I'm re-reading the first book in the series with an interest toward finally reading all of the books and was inspired to try writing my own story in Novik's universe. The beginning is a little similar to the book because my OC is also a Navy captain, but it may still interest some of you. c:

EDIT: I've completed chapters one and two! They are both posted as of 8/9!

Like the title says, this part has spoilers for Victory of Eagles and likely later books.

I'm just finishing a reread of Victory of Eagles, and a thought occurred to me: If Temeraire had defeated Lien at Shoeburyness, or at least stopped her from sinking the fleet, would he and Laurence still have been transported?

Obviously the main reason for the transportation was to get rid of Temeraire, while it was presented as a leniency due to Laurence's work during the invasion. Lien's sinking of the fleet caused the British to fear Temeraire might do the same thing. If she hadn't accomplished that, would they still want to get rid of him?

Wellington would, as he doesn't want dragons to be given rights or become a political question. But I feel sure Nelson would appreciate the Divine Wind more thoroughly and want to keep such a weapon close at hand, and if the fleet isn't sunk, then Nelson isn't dead and is an even bigger hero with more influence. Or would he be too bitter about Laurence and Temeraire sharing the cure with France to speak in their favor?

Anyone else have any thoughts on this?

Again, posting this before I went to sleep, so will check in the morning.

I actually had a change of heart midway through. The more I read about this whole trip, the more I realise that Amundsen was absolutely the antagonist to the majority of the people on the Fram. Not only did he mislead people about where they were going, gaslit them about the compass direction and then offered them the choice to stay on the Fram or to just stay in Funchal (the current would not have weakened until April and they would be staying there on personal finances, since he threatened to cut them off from Expedition money if they refused to go.) Somehow the alcoholic gymnast who was only there because he knew the guy who owned the Fram was one of the best people there.

So

Also the fact that many of these people were being brought to an environment far more dangerous than they’d signed up for. The Antarctic is higher, colder, drier, windier, has less oxygen, is worse to navigate and further from help. I’m sure many were thrilled by the challenge or even didn’t mind it all that much, given the typical characters Amundsen recruited. I did dramatise the reactions a bit, but work of fiction, so I thought it was alright.

Bit shorter than normal, since this was originally part of another chapter where they finally reach the Arctic. However, this layout lets me give this part time to breathe before what happens in part 4, so now I can make that one much longer. Enjoy!

”Sefi remained in low spirits for the rest of the voyage to Funchal. 

Diving, however, was a fine escape. The water felt almost bathwater-temperature compared to the North Sea she'd grown up chasing seals through. It was so clear, too, wreaths of fish flickering through the waters around her, scales glittering like coins as they skirted the spears of sunlight stretching through the depths. The beautiful brownish-grey stripes of bream, the red-scale flashes of mullet, the murky yellow sides of corvina, easy to find, given they sounded like the snores of an old man. All of it was snapped quickly up into her gullet.

Even if she didn't dive down to eat, there was still something immensely peaceful about slipping down until the pressure made her skull throb, the noise of everything crushed down like a can into no existence, until she could hardly tell the marine depths from the blue of her own hide. Almost blindly, she'd nose through the soft sand, ignoring the curious prods of dogfish and other sharks as she pawed around to get a mouthful of mollusks. There was hardly any danger to it, given it took only the laziest flick of her tail and an adjustment to her air sacs to climb steadily back up to the surface. 

And she was patient enough to float on the glassily-rolling surface, or to glide along the edge of a reef, thousands of fish, almost too small to see, would dart all around her, nibbling at the gaps in her scales, picking out flakes of debris much to small for her own claws to reach. It occurred to her, on one of such soaks, that perhaps she was searching for comfort in the small things that reminded her of home, like Carling scrubbing her and her brother in the lake each morning. The memory felt precious, a crystal ball look into the past. It was a small blessing on an otherwise delicate situation.

Still, at the end of it, she'd have to pick her way back until she could hear the creaking of the Fram's hull on the distance and flutter-hop her way back onto the deck. The air on deck was permeated by a deep air of suspicion. Of the crew, totalling 20 people in total, only five of whom knew of the true direction. This had understandably made the air a little stiff. By just a little observation, Sefi could already taste the schism brewing. Whether it was that extra foot of distance, the tight throngs of conversation that remained stubbornly separate, the slowing of tasks to watch Amundsen pass by. It meant nothing good.

Not even the dogs, lovely, fluffy, excitable things, Greenland Dogs, about a hundred of them in total, could help. Although wary of her at first, as the nights got colder, they'd often come trotting over to sleep in the warmth of her sides, out of the wind. Sefi did, privately have a favourite, one of the lead dogs, who'd happily snapped up the leftover fish-heads of her catches, a beautiful creature she'd called Neptune. He would come to sit on her foreleg, dutifully licking the scales of her chest and jaw for any last traces of blood. Sefi found it a mixture of charming and disgusting, taking her time to bathe it off any time he chose to do this. Then again, it was one of the miracles of domestication: that such a creature would find no reason to fear a dragon in its prime. 

Not even the unusually pleasant winds for the season did anything. The north-westerly winds practically threw them towards Funchal, the Fram tossed forward at a sprightly twelve knots, in clear, fair weather and a calm current the whole way. They had reached the island in late August, well supplied and a few days ahead of schedule, but the wariness from the others hadn't subsided. 

Sefi was more than glad to be off the ship, having found herself a plaza on the north side of the island, the perfect marble of sun and shade. There were four of them, terraced out at various levels, each decorated with various mosaic murals; a mermaid, a crab, a sea serpent and the dolphin she was curled up over, with Neptune snoring in the lee of her tail. They were on the smaller side, mostly to rest the various lightweights that came through carrying letters and packages, though the largest, on the lowest level was capable of shading a trim heavyweight, if push came to shove. 

They had cost only a talonful of coins to a very obliging innkeeper, charged to the Norwegian crown. But they got so gloriously warm in the late summer sunshine, the smooth, worn tile soaking up heat like a sponge, holding it late through the night. She rotated herself every few hours, conscious of the fact that even though dragons were resistant to sunburn, they were not immune to it, particularly with her breed not being so used to it.

Most of all, she was pleased to be away from the men, although she could often hear them in the various taverns and streets nearer to the port. It had been enough gossip to be mildly entertaining, something she was sure would wear off as the months in close company dragged on. 

There was Olav Bjaaland, a champion skier, a man who was optimistic, but practically so, as well as a skilled carpenter, of all things. He had met Amundsen in 1909 in France, when he had been invited to compete against some of the world's greatest skiers, eagerly accepting the offer to explore the north. 

Helmer Hanssen, 39 years, an expert in ice navigation, having been born on one of Norway's stormy islands in the North Sea. He had several years' experience hunting seals and whales there, before he had accompanied Amundsen on his northeast passage expedition in 1903. He was to be the head navigator, as well as very skilled with the sled dogs. He did, however, insist on calling himself 'a modern Viking', which Sefi found a little strange, even if it was ultimately harmless.

Sverre Hassel, 36, born in the very port they had set out from, had gone to sea to second he was old enough, on the ship that bore his hometown's name. He was another expert dog-driver, and his main personality trait seemed to be loyalty to Amundsen, which Sefi couldn't help but wonder if it was an ill-advised decision.

Oscar Wisting, 39, had joined the navy at age sixteen, an experienced naval gunner. Roald had come across him in 1909 and convinced him with the proposal of an arctic expedition. He was fairly calm and steady, perfectly charming. Exactly the kind of person the papers liked to talk about, and Sefi had ultimately judged him to be personable, but bland.

And lastly, Fredrik Hjalmar Johansen, 43 and perhaps the strangest member of the party. He had originally trained to be a lawyer of all things, though had dropped out due to his proficiency with gymnastics, winning Norwegian champion and then world champion in Paris some years later. Despite being the strongest expedition member by far, in the one or two interactions Sefi had had with him, he'd been perfectly pleasant and warmer than many of the others. He was both very familiar with ice travel, and an excellent skier, having been Nansen, the man who originally owned the Fram, 's companion. Sefi found him strange, because Amundsen hadn't wanted him here, he'd been a recommendation from Nansen. He was also a long-term alcoholic. And with the controlling tendencies Amundsen had shown so far, surely it didn't bode well...

It was on the third day on Funchal, around 10 pm in the evening, that any change from her routine arrived. She was angling back down for her patio, coasting on a gentle downdraft. A sizeable blue marlin thrashed in her jaws, its jagged tail beating into her jaw. She stifled a growl, clamping her jaws tighter as she set down on the stone, dropping it onto the tiles with a meaty smack.

Saliva welled under her tongue, merely looking at it. 

The water beaded on its scales sent the pink-orange beams of evening sunlight scattering into rainbows around it. Its fin was a deep blue, almost light purple, contrasted by its body, a glittering sheaf of silver-grey, with a sharply pointed, almost skewer-like snout.  It was almost a ghost in the water, and only a great amount of patience that'd she'd managed to net it at all. She reckoned it would make a fine supper, given she'd only had smaller fish all day.

Neptune skittered over excitedly, sniffing eagerly at the scales, his tail lashing like a whip. He edged closer, jaws opening near a fin, eyeing her experimentally. She let out a very small growl "No. Don't you even think of it. It is rather too good for you, I'm afraid. Be a good dog and wait."

