattered communities—one that had arisen naturally from his needs and theirs.


After drinking the blood of the animals he hunted, Jasper often found himself with a surplus of meat, something he had no use for. At first, he had simply discarded it, but as he traveled through these desolate lands, he saw the hunger in the eyes of those he encountered. The remnants of the genocides led by the Dark Commander and King Theo before him had left these settlements struggling to sustain themselves. Coin and livestock were scarce, and many villagers lived on the edge of starvation.


He began offering the drained, gutted and prepared meat to those in need. Typically, humans accepted it gratefully, viewing it as a blessing in a world where such kindness was rare. Other times, they were more suspicious, wary of a stranger bringing gifts with no strings attached. In such cases, they would offer him coins, small tokens of value given not out of wealth, but out of a belief that it was bad luck to receive something for nothing. Jasper never pressed the issue; he understood that trust was a rare commodity here, and he accepted whatever they chose to give.


Tonight, his business in the village was much the same. He had hunted earlier, drained the blood from the animals, and now he carried the meat with him, wrapped in cloth. He wasn't sure how the villagers here would react—whether they would see his offering as a boon or as something to be feared. But he would try, as he always did.


If the Volturi were still around, or if his family were anywhere within reach, he wouldn't dare take such a risk. The idea of exposing himself in this way, of leaving traces of his existence, would have been unthinkable. But things were different now. He was alone, with only one other who had sworn off all connection with him. As things stood, there was little risk.


Besides, her methods had always been far less subtle than his own.


Jasper shifted slightly on the rough log he had chosen as a seat, feeling the uneven wood press against him through the layers of his clothing. The fire before him crackled and hissed, its warmth doing little to chase away the deep-seated chill that had settled in his bones—one that no amount of heat could ever truly dispel. His sharp eyes moved slowly over the faces gathered around the fire, taking in every nuance, every flicker of emotion.


The settlement was a quaint, the simplest refuge for those who found themselves needing shelter in the desolate landscape. The huts were hastily constructed, their walls thin and barely able to keep out the cold. The people within them were much the same—frail, weathered, held together more by sheer will than by any real strength.


Jasper could feel the weariness in the air, a palpable weight that hung over the settlement like a shroud. It was in the way they moved, the way they spoke in hushed tones, as if afraid that even their voices might provoke the world into further cruelty. Their conversations were muted, filled with the mundane horrors of survival—what little food they had managed to find, the sick and the dying, the ever-present threat of something worse lurking just beyond the firelight.


He could sense their unease, the low thrum of anxiety and sadness that vibrated through the group, almost like a wave. He knew the rhythm well, a constant of emotion in trying times that has been a staple for centuries. These people were stuck in a cycle—fear of the land that had turned against them, fear of the sickness that spread through their ranks like wildfire, fear of each other, as desperation turned even friends into potential enemies.


Jasper's connection to that fear was deeper than most could ever understand. It was the same fear that had driven him as a young soldier, barely more than a boy, marching off to war with dreams of glory and honor. It was the fear that had fueled his every action in Maria's army, as he became something far darker than he had ever imagined, his humanity stripped away piece by piece. Fear had been his companion through it all, a relentless force that shaped him, molded him, until he barely recognized the man he had once been.


Jasper's sharp ears picked up the murmurs of the villagers across the fire, their voices low and cautious as they discussed the latest rumors from Azgeda. He kept his gaze distant, pretending disinterest, though every word they spoke settled into his mind. This art was a Cullen family specialty he now perfected over the decades- appearing uninvolved while absorbing every detail.


"They say Roan just turned twelve," one of the villagers said, his voice gravelly with age and hard living. "Already taller than most boys his age. Strong like his mother."


Jasper's attention sharpened at the mention of Roan, and his thoughts drifted back to a time over a decade ago, deep in the woods, when he had encountered a heavily pregnant Nia and her retinue. He had been little more than a shadow then until the moment came where he could no longer stand by.


He remembered the night perfectly. The tension in the air, the scent of blood and fear, the way Nia's steely gaze had fixed on him as she gave birth to her son. He had seen strength in her, a ruthless determination that marked her as a leader, and yet, in that brief encounter, he had also seen the vulnerability of a mother bringing new life into a world even if only for moments.


Hearing that the child he had delivered was now thriving brought an unexpected warmth to him, though it was quickly tempered by the realization of how much time had passed. It was hard to imagine Roan as anything more than the babe he had held for those fleeting moments. Time moved differently for him, the years slipping by like water through his fingers. It was only natural that he still saw Roan as an infant, just as he still saw Renesmee as the little girl she had once been.


