He’d been provoking her, of course. It is his shtick; it is a common exchange between the two of them that keeps him coming back for more. He will forever be the inciting barb, trying, (mostly in vain) to get under her thickened hide. His grin grows in earnest when she snorts at his claim that Scorch is the better fit for Khaleesi. To her credit, it’s all the argument she makes. Crito had been expecting a thorough tongue lashing or even a firm strike, but he understands why she holds back. But he doesn’t want to think on it right now, not when he’s closer – physically and mentally – than he’s ever been to the grey warrior.
He knows it couldn’t have been easy for Lagertha to deliver the news. She’s certainly not the warm and fuzzy type. Nor is he, for that matter, but she is ever the consummate Amazon. If anyone was fit for the job as its lead, it is her. He wonders how it will affect the rest of Beqanna as a whole, wonders at the difference between its former queen and its current. They have always been one of the strongest kingdoms and he thinks they will only continue to grow stronger under Lagertha’s iron rule. Unlike his own home, he thinks, the thought as bitter and biting as Tundra air. And for the first time, Crito thinks there might have been some power to the Blood Alliance. With Errant and Scorch gone, that same blood is slowly draining from the lands. Only time will tell if it is a curse or a boon. He doesn’t imagine he’ll have enough time to see the outcome for himself, though.
The steel lady is unsurprisingly adamant that the Jungle will, in fact, benefit. Not from countless children (which he admits was a strange addendum to Scorch’s ruling scheme) but from hard work and ambition. He can’t laugh, because he knows it comes at his sister’s expense, (even he is sensible enough to hold back in this instance) but he wants to. Instead, the bay roan smiles lightly, wrangling in the extra mirth that lingers on his lips. “I’ve no doubt you’ll see that day soon.”
The Jungle pulses behind its’ Khaleesi. The sounds and smells grow and fade with each beat of his heart. The place is more amorphous than any other, certainly, and it often feels like it has a life all its own. He misses the chaos sometimes. The Tundra is the polar opposite: imposing, expansive, desolate. Sometimes he feels like he’s the only living part of it; sometimes he feels squeezed by it, like he doesn’t belong for all the warmth in his limbs and movement of his blood. But these times are few and far between, really. Crito’s come to relish the snow against his ankles and revel in the nightly dancing of the northern lights. It is home. So when Lagertha offers him a retirement here, in the humid embrace of his homeland, he doesn’t entertain the thought. His sunset is fast approaching; he can feel it in the weariness of his bones – Crito will not leave the Tundra after this. His beloved snow will soon bury him.
“Careful Lagertha,” his storm-eyes swirl with mischief as he looks at her. “You sound more like a lady than a Khaleesi with that offer. Don’t want anyone to get the wrong impression.” The older man moves closer, finally feeling warmth from something other than the forest beyond. This close, he’s even more impressed by her. Warrior muscles stretch just under her iron coat, proving capabilities he’s never seen but believes - but that’s not what draws him in. He’s more impressed that she’s let him come so near. He softens, all traces of his comedic pretense gone from his face. She smells pungent and earthy, dark and sharp. Crito thinks if he can’t have the jungle, maybe he can at least have her. For now, for once, but not forever. He’s not fool enough to believe that. “I’ll miss this,” he says, and it’s not clear if he means the Jungle or her or something else entirely. That same howler monkey cries in the distance and the forest falls silent for just a moment. He waits in that space, afraid to fill it or to leave it.
C R I T O
king's hand of the tundra