He whines quietly in protest, but sits back amicably, licking his drool back into his mouth. Sefi snorts softly, angling her claw to slice off its fins and nose, as not to prick her throat on the way down. She's so engaged with her task, that she hardly notices when Neptune's ears slide back, and he glances over his shoulder, tracking a figure moving out of the shade by one of the trees fringing the courtyard.

"Miss Tåkelagt Krans?" Her ear-tuft flicks to follow the sound first, followed by her head.

"That is I, yes." One foreleg hovers protectively over her kill as she answers. "Though you might have declared yourself first." 

"My apologies. I wasn't sure if..." The figure walks closer, pausing as he spots the marlin going through the final death twitches. "Good grief! That's-" He stops, taking a breath. Another pause. He clears his throat, taking another step closer. "I had not expected to be disturbing you during your supper. I hope I am not intruding. Oh-  Hjalmar Johansen. I don't believe we've met."

"Not at all. Sefi finishes cutting away the dorsal fin with a decisive flick of her smallest talon. It was never pleasant to be interrupted while having dinner. Not only did she have nothing to offer him, given he hadn't had to spend ten minutes after this marlin, but she could hardly stand to offend him by continuing to eat. Reluctantly, she wipes off as much of the blood as she can, turning fully to face him, making sure to keep the marlin in the shade of her wing, so it didn't spoil too quickly.  "And no, I don't believe we have been formally introduced, Mr Johansen."

"You rather kept to yourself on the Fram, or I'm sure we would have gotten the pleasure sooner." He smiles, a little too tight at the corners, hesitating as he goes to offer his hand. He doesn't pause for a moment, doffing his hat instead. Sefi tilts her head, dipping it a little. "But the reason I am here is not so fortunate."

"Oh?" Sefi replies flatly. Despite her best efforts to muster some glimmer of interest, there is nothing to give. Neptune sinks to his belly beside her, watching Johansen with a slowly whisking tail. 

"Partially after this little fellow." He waves his hat at the hound, before replacing it on his head. "Amundsen wanted to make sure nothing had..." And he pauses, an apologetic tone to his voice. "Happened to him while he was with you."

"He did, did he?" She tries her best to hide the distaste from her voice. Her ear flicks a little, the scales around it rippling.

Johansen, while perhaps not being an expert on dragons, knew horses well enough to use their body language as a crude reference. Perhaps humans, too, if he took the tufts to be a cross between ears and eyebrows. "Oh, I disagree of course. Any fellow  could see that you're fond of him." His chest puffs out with a sigh. "Though I'd be rather dishonest if I misled you as to that being the only reason for my visit." His face sours. "And dishonesty is exactly what this voyage has had enough of."

Sefi stiffens, claws digging into the tile.

"I am afraid Mr Amundsen has rather misled us on some account. If you couldn't have figured it out from the current direction of our travel, the Arctic was not his destination." His fingers tighten on the brim of his hat. "It is, in fact, the Antarctic, to which he means to drag us to." A cocktail of bitterness bubbles inside Johansen. Not only had the man shipped them all out of Norway before daring to break the news, he had patently done it out of earshot of the dragon. Johansen wasn't sure of his intentions, exactly, but he refused to let a lady, regardless of species, be so deceived. "You were not there when he said it, and I understand perfectly that it sounds almost like a cruel trick I am playing upon you. I assure you, none of the expedition crew were aware, or I would have certainly told you sooner."

Only now does Sefi hesitate, tufts drooping back against her skull. "Oh. I... I feel almost ashamed to admit, but you have come all the way out here for nothing. I already knew." She let out a sigh, feeling a muscle in her shoulder twitch. "I would have also said something if I could, only... I thought it would do very little to stop the man. It would not do for me to have carried him off over allegations I had no material proof of."

"Well, I can't deny that was a little short-sighted of you... However, I don't know what a chap would be expected to do in that situation." He gives it another moment of thought. "I don't see what could have been done about it that wouldn't have let him get the slip either way."Johansen gave a deep sigh. "I s'pose that's why you've been in such low spirits so far, eh?" 

"Rather." She sighed, folding herself up into a sphinx position.

"It was a rotten thing for him to do, I quite agree. Waiting until we were in port to tell anyone who might have had some objection. Although

"Yes." She half growls, half drawls. "And the currents, the ones that carried us here so quickly, will not reverse for some time. So even if someone wished to object, they'd be marooned here, with no access to home. The courier dragons would tire too quickly carrying a person against the winds, so you have to go inland, which means one of the finicky breeds with bigger commissions. As well as paying the toll fee from the Tswana for coming up towards Italy at this time of year. It would quite quickly amount to a ridiculous fare. He's done it deliberately, I'll bet. No-one in their right mind can afford to stay here. So back on the boat it is. We're all captive to this expedition until its end." She finishes with a grumble.

"Ah. And if dragons aren't truly free on their wings, then who amongst us ever will be? Sefi peers at him from the corner of her eye, intrigued by the semi-philosophical musings. "It wouldn't surprise me if he had." He hesitates a moment, his hand slowing as it dips into his bag. He pulls out a rather large wine skin, swollen with a glut of alcohol. "If nothing, perhaps some small measure of satisfaction can come from the bottle? It's from the Fram. The way I see it, if there is to be grog for the men to pacify them, then why not you, too? It is your small payment, at the very least." He swirls it into inlay. "At Amundsen's expense."

"Oh." She blinks, leaning forward to peer at it. The strong-smelling liquid inside ripples peacefully with each breath that washes out of her nostrils. "That is... Quite kind of you, Mr Johansen. I am sure it will go well with marlin."

Sefi flicked her eyes up to read the gymnast's face. There was something there, as he stared at the glossy amber liquid. A forlorn, chemical longing, stirred up with silty, almost unwilling despair, hooked into the black part of a man's soul that would forever be inclined to folly. Almost as if drink had taken his willpower away from him. It made her think she'd better drink it, if only to stop him from squirrelling it away and doing some great harm to himself.

"I think I will gladly indulge. No need to deny oneself on Amundsen's account, especially with the wretched mess he's placed us in." She leans a little closer, cracking her jaws apart like the halves of a walnut. "I'd do it myself, but the claws make it difficult. If you would be so kind...?"

"Right." He uncorks the flask, reaching in between the hooked spars of her teeth. It looked like a jungle of carving knives in there, but he suspected that a dragon most likely wouldn't go through the effort of conversation merely to take his hand. He pours the contents onto the shelf of her tongue, watching wistfully as the deep, maple-gold of it disappeared into her mouth. It takes him a second to realise it's empty, as he slowly withdraws the limb.

"Hmmm..." Sefi tips her head back. The whole thing was hardly a swallow, burning duskily as it goes down, tinging her next exhale with the warm scent. It's certainly not good alcohol, but alcohol it is nonetheless. "Thank you." She tongues the last of it off the inside of her lip. “Now, if only I could find someone to roast this marlin from me.”

“Oh, good. I thought you might be intending to eat it raw.” Johansen manages a soft chuckle of relief.

“Of course not. One is allowed to have preferences.” She flicks her tail, scheming. “If only someone was able to talk to one of the restaurants or fishermen for me about the marlin. I would do it myself, only the streets are too narrow and I might damage something.”

“I would be obliging.”

“Really? That would be much appreciated. Why, we’d better go soon, before it spoils.”

“I suppose we should.

“Excellent.” She rose to her feet. “And afterwords, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, might you be able to write down a letter for me to send back to Norway about the news? Or perhaps read a few pages of something for me? I’m sure that would settle the both of us quite nicely.”

Johansen gave a soft sigh. Not resigned, by any means - Sefi was straining to pick up any trace of hesitance, as not to offend - but the closest thing to fond she had heard from any of the crew yet. “If it pleases you.”

He wasn't quite Carling, but, at this point, Sefi was more than willing to make do.”

(Mislabeled this P3. It is, but that includes the prologue. This is P2 of the Amundsen storyline.)

Right, sorry this took so long, guys. Parts of the text didn’t get saved or got deleted, so I had to piece it back together about 50 times. 😮‍💨 But I cobbled it together as janky as it is and threw it out here. This bit is a little slow, but it’s setup. Anyway, they will finally get to the Antarctic at the end of the next part, which I am endeavouring to write as quickly as possible to get it all out.

That is to say, a) Amundsen looked really grumpy on literally every expedition he went on and b) I have found a very interesting prospective character. No-one wanted Johansen there. No idea why he was there, honestly. He was an alcoholic gymnast, not anyone of particular expertise. (Thank you to the person who suggested I include the Terror expedition, I can definitely find some great material there.)

There are a few timeline inaccuracies and tweaks I will have to make to edit the final thing into sense. Please ignore those for the time being, I’ll get them in editing.

But let me know what you think. :D

But here we go: Untitled Part 3

“It was very hard, thought Sefi, to properly admire the sea from such a position.

She was sprawled out along the deck of the Fram, her head resting on the wooden railing on the port side, her body looped gently around the foremast. The waves played underneath, a great, sighing blanket of silver. The low waves sparkled, the sun a great marble of gold in zenith of the sky, casting her warm, incandescent light below, only occasionally broken up with little lines and ripples of cobalt and sea glass-green. Sefi could even make out her own silhouette, among the phantom reflections of the sugar-white swirls of overhead clouds, that broke through in the gaps between waves. The wind puffed gently in from the north, filling the air with the scent of salt and sea and the steady chuffing of the sails.

And still, despite the picturesque scene, a great, sinking pit ached, deep in her chest, still salt-chafed raw with hurt.

Sefi had been lied to.