His thoughts turned bitter for a moment as he recalled Renesmee's last words to him, the finality in her voice as she walked away from him and everything they had once shared. "I wish nothing to do with you or yours anymore... in this empty world." The words echoed in his mind, a painful rememberance. He thought he lost all when he lost his family most Certainly Alice, but… it wasn't till that moment that he felt truly empty. How ashamed Carlisle and Bella would be if they saw now.


Jasper shook his head slightly, pushing those memories aside. There was no use dwelling on the past. Not when the present demanded his attention, and so he refocused on the unfolding discourse.


"They say his father has fallen ill," another villager added, her tone quiet. "Something no healer has seen before."


The first speaker grunted, his voice thick. "Azgeda needs its king strong, especially now. With the sickness spreading, and the animals becoming harder to find… who knows what will happen if he doesn't recover."


Jasper's thoughts turned to the king of Azgeda, the man who ruled over such a fierce and fearsome tribe. He had never met the king himself, but if the stories were to be believed, the man was as brutal as they came. His mind drifted back to Nia, Roan's mother, and the cold, commanding presence she had exuded even in the midst of childbirth. In the short time they had spent together, Jasper had seen enough to know that she was a leader who wielded power with an iron fist, unyielding and ruthless. He wondered if the king of Azgeda measured up to her, or if she was surpassed by his brutality.

Nia had been the closest Jasper had come to encountering the higher echelons of leadership in this world. He preferred the shadows, staying in the small, disconnected villages far from the centers of power like Polis or Agra. There, he could observe without being observed, help without drawing attention to himself. But every now and then, he couldn't help but wonder what the rest of the leadership was like. Were they all as cold and ruthless as Nia? Or was there something more to them, something that the stories didn't capture?


His musings were interrupted by the low voice of a third villager, older and more weathered than the others. The man leaned in closer to the unsteady flames. "Good riddance, I say. That brutal king of Azgeda is no better than the Dark Commander was. Maybe it's about time he sickened."


The air around the fire seemed to still at his words. Jasper felt the sharp shift in the emotions around him—anger, fear, and a deep, simmering tension. The villagers who had been speaking fell silent, their eyes darting to one another in discomfort. The Dark Commander Sheidheda, unsurprisingly still haunted the collective memory of the trikru tribes. He wondered the scale of terror he inflicted on the survivors he left in the night…before Alice.


One of the few Trikru Jasper knew entered the picture at this point. Indra, a familiar face among the scattered tribes, was one of the enforcers of trade around the various Trikru settlements outside of Polis. She mainly managed the flow of goods from the villages back to the capital, though she also often handled trade between the smaller, more isolated communities. Jasper had come across her a few times during her travels. It had been maybe four months since their last encounter, and seeing her now brought a fleeting curiosity to his mind.


He briefly wondered what had happened to her young daughter, who often clung to her side during her visits to the settlements and along the roads. As he listened to Indra's sharp command, he pondered it further. Perhaps she had found somewhere safe for the girl to stay during her travels this time. Or, more likely, she had found someone to train her daughter in the ways of a warrior. Jasper didn't like the idea of children being molded into fighters. It seemed like so many steps back. He had seen enough of war, had lived through its horrors both as a human and as a vampire, to know that nothing good came from teaching the young to wield weapons before they could even grasp the weight of them.


People changed the world, but the world changed people as well—a truth he had realized long ago, one that still held true today in the most unfortunate ways.


Indra, who had just approached the fire with a young boy in tow, stiffened at the villager's words. Her gaze snapped to the man who had spoken, her eyes flashing with barely contained anger. But beneath that anger, Jasper sensed something deeper, something darker—fear. It wasn't fear for herself, but for what such reckless words could bring upon them all. Indra was a warrior, trained to face any enemy with courage, but even she understood that some enemies were best left undisturbed.


"That's enough," Indra said, her voice cutting through the thick silence like a blade. It was a sharp command, meant to put a swift end to the subject of talk. "It's bad luck to mention his name."


The man who had spoken looked around, suddenly aware of the weight his words had carried. The glares from the others around the fire were heavy with condemnation, their eyes burning with a mix of anger and fear. He quickly looked away, his bravado shrinking under the collective judgment of his peers. He muttered something under his breath, but whatever defiance he had felt before was gone, replaced by a sullen regret.


