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He leaned upon the garden gate, barely aware of the falling snow that dusted the shoulders and lapel of his neatly tailored tuxedo jacket. The swings and shifts in weather and temperature had little effect on him, although he much preferred the warmth of spring and summer to the generally appalling, ‘innocent’ look of a world cloaked in white and the skeletal, dead quality of foliage. The ties of magic and vows made that bound him to her, kept him beholden to her and protective over her might have smoothed the edges off of the fallen one he had been for millennia, but he did not expect to ever be pure of heart, and thus blinding innocence and goodness still tended to be an anathema. At the same time, however, he had been trapped here, in this body, this form, this world…with her…long enough that appearances of death were gradually losing their attraction.
He would have preferred the hum of bumble bees to the howl of the winter wind.
Hand pressed to his pocket, he reassured himself that the tiny notebook he carried at all times was still there. Filled with his musings, the observations of humanity made in this day to day existence, it was a treasure he could never tell her about…filled with tidbits he could never share with her or anyone else.
Who would understand the private thoughts of one who had spent the majority of his eternal existence in hell who now found himself surrounded, and quietly enamored, with life?
He could not tell her how his heart swelled with love each time he saw her.
He could not tell her how he had come to cherish this life she had trapped him in more and more each day.
He could not tell her that someday, when mortality claimed her, he would continue to be bound to her bloodline, to her infant daughter who stared at him with an instinctive knowing every time their paths crossed in the great house.
No, she would not want to know those things. Or maybe she would, but he could not imagine ever sharing them.
What he could share, however, was a gift of a sort few others could offer. He knew…he understood…the sort of power Daenerys carried. And now West, with her great magic, another sort of power that once he would have found darkly attractive in a stronger way then he did now. Magic…dragons…and a sway over the Lord of the House that he knew made her anxious for the existence she had led, for her very life. His hope was that this gift would even the playing field for her enough to ease the burden of fear and sadness she carried.
One hand stretched out over the snow, for once appreciating the time of a storm, he flexed and curled his fingers, elaborate gestures and ancient words drawing together a mist from snow, from the air, from the power of the moon and stars and all things unseen in the astral realm. Such words were not spoken lightly, for any error in doing so could draw down the wrath of the heavens, or call up the fires of hell, to devour both him, his creation, and the one the gift was intended for in one retaliatory breath.
‘Here I am being extremely clever,’ he thought ruefully, ‘and there’s no one to stand around looking impressed.’
Azazael might be changing his ways, but that had not erased his confidence or haughtiness.
The elements coalesced in his cupped hands forming the shell of the gift, a tiny thing still, filling the fullness the space with its airy weight and feather softness. He brought it nearer his face, examining his creation for flaws before uttering one further arcane phrase and breathing a spark of blue-green light and breath between his lips into its delicate infant feature.
Infant now, but not for much longer. It was the way astral magic worked, after all.
Azazael held his breath. The moment of truth would prove either his success or failure in manipulating a magic, a force, he had not tapped into in a very long time.
Pale wings of the thinnest suede-like membrane quivered. A tiny mouth of needle teeth opened in a yawn to suck in the life-giving breath its creator imparted, and then slowly its lids parted providing the kitten-sized beast with its first glimpse of the solid world.
There was no attack, no crack of retaliatory lightning sent from above, no force of hell clawing from below. His creation was healthy and whole. It would never grow to the terrifying dimensions of the trio Daenerys possessed…
…but it was a dragon of spirit, air and magic…
Just the sort the Lady needed if she was to have a chance of success in the days to come.