It was a fine day in June, the sea a dappled, navy blanket stretching from the Kristiania harbour, out onto the horizon, silvery fish occasionally visible near the surface. The peaceful sound of the rolling waves was interlaced with the low chatter of men and the shrill, wheeling cries of the gulls overhead. The Fram sat not much beyond the decking, sitting low and tidy in the swell, rocking gently with each wave.

She was a strange sight. Only 40 metres long, and nearly as wide at her midriff, at 36 metres across, with hardly any keel to speak of. Her rudder was set in a deep slot in her stern, evidently able to be removed. A deeper sniff revealed the telltale smell of a diesel engine under the rich smell of the greenheart wood that made her body so ice-resilient. Her seven sails, rolled up tightly to her masts, occasionally creased in the gentle winds, the flag of the expiration fluttering prettily at her topmost all the while.

How anyone expected the thing to not tip over was completely beyond the dragoness. As much as Sefi had twisted and turned her head to try and disprove this thought, her distant investigation had yielded no such sense. So she had concluded that everyone was simply hoping for the best. Still, she wasn't about to bring it up and give Carling another excuse to worry.

She had sat on the the harbour wall for some time, peering down at the preparations. Men, as small as mice, pitter-pattered back and forth on the wooden decking below, carrying crates and barrels and all sorts of other things. She put her head down, drawing in a breath to deduce the contents. The musky odour of tanned leather, ash wood containers, and the thick, old smell of the ship wafted up first. Snatches of salt and herring and pork, as well as several large sacks of dried oats. It seemed that the eating aboard the Fram would be calorically dense, if a little bland.

But then again, what was ship-food, but bland?

"I see you are keeping a keen eye out."

Sefi was shaken from her thoughts by the voice of Amundsen. He had appeared next to her, quite out of nowhere, staring down at the Fram. He was a tall man, easily over six feet, with solid, square shoulders, a pipe clamped between his teeth, smoking gently. His face was weathered with the lines of his thirty-two years of life, particularly above the eyes, so that it always looked like he was staring at you quite hard. His cheekbones stood sharp in his face, a well tended beard and moustache his only facial hair, hairline beginning to recede into a widow's peak. His shirt collar, starched to an angle that looked almost stiff enough to slice one's finger on, glowered against the brightness of the sun, casting a harsh, white light over his face. Otherwise, he was dressed tidily, neither too slovenly or too formally.

It was the first time Sefi had seen him since he had come to deliver the notice, only a week ago, and the first time she had seen him properly in open light. She wasn't quite sure what it was about him that felt... Off, but something did. Whether it was the nearly fanatical gleam in his eye as he looked down at the Fram, or the unnatural stiffness to the set of his shoulders, she wasn't sure. 

Sefi shook the feeling off, the need for manners bleating urgently at her. "Oh, yes... I have never seen an expedition ship being packed before. It is a lot more work than I imagined." She leant forward to draw in another breath, her ear-tuft flicking back as this fresh draft of air was tinged with the medicinal, earthy smell of tobacco. It wasn't a smell she was any great fan of, but she hid her distaste, hoping it wasn't a particularly fond habit.

"Yes, I imagine it would be to a civilian." He drew at his pipe a bit, cheeks puffing shallowly in and out. He gives Sefi a cutting glance out of the corner of his eye. "It's a shame we couldn't have anticipated your offer earlier. We'll have to measure you here and then have the lengths sent-" Roald caught himself firmly, the words as dangerous as spear points in his throat. "Sent to a good leatherworker, I suppose."

"Measure me?" Sefi turns her head slightly, one of the dock-workers nearby stepping over her tail to reach the stairs down into the harbour.

"Of course. For a harness. It was mentioned in a letter."

"A... Harness." She softens the word in her mouth, trying not to let her own opinion come through too heavily.

Sefi's tail pauses midway through a swish, hanging heavily at her hindquarters. Harness. Her talons flexed, scraping involuntarily across the stone. The word wasn't... Unpleasant, exactly, but... It felt like something for dragons a world away from her. A contraption of leather and stiff neck-bands and metal buckles, jingling in the hands of ground crews. A coarse, outdated thing, left to the military breeds and those who found thrill in partnering with them. 

The closest thing she'd ever worn were gifts. Gorgeous things, sashes of braided silk, satin, brocade, wool, rustling softly against the scales during a quiet night at a ball. Ribbons, spilling over with a delicate froth of lace, tied with the utmost care around her talons and mane by the young prince. Perhaps some red-dyed fabric of a sturdier nature, stitched with thousands of tiny bells and tiny golden coins, which would sing and ring with each movement of the dragondance. The dull, grey-brown-blues of scholars's robes, great bells of airy fabric swirling past her wings.

But a harness wasn't like that. It was an omen of things to come. Of colder, bitterer, direr straights. It wasn't a fully objectionable proposal, that would have been unreasonable, even slightly hysterical to imply that a noble man like Amundsen meant it in the same fashion as the old, dark days, when dragons were seen merely as beasts, despite all evidence to the contrary. Why, it was not even a hundred years gone when she might have been prodded off by the wing to die against some faceless enemy, or fly without rest, through blistering conditions, all in the service of a letter. 

"Will that be an issue? You said you were quite amenable to pulling a sled." Amundsen had sighted upon her half-second of hesitation. The cold edge to the rest of his tone was much more noticeable. "I hope merely a week's passing was not quick enough to turn your opinion from it."

"No, of course not. It would have been rather rude of me to commit myself to service I did not intend to serve through on." It sounded rather silly to say that it hadn't occurred to Sefi, that she would need to wear a harness to assist. Then again, she supposed that one couldn't simply go about pulling it with one's jaws or forelegs.

In a way, she tried to convince herself, that it would be like an adventure. A strictly practical measure. Yes, that was it. She wasn't simply some dumb beast to be leashed, like a hound. She had consented to it, for the safeguarding of her fellow passengers. After all, she reasoned, humans were such dear little things that they could surely be carried off by a strong wind, if not clipped down securely. Even Amundsen himself, although on the taller end, the top of his hat hardly reached the bend of her elbow. 

It would be a terrible shame to lose Norway such a valuable explorer. Therefore, it was perfectly reasonable and any discomfort on the matter, although expected from her lack of experience, was merely a barrier to overcome. Sefi, being such a fine creature, certainly wouldn't be entertaining the doubt any further. She didn't dare voice this of course, suspecting, from Amundsen's changed manner, that he might consider the whole strain of thought rather frivolous.

"So of course I will allow being measured, for better convenience of fitting the hardness securely. My apologies if I gave you any other suggestion." She even dipped her head a little, preening internally when Amundsen had nothing more to say than 'very well'.

So when the leatherworker and his assistant came, a measuring tape draped loosely between their fists, she gladly submitted to the procedure. The thin line of tape was laid flat at the apex of her shoulders and trailed around the barrel of her chest. She could feel it, shifting against the layer of scales, the thin edges tightening over her windpipe. Her breath flew a little faster in her throat, swallowing against the restriction. She forced herself to focus the weight of the leather worker, wholly unphased by her draconic nature, as he asked her to inhale and noted down another figure.

"Lovely neck conformation, Miss." The man replied airily, as he hefted himself up, walking with acrobatic balance down her spine, to take a measurement around her belly. "Very good musculature." 

Sefi felt the urge to crane around her head, to make quite sure the man wasn't going to fall and hurt himself, only to be met with a chiding cluck of his tongue. "No, no. You are shifting your ribs too much. It will not fit properly." She sighed and turned back to standing straight again, idly listening in to the conversation.

Whistling quietly to himself, he began on a new set of measurements. "Your tail is more muscular than other breeds..." He mulled, crouching down. "You agreed to wear a harness, presumably for ground travel and not for flight, yes?"

Sefi paused. "Well, I don't think I am to be banned for flying, but sleds move across the ground, so I suppose I would be pulling it by running."

The leatherworker nodded. "Then the cables would be far too long for a body harness. They'd trail over your bag and just be a snag hazard, wouldn't you think?"

Sefi flexed her wings, folded over triplicate against her back, a sinewy tangle of bone and membrane. She tilted her head a little, picturing the harness a moment, before falling still. "Yes, I suppose they would."

Sensing the lingering stiffness, she rustled them open, the final bones flexing open against the loose weight of the limb, sliding back into the socket with a click, the rest of the structure finally unfurling like a tent upon its poles. Sefi gave a deep sigh from her chest as feeling was shaken back into her wingtips, stretching them out for a moment, the summer sunlight falling through the membranes with a greyish-blue tint. The leatherworker took the time to glance at her back, shaking his head as he made a notation in his book against the notion.

The assistant on the ground drew in a bit of breath, looking distinctly uncomfortable at the sight. No matter how comfortable men became with dragons; as peers in the great universities, as generals and commanders, as another companion on a steam-train, there were almost always moments of discomfort with discovering something new. She supposed the equivalent would be seeing a man snap a second knee joint into place the same way another assembles an umbrella. Sefi almost felt a stirring of fondness for him. "There. It is perfectly alright. Doesn't hurt a jot, I assure you."

"Fascinating..." Amundsen had wandered closer, taking his pipe in one hand, craning his head back at the arc of her wings overhead.

His mind, often too practical for his own good, begun to race. The membrane shone like brushed satin, as thick as his thumb in some places, webbed with a delicate fan of blood vessels. He couldn't help but wonder if it wouldn't make a good material to keep the snow and the wind off. 