Indra's gaze lingered on him for a moment longer, making it clear that she would not tolerate such talk. Jasper could feel the authority radiating from her, a steady, unwavering force that demanded respect. Though there was more to it than that, Indra wasn't just protecting the honor of a rival leader; she was guarding against the darkness that such words could summon, a darkness that could easily spread if left unchecked.


The villagers shifted uneasily, their eyes downcast, as if by lowering their gaze they could avoid the consequences of the man's foolishness.


Jasper had long since learned to read people, to sense their emotions and adjust his actions accordingly. He would wait, observe, and then decide how best to approach them. Whether they accepted his gift freely or felt compelled to pay him in coin, it didn't matter much to him.for a brief moment, he could offer them something—however pitiful—that might make their lives a little easier.

---

Jasper approached the fire a few minutes later, offering meat to the villagers, a familiar face looked up at him.


"Jasper," Indra greeted him, her tone edged. "What brings you to Roxlar's settlement? Last I saw, you were several leagues away in Aenon's settlement along the river."


Jasper met her gaze evenly, sensing the questions behind her words. Indra was not one to tolerate mysteries, and while she respected his actions, she always sought to understand the motives behind them.


"I travel often," Jasper replied, his voice calm and unhurried. "I live a nomadic life, moving from place to place. I've found that it allows me to help where it's most needed." He paused, then added, "When I heard that this village was in great need of sustenance and assistance, I made sure to head this way. Along the journey, I located adequate game to bring with me."


Indra studied him for a moment, her eyes narrowing slightly as she considered his words. She came across him enough to understand that he spoke the truth—at least, as much as he was willing to share with mere humans. Jasper had always been a man of few words, his actions speaking louder than anything he might say. But there was a consistency to him, a kind of reliability that she had come to recognize, even if she didn't fully trust him.


"You always seem to know where you're needed," Indra said, her tone thoughtful. "Not many live as you do—moving from place to place, helping those in need without asking for anything in return. It's a rare thing."


Jasper acknowledged her with a slight nod. "I do what I can. In these trying times."


Indra seemed to accept this, no doubt her mind was grinding away now, turning over the implications of his presence here. She was a warrior at heart, always thinking several steps ahead.


"You've brought more than just meat, then," Indra remarked, gesturing to the villagers who had gathered around to accept his offering. "These people need hope as much as they need food."


Jasper didn't respond immediately, letting the weight of her words settle between them. It was true, of course. The villagers were hungry for more than just sustenance—they needed to believe that there was something better ahead, that their struggles were not in vain.


"Perhaps," he said finally, his voice low. "But hope is a fragile thing. It needs to be nurtured carefully, or it can wither and die."


Indra nodded, understanding the truth in his words. "Just be careful, Jasper," she warned, her tone softening slightly. "Not everyone is as strong as they seem. And some might take more from you than you're willing to give."


It was both a warning and a reminder, one that Jasper appreciated more than he let on.Even if realistically no human force could best him under the current tech available. The word held truth —there were limits to what people could offer, and humans had to be mindful of those who might see kindness as something to exploit.


"I'll keep that in mind," Jasper replied, offering her a rare, faint smile.


Indra gave him one last, searching look before turning back to the villagers. Allowing Jasper to return to his work without further questions. It seems she knew he had his reasons, and for now, that was enough.


As she moved away, Jasper returned to distributing the meat, aware of the eyes that watched him, curious and wary. He wasn't here to be a hero, but if he could ease their burdens, even just a little, it was worth the effort. And perhaps, in doing so, he could find a way to ease his own loss as well.

---

A.N. It's been a long while hasn't it ive made it a priority to get back to some of my works i've neglected this one included next I plan to update my asoiaf/elden ring fic, and my dance era jace si.

With that said curious what you guys think of the chapters implications and my portrayals of characters. I was wanted to say that next chapter will be a fresh pov curious if anyone guesses who it is. (Its a character from the 100 though not twilight for a little hint)

 

[FireWalkWithMe99]

ROAN I

The wind off the ice had teeth.

Roan stood in the courtyard long enough for his cheeks to burn raw, long enough for the brittle sunlight to sting his eyes and make him squint against the brightness off the snow. The yard was mostly empty at this hour, training finished, patrols already assigned, warriors tending to weapons and armor inside where it was marginally warmer.

He remained where he was, gloved hands resting on the pommel of his sword, trying to still the restless energy thrumming in his limbs.

A King does not fidget.

A King does not pace
.
A King waits and lets others feel the weight of his time.