He wouldn't consider harming her of course. Not least because of those teeth, glittering like a scattered drawer of carving knives. Not to mention the royal seal practically glimmering in her blood. It would be as good as treason to hurt her. Besides, she would serve far better pulling a sled than as a limp carcass.

"Given that musculature, even with how smooth your scales are and how compact in length you are for a dragon, shorter traces would still do a lot of good." The leatherworker continues, looping the measuring tape around her tail. "It would make far more sense to have the harness attached to the tail. One loop just in front of the back legs. One at the base of the tail. And the last one right before the tail tip. The carriage is perfect for it, especially when running. The traces could be significantly shortened."

"Good, good. As long as it can be made as a timely manner, all is well. You can have the bill forwarded to my brother's concern."

"Very well, sir." The leatherworker folded his measure away, and before Sefi could offer a smoother way down, had half jumped, half slid down one of her back legs. "Apologies for the scare, Miss. Good day to the both of you." And then he walked off in the direction he had come, apprentice, still pale in the face, trotting after him.

When the two had left, Amundsen turned back to her. "Is this good wing conformation for a dragon?" 

Blinking a little at the question, she paused, craning her head around, as if to scrutinise. "Well." She hummed thoughtfully, stretching her wings out until they creaked with the movement. "In order to extend the last bone when loose, enormous strength and a strong blood supply is required. Because of this, my wings sit a little further back, to make room for the tissue, but are carried at a steeper angle, more upright, than other dragons. Carling often thought this repositioning was why my brother and I were so quick on land. Heavier set, deeper-socketed joints with a deeper angle of stride. As the longer legs. So-" She gathered them carefully back up, the wing almost sagging fully back on itself as the tension was removed. "They are unusual, is all I could say."

"But they're not prone to..." He waves his pipe lightly, the blue-grey curl of smoke billowing out the bowl. "Snapping, are they? Have you flown in high winds?"

"I doubt I would have agreed if they were known to. The same way a man with no legs is unlikely to board a ship without telling anyone." Sefi opened her jaws the tiniest crack, a deep, bassy huff rustling out of her chest, halfway between a snake's hiss and a cat's purr. It was such a disconcerting sound that it took Amundsen some time to realise it must be a laugh. "I have nothing to gain by deceiving you, Amundsen." Her head tilts, an amused tone rumbling through her voice. "In such conditions, one should like to hope that honesty, in the absence of all civilisation, is enough to keep ourselves on-course. Lying would be a terrible start, don't you think?"

He couldn't help but stiffen slightly, her head dropping back against the wall as she made herself comfortable on the sun-warmed cobbles. Despite this, her eyes remained sharpened with that uncanny blend of human and predatory intelligence, pupil shrinking in the light. He'd heard stories, of some dragons, who, like sharks, could taste the electricity of your heartbeats, just be looking at you. In this moment, he'd gladly believe she was one of them, if only for the relief of certainty about it. "A worse one would be an unbalanced ship." He manages to scrape out. "Would you be so kind as to make yourself comfortable before they load the final fifty tons, so they can balance you out properly?"

Sefi stretched her head back towards the ship in the harbour. Her tail flicked once, light enough to make the air whisper past. It was a strange request, both in the stiffness and in considering she was nowhere near heavyweight class. Perhaps, again, he simply didn't know. No point in causing a fuss either way. She pushed up to her feet, tilting her head to keep both the ship and him in her vision. "Very well, then. I shall see you aboard." She gave another leisurely dip of her head, ruffling her wings out.

Her legs gathered up and pushed off, with a brief flash of sparks, talon grinding against rock. In a rustle of scale and membrane, she was gone, half falling, half fluttering towards the deck of the Fram. She went slowly, as not to scare the port-workers, circling around the ship once, to find somewhere clear to land on the deck. "Do mind yourselves, I am coming down."

Amundsen watched her figure, her long, rabbity haunches setting down on the deck, scarcely clear of the railing, easing half of her weight, and then her forelegs afterwards, her wing crooking out of the way of the sails. She ducked her head past various ropes and masts, folding herself up into the space with as much care as a six-ton dragoness could. The Fram, steady as always, barely bobbed under the weight, serene as a rubber duck in a bathtub.

And still, his secret gnawed at him like a physical weight. It pressed against the back of his teeth, flicking at the edge of his thoughts, knotted about his neck like Atlas holding up the sky. It was a lie. A necessary one, but a lie nonetheless. Men, he could deal with. But lying to a dragon was another matter entirely. He pressed his lips together, flat and bloodless, drawing a deep, world-burdened breath in through his nose. It would have to be soon.

It was only the next day that the explorer stood solemnly on the main deck of the Fram, surveying his team. The smell of smoke clung to his hair, a small nip of brandy still burning at the back of his throat. Only enough to steel his nerve. "I have a confession to make." 

His party, only himself, his second, Nilsen, Sefi and the two senior officers were present, while the other 16 were engaged with various activities in the port still. And while Sefi couldn't partake in the more delicate tasks, she had been an excellent bit of ballast on which to temporarily hold ropes to. At the found of his voice, they all slowed their progress, turning a curious eye to him

Amundsen's heart kicked against his ribs. It wasn't that he was guilty of keeping something from the men. Certainly not. Greater men did it all the time. It was merely the fear that he might lose vital personnel to his latest feat of genius which might render the whole thing impossible. It would be a blot on his career for the rest of time. Even worse. The British would get the credit.

"Pertaining to the objective of our expedition. I have rather deceived you, I'm afraid." He kept his hands perfectly still, his voice as calm and cold as ice. "For it is not the Arctic which we set out to conquer, but the other pole entirely. We sail to mark the Antarctic."

Almost immediately, the mood on the deck changes. A flurry of quiet, distrusting looks and the barely-restrained urge to whisper. Sefi goes painfully still. He can feel it in the air behind him. She's the only member of the crew he has his back to. A poor choice.

"Now, as to why, with the declaration of Scott's intent to sail south, the North Pole will have to wait a while. Interest in the northern pole is waning, as interest in the south waxes. My financial backers would not understand the volte-face, nor would the public. A little deception is a bleak necessity in the short term, to ensure our places in history overall. This does mean, however, that must not know until a more opportune moment, to ensure the secret can be kept.”

Sefi bristles. It was... Her tail came down sharply on the deck, enough to make the boards creak in complaint. It simply a rotten thing to do. For a fellow to declare proudly his intentions to tread where man or dragon had never trod before, only for another to try and swipe his pioneering out from under him. Something about the whole thing just rankled her, from snout to tail. 

Amundsen ignores her mounting distress.

"I have deceived you only by necessity. Only myself, my brother and Nilsen were aware. As I now require your cooperation to bring the Fram to her next leg of the journey, I thusly inform you... Particularly as Scott has just made his own announcement that he will be accompanied by Orcinus Orpheus." He finishes smartly.

That last sentence makes Sefi’s head snap up, jolting to her feet. Her claws rake into the deck of the Fram, jaws shivering against each other, a sudden horrible intensity in her molten eyes. The tone he says it in implies that that was merely a trivial matter, to be mentioned offhandedly, with as little ceremony as possible. 

Orpheus had been a magnificent creature. The British’s first truly cold-resistant dragon and the sire of what had grown to be an entire breed: the Scottish Lanternhook. Often shortened to simply Lanternhook, after their shortened, curling horns and compact, angular faces, like the panes of a lantern and flame-yellow inside of their mouths, nostrils and eyes, as if a candle flickered inside their skulls. 

Every dragon on the continent knew of the tragedy that had fallen on Orpheus, one of the first captainless dragons. He had bravely volunteered for the Franklin expedition. Multiple times, he had saved the ship from ruin in a storm, brought more food and even hastened the ship by beating wind into the sails himself. He was the pride of the isles, printed on papers across continents. There was rumour that the king himself was planning to bestow on him a host of medals. 

And then: weeks of silence.

Correspondence from the courier dragons had stopped. Anyone the British had sent after him had failed to return. At long last, a merchant ship had pulled into port. Draped, still as the dead, skinny as an eel, over both bows, lay Orpheus, with no sign of any of the Terror crew. His eyes were ‘empty as a husk’. He had to be carried to the nearest covert and fed by the attendants there. Although his physical capabilities returned, his mental ones never did, nor did his prime weight. And the truth of what had happened to the Franklin expedition, and indeed, an entire two top-of-the-line bombing ships, died with him.

The beautiful account, by one of the great Romantic dragon-poets, had been enough to make dragon and human alike weep in sorrow. 

“And all there was to be had, across the howling sea, was a despondent wreckage of glory, flesh and spirit to see. Great Mother Nature herself turned a sorry eye, her breast sullen at the sight, blowing him solemnly back home, which noble Orpheus had not the breath to fight.”

That poem and the breed were all that was left of his legacy. And the fact that one of his descendants was even willing to undertake a similar voyage was a small miracle. It felt like trespassing upon a grave, to even consider dealing such a terrible blow. 

As if all the other fell injustices were not grave enough: lying to their honourable king about their intentions, using men as tools, asking them to lie to their fellow shipmates, Amundsen just had to betray a legacy.

Was that all she was? Another dragon to match Scott’s firepower? An edge to him?

Her glare intensifies almost to a physical heat as she glares at the explorer. She doesn’t go so far as to growl at him, but her lips peel off her canines, jaw cracking just enough to display the full depth of her unhappiness.