Nia's words, sharpened over the years, lodged in his head like ice splinters.

The door to the hall creaked behind him. Perfectly manipulated footsteps he recognized well crossed the stone. Roan didn't turn until he heard his name.

"Roan."
He faced her.

The Ice Queen did not wrap herself in fur the way lesser nobles did. Her cloak was thinner, more functional, the cut of it designed not for warmth but for movement. A crown of worked steel rested against her dark braids, small and deadly-looking. Her eyes, pale and hard, took his measure in a single glance.

He straightened instinctively.

"You requested my presence," he said. His voice did not crack; he was grateful for that small mercy.

Her gaze flicked to his hands, his posture, the sharpened edges of his adolescent pride. "The border to the south is restless," Nia said. "Trikru settlements near our line have been slow in honoring their trade agreements. Coal goes out. Food does not always return. Our couriers report excuses. Sickness. Bad winters. Empty traps."

Roan tamped down the urge to scoff. Everyone had excuses.

"And you want them reminded," he said.

"I want them reminded by my son." Nia's tone was cool. "Words from a faceless envoy can be ignored. Words from the future king are harder to forget."

A warmth moved under his chest at that future king, but he knew better than to show it. Praise from Nia often hid hooks.

"You will ride with six of my warriors," she continued. "You will visit the settlement of Lyn Tiron. You will see for yourself what they claim. You will return with either proof of renewed loyalty…" Her eyes narrowed faintly. "Or proof you understand what happens when loyalty wavers."

Roan felt his chin lift, unbidden. "They will remember Azgeda's reach, Mother.

A corner of her mouth twitched, not quite a smile. "See that they do so without making us look like desperate raiders. Balance the blade, Roan. You are not just my son. You are my message."
The last sentence felt like both an honor and an insult. He bit back the urge to say he was more than that. That he should be leading larger parties by now, not babysitting border villages and counting sacks of grain.

Instead, he said, "When do we leave?"

"Now." Nia's attention had already drifted past him toward the gate. "Your escort is saddled. You know the expectations."

He did. Don't falter in front of the warriors. Don't show uncertainty in front of Trikru. Don't embarrass Azgeda. And, unspoken but always present: Don't disappoint me.

"Yes, My Queen," Roan replied, the word most tasting far too sympathetic and distant on his tongue.

He turned toward the stables, anger and uncertainty weaving so tightly in his chest that he couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.

---

They rode south through fields of ice and dead trees.

Roan took the front position as Nia drilled into him, but he could feel the eyes of her warriors on his back. They were men who'd fought in campaigns he'd only heard about in stories—scarred, weathered, cautious by nature. They didn't openly question his orders. They didn't mock. But he could feel their judgment in every silence.

He ignored it. Or tried.

The land shifted gradually as they rode. Snow thinned to slush. Black earth peeked through. The air tasted less like metal and more like moss. By the time the first stunted pines appeared and the sky darkened with the heavy gray of a forest's shadow, Roan's shoulders ached from holding himself so rigid.

"Lyn Tiron should be near," one of the warriors said. Garron was thick-necked and had a jagged scar along his jaw that no healer had bothered to smooth. "Smoke ahead."

Roan saw it then: a thin column curling from a cluster of low wooden structures nestled against the treeline. Not much of a village. Barely more than a camp pretending to be permanent.
He raised his hand to slow the group.

"Let them see us come," he said. "We aren't thieves hiding in the dark."

It was the sort of line Nia might approve of. He said it partly for her, even though she wasn't there. Partly for the warriors. Mostly for himself.

The Trikru settlement noticed their approach quickly enough. Faces emerged from doorways. A few men and women came to meet them, armed but not in formation. They looked like farmers who had learned to hold blades out of necessity, not soldiers.

Roan swung down from his horse, landing with more force than strictly necessary. He hoped it looked deliberate. Commanding.

"Azgeda sends greetings," he said, projecting his voice across the open space. "I am Roan, son of Nia. I come to speak of our agreement."

Murmurs rippled through the villagers. Both recognition and fear. The typical mix.

What Roan did not expect was for many of their eyes to be turned not on him, but on a stranger standing nearer the center of the village.

Tall. Cloaked. No clan markings visible. He held a wrapped bundle in his hands, and as Roan watched, he passed it to an older woman who accepted it with both hands like it was more precious than jewels.