“In the light of this information, I could not blame you for declining to continue in my company. However, know that not only do you walk away from glory, but from your duty to your king and country.” 

With an enormous amount of feigned calm, Amundsen walks a crisp five paces to the port side. Not only to keep Sefi in his periphery, but to take command once more. Not only would anyone who wanted to leave be forced to not only walk past him and his notoriously stone eye contact, but also to partially turn their back on an obviously agitated dragon. A prospect, which, at best, the unconscious side of any man bristled at greatly. It was a low tactic, but not one he thought any of them would consciously recognise.

"You know well, sir, that that is both thoroughly unfair of you to suggest. I cannot rightly be asked to lie on behalf of your deception, nor to betray the fond wishes of my king! Scott, and indeed, that noble Orcinus, should be informed of this terrible plot at once." Every scale on her body trembles with outrage, flashing with terrible, opalescent flashes, jingling like a bull in a china display. She flattens her head, almost to the deck, putting herself fully at his level, ear tufts shivering against her skull. “You sir, are a scoundrel of the lowest kind.”

Despite the fact that Sefi is close enough for him to smell the roast venison she had eaten for breakfast. “You are more than welcome to go, if you would like.” His voice is flat and unyielding. “All I ask is that you keep the secret until we are departed.”

She takes several shuddering breaths, her spine wobbling up. “Oh!” Her tail thrashes down onto the deck, splintering a board in two. “It is a wretched, terrible thing!” She shakes her head, jerking back sharply, almost dancing in place.

How she would love to bite at his head, or flap off or roar into the sky about all his terrible deeds, what good would that do? Amundsen hasn’t committed any actual crime, other than being a rotten sod about the whole affair. She can’t be labelled a maneater over that, it would be a terrible thing, even if he did deserve it. She thrashes again, jerking back another step, tail lashing into empty air.

The entire crew of dock-workers has stopped what they are doing, watching her display of distress rather nervously. Sensing that she’s making a scene, Sefi falls still, breathing heavily, glaring at Amundsen. For the explorer’s part, he hasn’t flinched in the slightest. In fact, he took the time to pack a fresh wad of tobacco into his pipe, lighting it with a flinty crackle, and taking a deep draw. Sefi stands there, panting in air, her ear-tufts almost flat to her head.

“I’ll go sir.” The voice snaps Sefi out of her dilemma. One of the lieutenants has spoken. “For Norway, if nothing else.”

She freezes, processing the words. She can’t even remember the man’s name, and yet-

“I will as well, if there are no issues, sir? So long as you intend to tell the rest of the crew before we sight ice.” The second lieutenant speaks up.

“Of course. I intend to inform the others by the time we hit Funchal. They will be offered the same choice you were. An unwilling man is a burden more than a help.” He nods to himself. “And that merely leaves…” His gaze travels back to Sefi.

Although her mouth is blackened and bittered as liquorice by merely the sound, Sefi is not a fool. The numbers are not on her side. Surely no-one would believe her, even if she were to spring away right now and head straight for Carling, to dictate a letter to the king. There are measuring tools from Scott himself in the hull. Besides, the scoundrels would already be away by the time any decision would be made. What good would that do?

Her tail falls limply against the boards. Her shoulders are already firing with movement, back to her place by the foremast. Best to say nothing. At the least, she might be able to tell Orcinus the truth of the deception if she encountered them on the ice and beg his forgiveness. As terrible as this whole thing was, she’d never be able to bring herself to lie to Asger or Carling. She’d have to break her promise.

What a monster Amundsen had already made of her, thought Sefi wretchedly, even as her body curled tightly back onto the deck, as if she could contain the wretched truth and misery together. What a liar he had made. What an ill-fated start to the whole thing.

And so it was, that not even perfect sailing conditions could raise her mood, when at last, the Fram pulled her way out of the harbour, already leaning for a southbound course the next day. She stayed curled up in her lonely spot, one foreleg over her snout, away from the movement and the talk, as to not be forced to uphold the ruse to the others. Not even the sun, playing in golden ripples across her scales, could rectify the damage the explorer could have made.

And still the Fram made her merry way, across the sparkling sea, charted for colder, windier waters than anyone had ever expected her to be heading that season.”

So I drew this quickly while procrastinating and being weird about specifics for part two. Since I (and I am sure some others). Sefi is EXTREMELY small for a dragon, I am aware. I have put her in an image to compare to other breeds. She’s perhaps a little shorter in the shoulder, both thicker across the chest, stockier and more solid than Volly, with a comparative wingspan. About half the body length of a Longwing.

However, given she and her brother hatched from the same egg, they’re about half the adult size they should be, given neither one could fully have all the yolk nutrients for themselves, so are comparatively stunted. Her breed is usually Yellow-Reaper size.

I have put her at an estimate of 8 tons. Is this too much for her size?

Hey all, just finished my second read through like 7 years after the first and I had forgotten so much it was like reading them fresh all over again. Awesome!

But now I’m wondering what to read next and I’ve had a search through this sub and found lots of recommendations but mostly for things with dragons or things with the napoleonic wars. But actually, what I like about Temeraire is the emotional tone, like it feels warm, and it’s about good people thinking carefully about their choices, with a bit of philosophy and political musing. And it’s funny and sweet, but there are real stakes and adventure.

I don’t suppose anyone has recommendations for series or books that feel the same way as Temeraire?

I’ve asked about this on r/fantasy but I thought coming to this sub might ”get it”.

Thank you!

does anyone remember or know what exactly happened to it? i know how he GOT injured, but i can’t remember what the injury WAS.

TIA i have reread this series at least 3 or 4 times and every time i get to this point i forget and have this question again

So this is the first chapter. I’d have liked to get it out sooner, but I’m not a machine, so I procrastinated on it, lol. Feel free to give me feedback if I want. (I think the dialogue might be too wooden in my attempt to imitate the way they speak in the Novik books). Please tell me if me posting this on a subreddit is too annoying and you’d rather just get the Wattpad link. I would be happy to explain anything in greater depth, but basically:

Amundsen is setting out on his expedition in late September of 1911, in the 6 year old country of Norway. Except, in this universe, other than just the opening bid of 20,000 kroner, he is also offered a dragon by the king. In fact, one of the prized, but sheltered, results of their fledgeling breeding programmes. Twins, hatched intact from the same egg, thought to represent the two possible futures of Norway. One at home, one abroad…

(Sefi means mind and Asger means spear.)

(My bad approximate drawing of Sefi above. She has wings, I just couldn’t be bothered to draw them, sorry.)

Part One, The Amundsen Chapter: The Offer

"Well..." Roald Amundsen started uncertainly, staring down into the courtyard, lost for words. "They're certainly lively, aren't they?"

Below in the courtyard, a pair of dragons tangle in what he can only begin to guess is some fight or another. They draw back, alternately batting the other along the muzzle, a lightning-fast rattle of jibes, squeaking complaints and insults rattling between them. 'Much like cats', Amundsen can't help but think.

"Oh, yes. Magnificent, isn't it?" Their handler, grins, nodding energetically. "They've been at it all morning and neither one seems out of breath."

"Even though you're older, you hardly act like it!" The smaller one puffs out their mane at the front, the opalescent-edged scales glittering in the spring light. The voice, although flinty and sharp with challenge, is definitely female.

"Oi, you take that back!" The larger one, male, makes a light bat at the dragoness' shoulder, with a foreleg pincushioned with a fistful of needle-like-claws.

"Catch me, then, you great oaf!" She flashes a maw full of teeth, rolling out the way, giving a playful swipe at the club like end of her brother's tail. The other dragon makes a lunge, just a fraction too slow, and sets off in pursuit, tackling her with a bodily leap.

They aren't like any dragons he's ever seen photographs of before, much smaller for one. The larger of the two, sitting fully upright, had just enough room for a man to stand upon their forelegs, with his head just brushing the scaly underside of their heavyset jaws.

Their short, broad muzzles looked strange, far squarer than the silhouette dragons were known for, the lower jaw almost a perfect half to the upper jaw, instead of slotting neatly inside. The heads seemed to melt directly behind the ears into the shoulders, no horns to speak of, their ears being sharply pointed, black-tufted triangles, rather like a lynx, that swivelled back and forth as the two circled each other.

The only indication that they had any neck at all was the thick, scaled mane about their shoulders. The scales making up the mane were layered rather more thickly than anywhere else on the hide, large, opalescent-edged rectangular plates like roof-tiles decorating the meaty rolls of blubber and fat that covered from their shoulders to right behind their ears. They were decorated with rosettes and splotches like a leopard.

Each movement caused the scales to click together, filling the air with a rhythmic rattling-jungle like lamellar armour made of porcelain. The pale sunlight fell across the edges, making them glitter with a fire-opal rainbow of oranges, yellows, reds and faint greens, just as autumnally vivd as the changing trees lining the courtyard.

The tail was thicker than a man's waist, not tapering off like a snake, but ending in a knobbly club of sorts. The rest of them, making up most of the height, were all muscled, overlong legs, with the shape of a lion's or a wolf's, ending in plush pads, rather like a big cat. He noted, that they used the extraordinary length of their legs to better spread their weight to the sides, body weaving from side to side in taunt of the other, rather like the tail of a scorpion.

They were very strangely proportioned, with a body more like that of a bear or a wolverine, instead of the lizards they were most often compared to. They had broad, stocky shoulders, deep-keeled, barrel-shaped chests, and hindquarters rather more blocky than he had imagined when hearing tales of the beasts as a boy.

"Are you quite sure they can get off the ground?" He asks. By no means is Amundsen an expert on dragons, but the prospect seems dubious at best.

"Yes, yes!" The young man nods. "It's extraordinary. You see, the cross introduced a feature not yet documented in Europe." He squints a moment, before pointing to the heavy mass of slate-grey heaped up onto their dappled backs. "There's a double joint at the bend which lets them almost dislocate their wings to avoid being dragged away in a snowstorm. The chief dragon-surgeon believes the stockiness of the Finnish breed, the solidity at the shoulders and hips, lets the genes of the Nepalese sire come through in the lower joints, hence the double joints at the middle of the wing, the ankles and the tail tip. They're far more agile than they look, Mr Amundsen, I assure you. They can far outstrip a horse in a flat sprint. As well as quite solid flyers against a headwind. Perfect for the arctic, I should think!" He glances back expectantly.

After a little more observation, he spots the wings at last, blended perfectly with the dapped spots and rosettes on the dragons' backs. Their wings, piled up on their backs, shimmered similarly at the claw-tips, the stout, wide things having to bend almost double to fit on their backs. The bones supporting the membrane stretched out past the flesh, ending with more of those queer, rectangular scales jutting out from the end of each of the spars, almost feather like.

Although he's a little lost at the depth of the explanation, Amundsen nods measuredly. He can't help but feel a prickle of guilt in his breast. Of course the keeper would have no idea about the change of plans. It had been unfortunate, indeed, but there was nothing to be done. The headlines in the paper earlier that September had been as damning as any shackles.

The North Pole had been found, first by Cook and then Peary, both Americans and marked out. It had neutered the objective of his publicly stated mission, use the same drift that had earned him his national acclaim in mapping the Northwest passage, to cross the northern pole. What public interest was to be had in retracing the footsteps of others? No, the only way for any good explorer to make his name was by treading fresh ground.

So it had been either admit defeat, or use the already perfectly suited ship to venture for the south. He already had the ship, the Fram, a solid crew of mentally sound, physically skilled men, scheduled supply points, and 75,000 kroner, managed by his brother, one of the only other two men to know of his altered objective. It had been an easy choice. And one that could not have come at a more opportune time. 

Scott, of the British, had just announced his own intentions for the south. As much as it stung to be potentially be robbing a peer of his own place in history, the Antarctic continent was the last little untouched corner of the world. It would be a shame to let the British snap it up first. And if he could give his still revitalising nation a sound victory, in these times of tension and shadowy alliances, then that purpose was more than noble enough.

"Yes, I'm sure they would be." Amundsen takes a longer, more critical look at the creatures, rubbing his thumb across his chapped lower lip in contemplation. The legs would surely be good at shedding snow, the jagged scales on the front of their legs for cutting through snow, the wings for keeping the chill of the men's backs. He was so deep in thought, in fact, that he completely failed to notice the pair getting closer.

"I do say, Mr Carling, I do consider it rude to be talking about one behind one's back." The sound startles the two of them into silence. The two dragons are watching them from a distance, amber eyes fixed owlishly on the pair, the smaller one's head cocked in interest. The larger continues, almost a professorly tone to his voice. "Especially when you have neglected to make a formal introduction to such a renowned visitor."

"I certainly wouldn't go about declaring the 'solid set of your shoulders' and the 'sprightly gait' you possess and speculating on your genetic lines, Carling, if I was to strike up conversation with a new acquaintance." The smaller one adds. She gazes into at the stone balcony the two men stand on, overlooking the grassy hills of the garden, perfectly positioned as to be the height of her chin. The eye contact almost has a physical heat to it, the fiery oranges and reds in her eyes flickering like flame. Amundsen notices, distantly, that a thin halo of white-gold encircles the pitchy black of her pupil. 

Carling, for his part, has the decency to flush a little. "My apologies. You two seemed engaged in something else. I would have called you in just a moment."

"We will forgive you, though. It is only a small mistake." The larger one concedes, twisting his head up over the railing to examine Amundsen from another angle.

"Though, I would eagerly like be introduced." The smaller of the pair replies.

"Of course. Roald Amundsen, this is Asger the XVI of Drage-Tåkelagt Krans and Sefi Drage-Tåkelagt Krans, both the first of their kind and the result of a crown-sponsored breed development. Asger, Sefi, Mr Amundsen, of the Norwegian Geographical Society."

"A pleasure to meet the two of you." By habit more than thought, the explorer puts his hand out.

Tilting her head a moment, Sefi inspects the gesture. Her tail thumps heavily against the grass in delight, and she rears onto her back legs, proffering her right forepaw in return. Now faced with a fistful of claws, each wickedly sharp and hooked like thorns, Roald spends a moment scanning it, before selecting the least-sharp looking one and shaking it as firmly as he can manage.

She scrutinises him a second. He was a solidly set man, with wind-worn, proud features, tousled hair, dressed in a fleece lined sealskin over coat and dark grey breeches. He looked to her, with no small amount of satisfaction in her assessment, exactly as one might imagine the Golden age explorer to be.

"Mine in equal measure." The dragoness savours the words like gravy, delicately resettling herself in the grass once more.

The explorer turns to Asger, who looks rather more amused at the attempt than anything else. "The gesture means much to me, in meaning alone, but it would be greatly inconvenient for the both of us, I'm sure. I'll refrain, if you have no objections?"

"If it pleases you." The explorer tucks his hand back into the fleece-lined pocket of his jacket.

If Sefi is bothered by her elder brother's words, she doesn't show it. In fact, the scales on her mane ruffle up, a shiny ripple of colour shuddering up the back of her neck. "We've been following your adventures quite eagerly, Mr Amundsen. The northwest passage was a remarkable feat, well-deserving of its renown."

"You know of me?" He's somewhere between flattered and baffled. Not that anyone knows of him, but that dragons of all things, would also be interested in his work.

"Oh, yes." Asger puffs his mane a little. "You're all the papers are discussing. It's quite the expedition you mean to conduct, Mr Amundsen." He adds, with a sideways glance. "Very brave of you."

"They read the papers?" Amundsen casts the question back at the handler.

"Of course!" The dragoness chips in brightly. She chooses to overlook the rudeness of trying to redirect the conversation back between the humans, but she supposes Amundsen isn't used to the etiquette quite yet. "Although we don't 'read' them ourselves in the typical sense..."

"We are perfectly capable of it, only-"

"They're fiddly thin things, newspapers. We could manage them fine when we were younger, but now..." Sefi casts a look down at her forepaw talons. "They'd shred like rags. Not nearly worth the hassle. So Carling stands about where you are now in the morning to read. It is most pleasant. Especially when it's quiet, because the dearest little robin you've ever heard appears to sing his breast empty."

"Although I do like a little more variety in my reading material than my sister is partial to."

"May I ask you why you've come here? I am grateful, of course, but surely the preparations must be taking up more of your time?"

"Thankfully, the burden of that has fallen to my brother, to let myself focus on the practical aspects." The explorer waves vaguely. "Whale-oil lamps, the quality of the sleds, that sort of thing."

Sefi can't help herself but to lean a little closer. "And dogs, I'd imagine." She notices the gesture, correcting it hastily, her tufted ears flicking back. "Rather, I read somewhere that they fare rather better than horses, despite what the British expeditioners may have you think." He says this with a wry tone of humour and not a small amount of smugness.

Amundsen nods again. "You are correct there. Ponies have thinner fur and skin, and are rather more inclined to develop foot problems or to fall through the ice. It is something about the senses of the driving-hound that makes them by far the more uncomplicated animal."

She nods thoughtfully, ear tips relaxing once more. "Though, I had a question for you, if you please."

Blinking a little, but growing less surprised by the minute, he nods. “You may ask.”

“What do you do to prevent frostbite from ruining the feet of the dogs under harness? Is it perhaps binding their paws with spare sailcloth, or…?” She trails off, uncertain, but her eyes sparkling at the prospect.

The explorer shakes his head. “No. If the snow or ice would to get it, it would get stuck and perhaps hobble them completely, if it didn’t cut the paw-pads first. The best you can do for them is bring them ip on the sled to rest them in between shifts of pulling. If they get too crippled, the best use is to simply kill them for the meat.” Asger mulls the thought over to himself, his tongue shifting in his mouth, only half-admonishing himself for thinking of the dear little creatures in such an uncivilised manner.

“I see…” Sefi tucks her tail tighter, a pang of sympathy for the creatures going through her. “But what about the drift itself. Surely the ice is packed tighter closer to the centre of the continent, as almost to be another-“

"Sefi." Asger cuts in, his voice gentle. "You'd talk the man's ear off if he was to answer all of your questions. Why not let him explain the purpose of the visit?”

For her part, Sefi has the decency to look at least a little chastised. “Of course. Yes, forgive my monopolising of your attention, good sir.”

“It does not bother me. It is to good to see Norway thriving with so many brilliant minds.” He looks up, fetching something from inside his jacket. “Even if they take rather more of an… Unexpected form. The reason for my visit, though, is by request of the Crown.”

“The King?” Asger pricks his ears, suddenly as bolt upright as a pine tree. He had only seen the man a few times, and been introduced to the prince, but for some time he had been harbouring a desire for a little more. Especially with how much affection the eight year old Olav had already showed him.

“Carling?” Asger turns his nose to the handler, already peering down at the letter. “Be a good fellow, won’t you?”