The woman peeled back the cloth. Meat. Roan saw the red edges, the fat, the way her throat bobbed as she swallowed back hunger.
She pressed something small and metallic into the man's palm. He shook his head. She insisted. He finally accepted, tucking the coin away as if it meant nothing whatsoever.
He moved with an easy stillness that set Roan's teeth on edge.

Roan stepped forward. "You there?" he called out. "Stranger."

The man looked up.

His eyes were lighter than Roan expected an amber shade that caught the weak sunlight and old in a way that didn't match his face. Not old like a clan elder bent with years. Old like stone. Old like stories.

He seemed wholly unimpressed by the six Azgeda warriors and their armed prince.

That, more than anything, sparked Roan's irritation.

"This is Trikru land," Roan said. "You are not Trikru. Whom do you serve?"

The stranger regarded him for a moment, as though weighing which part of the question to answer.

"I serve no one," he said finally. His voice carried without being loud. "I bring meat to villages in need. That is all."

Roan felt a flare of heat, of a childish kind, that he despised in himself.

"You cross many borders for someone who 'serves no one,'" Roan said, the words coming out sharper than he'd intended. "You understand these are not empty lands. You walk where commands are given."

The man's gaze did not drop. "I know," he said. "I've seen enough commands."

One of the Azgeda guards shifted his weight behind Roan. "We've heard of him," the man murmured low. "Seen on the roads near Aenon's village. Hunts more than he needs. Leaves meat behind."

Roan didn't look back. "A generous wanderer," he said, letting the skepticism bleed through.

The stranger's eyes softened a fraction, as if he recognized something in Roan and didn't like the sight of it. The sensation made Roan's whole body go tight.

"You're far from your own capital," the man observed quietly. "And you carry more weight than most your age."

Roan's head ached at the comment.

It landed too close. The expectation. The constant measuring. The feeling of being a blade still on the whetstone sharp enough for festered cuts, but never sharp enough for Nia.
"You presume much about Azgeda," Roan replied. "About me."

"I presume nothing." The man's tone remained level. "I… sense things."

The pause was odd, but Roan didn't quite know what to make of it.

He hated that the stranger sounded more tired than impressed. Hated that his gaze felt like it was stripping away armor he hadn't finished forging yet.

"Listen well," Roan said, something hard settling under his ribs. "You may walk where Trikru permit you. But Azgeda does not tolerate unknown men with unknown loyalties lingering in our shadow. Take what gratitude you can from these people and be gone before nightfall."

There. Firm. Measured. Not a threat, exactly, but a much-needed line in the sand.

The stranger studied him a heartbeat longer.

Roan felt the anger rise, fast and bright, wanting him to do something more dramatic, order the man seized, demand answers about where he hunted, who he spoke with. Nia would ask why he didn't.

He almost said it. Seize him. Almost.

Then he swallowed the command.

Detaining a lone hunter in a starving village would make Azgeda look petty. Desperate. Nia had said not to make them look like raiders.
The man inclined his head, not quite a bow. "If my presence offends your clan, prince," he said, "I'll move on."

The word prince didn't sound mocking. Somehow, that stung worse.

The stranger turned and walked away, cloak shifting around him. No hurry. No fear. As if six-armed warriors and a royal heir were just another part of the landscape.

Roan watched him until the trees took him. Only then did he realize his fists had curled into tight knots at his sides, leather creaking around his knuckles.

"Soft-hearted, these border folk," Garron muttered nearby. "They'd take charity from a stranger before honoring solid deals."

Roan rounded on him a little too quickly. "They'll honor them," he snapped.

The warrior's brows went up slightly, but he didn't comment.

Roan forced a breath through his nose, forcing his temper back behind his teeth. Moodiness was for children. He was not a child.

He turned his attention to the waiting villagers instead.

---

The negotiations were harder than Nia's court made them look.

Roan stood in the central space of the settlement while their leader, an older woman with deep lines around her eyes and a Trikru sigil inked into her forearm, listed off the failures of the year. Sickness. Poor hunting. A late freeze had killed the small crop they'd dared plant.

"We sent what we could," she said. "Your envoys did not like it. They said we cheated."

"You sent less than half the agreed amount," Roan replied, trying to keep his voice as cold as Nia's. "Azgeda burns coal so clans like yours do not freeze. If the flow weakens, so does our patience."

Icy unpleasantness wafted through the crowd.

But Roan also saw the hollows beneath their cheekbones. The cracked lips. Children peeking from doorways with eyes too large for their faces.

He knew hunger. Not as they did—but he'd felt its ghost, once, during a harsh winter when supply lines had frozen solid. He remembered gritting his teeth against the ache while Nia stood tall and announced that princes didn't complain when their bellies were empty.

They simply learned.

"We cannot give what we have not," the village leader said. She tried to sound assured, but Roan could hear the patheticness woven through. "Our hunters have been returning with less and little. If we meet the old terms, our own people starve."

One solution rose immediately in his mind. Nia's solution. Toughen them. Cull the weak. Break one village, so others fall in line.

Another solution tugged at him from somewhere else. His father's old lessons, the ones Nia called soft. Trade is a river, his father used to say. Damn it too harshly, and you flood your own land.

Roan's mouth felt dry.

"Then we'll adjust the terms," he said at last.

Surprise flashed across both the leader's face and Garron's.

Roan pushed forward before doubt could creep in. "For this season," he added quickly. "You'll send three parts instead of five. In return, you will host Azgeda hunters here to ensure the roads are safe and your claims of poor game are not… exaggerated."

A small twist of the knife. Nia would approve of that much.

The woman hesitated. "You'd… send hunters? To help?"

"To observe," Roan corrected. "If we find you've overstated your suffering, the adjustment ends. If we find proof that your land is truly failing, we will reconsider other supports."
He hoped his face did not show that he had no idea what those "supports" might actually be. That was a problem for later. For Nia and the Agra council.

Right now, he needed this settlement to agree and his escort to respect his judgment.

After a moment, the leader bowed her head. "We accept, Roan kom Azgeda."

The formal title soothed some of the sting he still felt from the wanderer's too-knowing gaze.
"Good," Roan said. "Remember who offered you that mercy."

He tried to channel Nia with that last word. Mercy, as something sharp and conditional, not gentle.

---

They rode back as the light bled slowly from the sky.

The warriors were quieter than before, which Roan chose to interpret as approval. At least until Garron edged his horse closer and spoke.

"You chose not to challenge the outsider," the man said. It wasn't outright criticism, but it certainly was not praise.

Roan's temper flared again. "Is there a reason I should have?" he countered. "He fed hungry people. That's more than some lords manage."

Garron grunted. "Unknown men who move freely between clan lands rarely do so without purpose. Nia will ask why you let him walk."

"I know what my mother will ask," Roan snapped, sharper than he meant. The words hung there, hot and ugly.

Garron's expression flattened a fraction. "Then you know to have your answers ready."

Roan stared forward, jaw tight, angry at the man, at the wanderer, at the cold, at himself.

He hated that he'd almost ordered the stranger seized just to prove he could. Hated that he hadn't—and hated more that he wasn't entirely sure which choice Nia would have preferred.
He spent the rest of the ride composing explanations in his head.

Reduced the tithe because they were starving. Weak. Nia would hear mercy and translate it to softness.

Reduced the tithe because a dead village pays nothing. Better. Practical. But then she'd ask why he'd bothered negotiating at all instead of simply taking what Azgeda was owed, leaving them to starve or find other masters. That was what the old stories said Azgeda did. That was what Nia did.

The stranger. The stranger who'd walked out of their grasp like six armed warriors meant nothing.
He was alone.

The villagers trust him.

If we'd seized him, we'd have looked afraid.

All true. All meaningless if Nia decided she wanted him seized anyway.

Roan's hands ached from gripping the reins. He loosened them deliberately, forced his shoulders down from where they'd crept up toward his ears.
A prince does not fidget. A prince does not panic.

But a prince also did not let wanderers walk free. A prince did not reduce tributes on his first assignment. A prince did not show mercy to people who'd already failed him once.
These soft-hearted tree lands have gotten to you. He could hear it—Nia's voice, cool as ice. Your father would be ashamed. Despicable. Disgusting weakness.

Except his father that thin, rattling thing in the dark room. Father had said trade was a river. His father had not ruled Azgeda the way Nia did.
His father had failed.

Was that what Roan had just done? Failed so catastrophically on his first real task that Nia would never trust him with anything important again? Would she rescind the mercy he'd shown Lyn Tiron just to prove a point? Would she hunt the stranger just to prove Roan had been wrong?

The cold bit at his cheeks as his horse's breath steamed white.

---

Nia never kept him waiting inside the throne hall.

Outside, yes; on the ice, on the training grounds, on the edges of strategies he wasn't yet allowed to hear. But once summoned before her seat of power, she liked her messages delivered quickly.

Roan stood before the raised dais, the stone beneath his boots colder than the air itself.