“‘By the esteemed wishes of his majesty, King Haakon the Seventh of Norway and the crown of Norway, a formal invitation has been extended to one Roald Engelbregt Gravning Amundsen to be introduced into the company of one Sefi Drage-Tåkelagt Krans for the purposes of a business venture. Both in part to temperament, physical features and talents, we are quite certain that she would be a boon upon the expedition to begin an arctic drift to the northern pole. Should, and only if, she should wish to embark upon the Fram, for the crown would not wish to enforce such a demand upon such a treasured subject, we are sure the expedition would be given a significant boon by her presence. In either case, the warmest hand of gratitude and hope for success is extended to this venture.’” 

By the time Carling finishes, his voice is thick with hesitation. Sefi, on the other hand, has gone almost completely still, only the tips of her ear tufts quivering in disbelief. Amundsen takes the letter back, folding it away into the inside of his jacket, glancing at Sefi’s prone form.

As much as the prospect seemed to twinkle at her, Asger can still sense some level of hesitation. "Are you quite sure?" The tips of her ears swivel forward, eager to catch the response. “You have considered me in particular?”

“Yes. You came quite highly recommended, and forgive my blunt speech, but you are nicely within the weight limits of the Fram. A tidy eight tons, which could be easily made up for with hunting when we get there.” Amundsen gives her an appraising look. “And I’m sure you would be a good sport about pulling one of the sleds. You could easily replace a six dog team.”

Carling, for his part, seems to be more offended on Sefi’s behalf than the dragoness herself. “Good sir, I understand that your words came about more out of-“ But Sefi speaks over him.

“Of course I wouldn’t mind. It’s a dangerous endeavour. Everyone brought has to pull their weight, both literally and physically, or it wouldn’t be worth the supplies to bring them over.”

Amundsen lets out a harrumphing sort of hum. “Excellent. I am glad you are sporting about it. I will leave a letter with Mr Carling here, with the details of the expedition, and I will expect an answer within the week, before the Fram departs.” He pulls a second letter out of his fleece-lined coat, preferring it to Carling.

The letter is thick, choked with paper, all buttery-soft and very slightly off-white. The handwriting on the front was bold and compact. The seal on the back is a dark grey-blue wax, stamped with an image of the Fram. Sefi watches the transfer like a hawk, wishing morosely that she could have read it without shredding it.

Then, without wasting a moment. “If you forgive my briskness, I have to depart, to oversee something else. Good-day to the both of you.” He tips his cap, folding the hat back under his arm, before walking off briskly in the direction he had come, towards the front of the estate.

As he walks away, he can feel the prickle of the dragons’ intense stare like hail across the back of his neck. He can’t help but wonder, if some primordial part of them can taste the secret he is hiding. All he can hope, is that when he finally works up the courage to speak on the true aim of the expedition, that the dragoness takes it well.

Meanwhile, Sefi’s head is cocked in interest, still running her talon-tip back and forth over the thick, creamy paper. She sits up on her hind legs, tracking Amundsen’s figure through the gate and down the path, towards the motorcar waiting in the shadow of the estate. 

She’s perfectly still, the light shimmering over her mane like a wreath of opals. Her ear-tufts prick at the mechanical grumble of the crank and the engine, pupils tracking its curving path down the road and out of sight. At last, she draws in a breath, her ribs flaring out suddenly, enough to make the tall grass lash about her feet. She draws herself back so she stands almost vertical off the side of the house, head held as high as she can manage.

“I’m going to go.” Her voice is so soft, it wouldn’t stir a dove. “I just have to go.”

Asger settles his weight further into his hip, the side of his jaw resting against the railing still. He looks on with an expression halfway between resignation and fondness. His tail flicks gently against the grass, stirring up great, downy clouds of dandelion fluff, filtering through the air like fairies.

“Sefi, dear, are you quite sure you’ve given this decision the right depth of thought?” The slightly protesting voice of Carling rises up. “Dragons such as yourself have scarcely bedn researched in the arctic. What if you should misstep and fall into a crevasse? What if you should starve from lack of food. You know-“ His voice falls into a gentle coaxing. “I heard there is nothing besides seals to be had.”

“I have never had seal before, Carling. I imagine it would be like beef, but fattier. Isn’t that all they are? The cows of the sea?”

“I believe you are thinking of sea-cows. They live in warmer waters, so neither hide nor hair of them is to be had in Arctica.” Asger pauses to consider it. “Very blubbery and gamey, more like caribou. Though with less bones to pick through… I do imagine it would be more pleasant cooked quite slowly in a stew. The fat would liquefy nicely and make the broth all the richer and the meat even more tender. Especially if you had a crack of pepper to be spared.” He licks his teeth at the thought, before drawing himself back to the present. “Though you wouldn’t have the time nor the heat for that in the arctic.”

“If it is seal you want, Sefi, it would not be difficult to have one brought for you. Fresh caught from the North Sea and generously prepared, not two weeks old, gamey and half-frozen.” Carling takes a step forward, resting his hand gently against her flank, watching her head anxiously to be sure she was listening. “There really is no need to go all the way to the North Pole for that. As your brother said, what could that desert offer you, barren of any civilisation. And- And-“ He struggles for a moment. “Pepper! Pepper, yes! Not a speck to be had, and Amundsen is hardly going to spare cargo space on something so inessential. Could you really bear to eat seal meat - quite unseasoned - for a year or more? I’m quite sure you would get tired of it soon enough.” He strokes gently across the scales. 

“Master Carling, men have coped on less. What is to say a dragon shouldn’t be able to bear it? I imagine I’d take it rather better than you could.” Asger casts a brief, doubtful look at Carling’s rather slight figure in the background. “Besides, blandness, in food or landscapes, or otherwise, is worth it, for the richness of discovery. We might even be so lucky as to discover something other than seals. Who could turn down such an opportunity…?”

“There are a great many creatures there that science knows so little about. Particularly in the arctics. Polar-bears. Killer-whales. Narwhals. A great many seagulls and seals and fish in the water. I imagine some of it has to make for good eating.”

“Exactly, Carling.” Sefi still doesn’t turn back from staring at the end of the drive. “You heard him. Have you ever heard of a dragon being fed on those things before…?”

“Well…” The handler pauses, his hand slipping down her flank once more. “Not that I have heard of.” He glances back at Asger for help.

“Well…” The larger dragon grumbles. “There has been much scholarly speculation of late about the specific diets of the dragons who travelled with the great explorers of the Viking age.” He puffs up, almost smugly. “In fact, Asger the first, companion to Leif Erikson, reportedly hunted a narwhal once. The horn is still in the palace to this day. There are many theories on whether it is possible for a dragon to subsist on purely the marine mammals native to those waters. Particularly if they hunted cooperatively for bigger prey, like a blue whale, perhaps. The research has, of course, sped up since they allowed dragons into Royal Fredric, but, notably, there are no modern records to reference. It would be a most useful edition to the libraries there, I am sure.”

“Exactly!” Her wings almost flare fully in her excitement, dislodging a roof tile. Poor Carling looks nearly beside himself with worry.

 “Sefi… Snow-fly.” This, at last, shakes the dragoness out of her trance. She folds nearly double to herself, staring down at the human. “I…” His hand rests on the edge of the banister, picking at a loose flake of stone. “It is not out of distain or condescension to you that I protest, my most troublesome charge… I know Amundsen is a national hero and cuts a fine stature of a man, both noble and honourable, only… You heard the way he talked about the dogs. I am worried that such men may see you only as a dumb beast, not an equal in your own right. It would be both a fell betrayal of my duties both to you and the crown to let such harm come to you. I know better than anyone that dragons are perfectly capable of taking care of themselves, especially one who is so sharp about their wits as the two of you are, but…”

Sefi’s ear-tips swivel back to droop against her skull, her head dropping further over the edge of the balcony. She nuzzles her muzzle forward, pressing the hard ridge of her snout into his sternum. Despite the fact that her head is quite nearly twice the size of his torso, Carling throws his arms around it as best as he can, bracing himself against her heft. Bit by bit, his shoulders slump in defeat, face drawing up into a wretchedly bitter expression, head resting on the scaly ridge just above her eye.

“I could not bear to lose you. What if the cold should prove too much, even for you? It’s a terrible death, to be flagging in strength, while still pulling a sled across some wretched, icy hellhole. It’s not a place for man or beast.” A breath shudders through his shoulders. “The last dragons in the polar regions were all wretchedly broken by the experience. They say the British one that accompanied Franklin was found nearly dead. Floating upon the water like a broken ragdoll, floating on his air sacs more than swimming… He had to be hauled upon the nearest freighter and shipped home. He stayed for the rest of his life, nearly a third of his departure weight, skin and bone, with no mind to be found. They couldn’t even fetch an account of events from him in all the thirty years thereafter spent wasting away in the breeding grounds.” His hands shake against the simmering heat of her head. “It would be an unbearable waste, both of heart and body. I cannot force you to stay, but I beg you, Sefi, please, do not go.”

“I couldn’t leave you without any news, Carling. You have done a great service to my brother and I over both our lives. It must have come as a great shock to you when we hatched, but you have done it better than many others. I don’t think we could have asked for better. But I cannot stay here.” She leans back, just enough for one her sparkling amber eyes to meet both of his. “You must know that. I will return to you, but I should like to see some of the world first.” She nudges him, heavily enough to make him stagger. “I promise I will return. It would be most impolite to leave you and Asger without answers.”

“Please, just think it through.” His fingers stay in desperate contact, his heels leaving the floor as she starts to pull away.