The hall was half-lit by firepits set into the floor. Shadows climbed the carved walls, painted with Azgeda victories: battles, executions, coronations. Roan's father's face appeared in one mural higher up, his features drawn younger and harder than they were now. If he still lived. If that weak, rattling breath in the dark room down the hall could be called living.

Roan kept his eyes on Nia, refusing to look at his father's painted face. There had been whispers, once. About how quickly he'd declined. About the tea she brought him herself, the kind healers weren't allowed near. About courtiers who'd suggested as much and then simply... stopped appearing at meals. One had been found asleep so deeply that three days of shaking hadn't woken her. Another had been executed right there in court for "treason," Nia's blade moving so fast that his blood had still been warm when they dragged him out.

Roan didn't think about that. Couldn't afford to.

She lounged on the throne as if it were merely another chair, arms resting on the carved sides, one leg hooked lazily over the other. But her gaze was razor-sharp.
"Well?" she said. "Did Lyn Tiron remember who keeps their fires burning?"

"They did," Roan answered. "They claimed sickness and hard hunting as excuses. I told them excuses don't shield them from Azgeda's expectations."

A small nod. "And?"

He drew in a quiet breath. "I reduced their required tithe… temporarily. Three parts instead of five, just for this season. In exchange, we'll send hunters to verify their claims and ensure roads are secure."

Nia's expression didn't change. The silence stretched like a trap.

Roan felt sweat prickle at the back of his neck despite the chill.

"You gave them relief," she said finally, her tone almost conversational. "On your first official task."

"It was that or watch them break completely," Roan replied, the words spilling faster now a mistake, he knew immediately. Desperation showed. "Dead villages don't pay tithes at all. This way, they remember Azgeda punished them less than it could have. They remember mercy came from us."

He watched her closely, waiting for anger. Instead, Nia smiled.
It was a small smile. Thin. The kind that made his chest tighten.

"Mercy," she repeated, rolling the word on her tongue like it tasted of poison. "You learned that from your father, I suppose. Before his mind went soft."

There it was the barb, wrapped in something almost tender. Roan's jaw clenched.

"Not a foolish justification," she continued, tilting her head slightly. "Risky. Soft at the edge. But not foolish. Yet." She let that last word hang. "Be careful, Roan. Mercy is a blade that slips easily from the wielder's hand. Make certain it always cuts in our favor. Not for some starving village. Not for sentiment."

"Yes, of course," Roan said carefully, every word measured.

"And the stranger?" she asked, so abruptly that it took him a moment to realize which stranger she meant.
Roan blinked. "You've heard already."

"My warriors report to me," Nia said. She rose from the throne with a serpentine grace, descending the dais steps one at a time each echoed acorss the hall. "An unmarked man feeding border villagers, seen on multiple roads, let walk out of our grasp… You didn't think I'd notice?"

The anger spiked again this time feeling all the closer to dread. The tone was wrong. Too interested. "He was alone," Roan said. "No insignia. No escort. The villagers trust him. That could be useful."

"Or dangerous," Nia said, now close enough that Roan could see the pale calculation in her eyes. "Tell me, my son did you let him walk because you were being strategically clever, or because he frightened you?"

"He was alone," Roan repeated, standing firm even as his pulse quickened. "The villagers trust him. If we seize him openly, we look insecure. Afraid of one man. If we watch him, we learn who he talks to. Where he hunts. Who depends on him?"

Nia's gaze sharpened. She circled him, like a predator deciding whether prey was worth the effort and Roan forced himself not to turn, not to follow her movement.
"And what did you learn from looking into his face, my son?" Her voice came from behind him now, soft. Almost affectionate. "Tell me truthfully."

Roan thought of amber eyes and a voice that said you're carrying too much for your age as if that were a simple fact. He thought about how the stranger had seen through him in moments, had stripped away layers of authority Roan had spent time building.

"I learned he does not fear us," Roan answered slowly, choosing his words like stepping across ice. "But he also doesn't seem eager to challenge us. He moves like someone who has walked through wars before. I don't think Azgeda is his concern."

Nia stepped in front of him again, her face unreadable. For a long moment, she simply studied him, then a revelation of some kind seemed to enter her.

"Describe him," she said.

Roan did. The height, the build, the way he'd moved so precisely for a simple hunter. The sense of weariness that clung to him in place of obedience. The eyes were old in a way that didn't match his face.

When he finished, Nia turned away and climbed back onto her throne. She settled into it like a cat, one finger tapping slowly against the carved arm.

Years peeled back in her face for the briefest moment, not softness, but something sharper. Recognition. Memory. Something that looked almost like fear, though Roan couldn't imagine what could frighten the Ice Queen.

Then the mask slid back into place.

"Interesting," she murmured. "It seems the old stories still walk."
Roan frowned. "Stories?"

"Not for you yet." Her tone snapped shut like a trap. "For now, consider him a wandering variable. You were right not to drag him back here in chains. Azgeda has more obvious enemies to attend to." She paused, then added with that thin smile: "Though if he becomes a problem, I'll deal with him myself. The way I deal with all problems that threaten my throne."

That should have satisfied him.
It foolishly did not.

"I could have taken him," Roan found himself saying, the words escaping before he could stop them. "If he becomes a problem, I can—"

"You are still a boy," Nia said dismissively, "One who did adequately on his first assignment. Do not rush to bleed for glory that will come in time. Or for recklessness that will get you killed."
Heat flared in his chest resentment, humiliation, and something pathetic. Fear. The sting of being named what he feared others still saw when they looked at him.

"I am not a boy," he said, more loudly than he intended.

Silence dropped into the hall faster than the great waterfall.

Nia's head tilted, amusement ghosting briefly over her. "Then prove it," she said. "Not by throwing yourself at the first strange knife you see, but by learning when to watch and when to strike. And Roan?" She waited until he met her eyes. "Never mistake watching for weakness. The strongest predators are the ones others never see coming."

There was a message in that, though whether it was a warning or a threat or both, Roan couldn't determine.

"Yes, Queen Nia," he said, the words clipped.

She studied him for another heartbeat, then flicked her hand in dismissal. "You've done well enough not to shame me today. Go. Rest. Tomorrow we speak of the hunters you'll assign to Lyn Tiron."

He bowed just enough to count, not enough to feel small, and turned away from the throne.

As he walked out of the hall, the torches along the walls cast his shadow long and thin ahead of him. For a moment, it seemed taller. Broader. Like it belonged to the man he wanted to be instead of the boy Nia still saw.

Behind him, he heard her voice soft, speaking to someone he hadn't noticed in the shadows long time, guard to the Royal family Tybe. "Send word to the outer settlements. I want to know everything that stranger does. Where he goes. Who he speaks with. And if he so much as breathes near Azgeda's heart..." She paused. "Bring him to me."
Roan didn't slow his pace. Didn't look back.

In his mind's eye, amber eyes watched him from the treeline, unreadable.
You carry more weight than most your age.

Roan set his jaw.

Let them watch, he thought. The stranger. The clans. His mother. One day, he would carry that weight like it was nothing at all. One day, he would be the kind of ruler who made people fear the casual cruelty in his smile rather than question it. Never able to be read by a passing stranger again.

---

A.N. It has been a while now not my intent there serval stories I haven't updated I want to continue, but being it's my last year of college, and i've been focused on landing at least one internship before I finish up (which thankfully I will be starting one in early January. )

I've just struggled to find the time to even read much less write but i've had greater drives to write lately so that appears to be changing anyway I hope this chapter was appreciated I enjoyed getting in the headspace of young Roan and cover some of the dynamics of the " ice court," which was never really covered at all in the show. As you may have guessed, Roan will be a bit more prominent in this story though I also plan on focusing more on what Jasper is doing in the next chapter. My plan is to keep things pre-dropship a few more chapters, then we will be in canon officially.

Thoughts and speculation/wants appreciated. Comments really motivate me.

 

[Marcrawsky]

this chapter is pretty much unreadable in dark mode with black on a dark background.

 

[FireWalkWithMe99]

this chapter is pretty much unreadable in dark mode with black on a dark background.

Click to shrink...

It has been fixed

 

[Marcrawsky]

It has been fixed

Click to shrink...

Thank you.

 

[Micro Pena]

Just passing through and noticed. Figured I'd help out. Presumably, you're echoing Twain's A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court title with your own. As it stands, "Humanities" would indicate multiple rather than ownership, thus "Humanity's" would be more apt.

 

[FireWalkWithMe99]

Just passing through and noticed. Figured I'd help out. Presumably, you're echoing Twain's A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court title with your own. As it stands, "Humanities" would indicate multiple rather than ownership, thus "Humanity's" would be more apt.

Click to shrink...

Thank you very much i'll change the titles to reflect this soon. Just need to figure out if i can on ffn and ao3