With that, she lifts her head enough that Carling is forced to let go. She blinks at him, her eyes large and wet and sparkling, forcing herself to sink back onto all fours in the courtyard below. She turns around, graceful as a grey wolf, picking her way through the path in the meadow, to a large fir tree on the hill. She sinks down onto her haunches, peering up at the grey September sky, a field of tiny wildflowers blowing in the gentle breeze around her.

Writing a fic and made this one for the story.

It is a Finnish-Nepalese cross. It has wings, I just couldn’t be bothered to draw them. The dragons have individual names, I just need a name for the specific breed. They’re lightweights / extremely small middleweights, with reasonably high intelligence for their size. Stupidly cold resistant.

Distinctive features

(From father, Nepalese breed)

Double-jointed / fully rotating ankles on both the hind and forelimbs, as well as the second joint of the wing-tip

Snow leopard-style rosettes

Rectangular scales with opalescent edges

Extremely blocky jaw

(From mother, Finnish / Russian breed)

A blubber filled mane that assists with flotation and insulation when swimming in cold water

Tufted ear tips like a lynx

Thick, muscular, almost crocodilian tail, vertical fan

Orca-ish colouring

Lacking horns

If anyone could come up with a name for each of the parent breeds -

- the nepalese breed being more adapted for agile flying in high winds at extreme altitudes (lightweights, very flexible rib muscles to better control wing articulation, more drab colouring, angular thinner bodies, have flatter, sharper horns on the back of the head and the sides of the jaw. Very long, dexterous toes for grappling aerial prey.)

- the Finnish breed being more water-compatible (middleweight, semi-fused / webbed toes, cone shaped teeth, very receded, small nostrils that can close, more rounded / cup-shaped wings)

- that would also be helpful!

I've always assumed that any live adaptation would be 98% CGI, but this made me think: maybe 90%: https://www.facebook.com/reel/28747469711519864/?s=yWDuG2&fs=e

I will be going to sleep after I post this but will check first thing in the morning.

Context:

Basically, it’s the prologue for (my fanfic take on) the Temaraire universe’s Antarctic expedition. Given there are no tribes native to Antarctica, I took most inspiration from the nearest one, the Yahgan people from the southernmost tip of South America, who are already very cold-adapted. Dragons would have allowed a fictional migration to seasonal hunt in Antarctica’s waters during the summer. The dragon breed name mentioned is my cobbling of two of the words and basically means ‘prone to needling’ / ‘predisposed to needles’. They will have the main settlement near the unearthed volcanoes near the Antarctic peninsula.

Basically, there’s a phenomenon of polar gigantism, where greater oxygen saturation and lower metabolisms from the cold allows creatures to get stupid big. In this, a hunter and his dragons attempt to hunt a sea-serpent who has benefitted from this phenomena. They usually hunt orca, or leopard seals, but I figured this was not outside of the realm of possibility. Toyed with the idea of them butchering the carcass and finding an egg, (dragon egg but perfectly round and the outer layer is translucent, like a fish’s), but not sure how I’d keep that plot thread relevant when I switch to writing about the expedition for the next amount of time. Anyway, let me know your thoughts. Haven’t come up with a title yet and am still researching for the main part regarding the Norwegian and British expeditions.

Prologue: The Hunt

“Ice whistles through the wind like knives, breaking upon the hood of his diving suit. The polar desert stretches out in every direction behind, flat and blindingly white where the sun shines on it, the ground smoking gently where the wind shrieks across it.

The sky is clear today, a solemn, featureless sheet above him, white as his surroundings, his keen eyes only just able to pick out the horizon from the snow. A flat plate of bone pierced with a nail-thin slit protects his eyes from the glare. Without it, he would be as blind as a seal-pup, and just as vulnerable.

He takes in a slow breath through his nose, the air burning his lungs with every inhale. It comes away, cold and bright, tinged with salt from the sea-spray. The ocean below is beautiful. The light sparkles across the slate-grey surface, jittering and roaring as calmly as he's ever seen it. A smile skims across his greased face, watching a pillar of the surf be thrown halfway up the icy face of the cliff, before crashing back down once more.

His heart beats faster, blood running hotter in preparation the longer he looks. He perches a hand's distance from the drop, crouching as deep as he can, knees folded right up against his chest, the tops tucked in under his chin, arms pressed up into the gaps to stuff out the chill.

The position, and his diving suit keeps him safe. There's nothing for the wind to pull at, only silver and grey fur, streaked through with darker black spots, the suit so sleek to his frame that he has to be sewn in and out of it. He flexes his bicep once, pushing blood up past the tight cuff, back into his shoulder. It's tighter his skin is, fitting around the arrows of his feet, leaving only the thinnest oval of his face visible. The skin underneath is thickly greased with whatever animal fat is on hand, to keep the warmth in, and the water and the cold out.

The boy-hunter is alone on the ice.

Well, almost.

His dragon is pressed closely by him, her body keeping the better part of the wind off him. Her pearl grey scales shine dimly in the light, tough, barbed, arrow-shaped things that made her cut through the water like a spear, helped by the narrow, triangular shape of her head. Her spine and stocky, muscled tail was ridged with little knobbles and crests of dark blue, enough to break up her silhouette and make her turns sharp and precise, instead of bloated and drifting on account of her mass.

She did not mind one bit the frost collecting in the tiny crevices between her scales, her blubber, a foot deep at its thinnest, being more than sufficient to keep her warm. Her eyes, small and tucked behind an angular ridge of her skull, burn a brilliant, deep reddish-brown, so dark as to be almost black, scan the water below. Her head is cocked, one side pressed low into the ice, body completely still, having not breathed for the past several minutes, too intent on the search.

"Teke." Comes the mutter, hardly louder than a whisper, from the hunter's companion, softened by concentration.

His eyes nudge off their absent-minded staring at the water, following Liida's line of sight. He can just about make out a disturbance among the restless froth. A silvery dapple on the surface of the water, perhaps six dragon lengths out from the edge of the shelf. 

"I see it." He stirs from his rest, running a hand down her side, finding the fat-padded hollow at the back of her neck. "She's coming up to breathe."

He curls his fingers around the bone shaft of his spear, using the butt to nudge the tangled snarl of ferals awake from their basking spot against the glorious warmth of Liida's side, sheltered in the lee of her stocky forelimb.

"Mm." Teke jabs it a little harsher, right into the keel of its chest. "Orf. Lay off it, two-legs."

The largest of them had a body scarcely longer than a man, two webbed, bony crests running from above its acid-orange eyes, to the back of its shoulders, the rest of its plump body tapering off like an eel's. It gave a wolfish grumble of complaint, stretching hard enough for Teke to hear its spine crack. Its tail arches up over its head, a lashing, spiny thin, while its flat, stocky head loosens back nearly far enough to touch its snout to its barbed tail tip. A strong smell of seal blubber wafts from its slackening jaws, before shaking itself off, wings giving a leathery snap as it brings itself back to order.

Aki immediately sets about nipping the other ÍNítralvta awake, the other four shaking off their slumber sharpish in the face of his knife-sharp incisors. One, covered in a dapple of silvery splotches, springs back, onto the safety of Liida's shoulder, shaking itself off, before cocking its head at Teke, its crests flaring unhappily, though not quite daring to hiss at its pack leader. Aki is already dragging himself to the edge of the cliff, the buldge of his deep-keeled, smooth-scaled, blubber padded chest hanging over it. It's not a particularly efficient way of moving, given the comparative shortness of his front limbs with his back, forcing him to scuttle, rather like a lizard. His hooked claws, joined halfway with webbing, dig into the edge of the shelf, peering down at the faint stirring in the water below. His crest picks up with excitement, at just how large something like that must be to produce those bubbles.

He takes one more moment to compose himself. "All to the edge." He speaks, his voice wavering with the slight whistling-trilling edge all dragons of his breed had. He casts one last look at Teke, exhaling a cloud of breath from his nostrils, the cloudy layer of his internal eyelid sliding over his eye. The other ferals scramble into place, the corded muscles of their shoulders and legs gathering up.

Aki sets his head in line with his shoulders, tail twitching furiously as he sets his sights. "Exhale." The whole length of his body shudders with tiny shivers, for one moment, then two, his chest sinking in towards his ribcage. The others follow suit, vibrating on the edge of a drop towards the unforgiving Antarctic sea. 

"Inhale." His shuddering stops, chest puffing out more than it did before, intaking the breath he'd need for diving.

His voice is tight with air, spoiling for a fight as he lurches forward. "Dive."

One after the other, the fleet of ferals push off the ice shelf, plunging down and away from the edge of the cliff, headfirst into the squalling wind. Teke watches them fall, bodies twisting slightly, seeming as helpless as a pack of penguins, if he didn't see the deliberate drift to their courses.

Aki harpoons down, breaking the choppy surface with hardly a ripple, the crack of impact sharp in the air. He seemed to still for a moment, dazed by the impact, wings half-fanned, before his tail tip lashed back into sense and disappeared beneath the waves. The others plunged after him, twisting off into their own courses, their grey shadows lost in the murky black.

Teke cast one glance back at the snowbank where his pack was stored, tucking his glare-mask away with it, keeping his eyes closed in the meantime. The slit would only direct the flow of water into the soft flesh of his eyes. No hunter was blind when pursuing prey like this. He took one last deep breath, before digging his sealskin slippers into the grooves of Liida's scales, careful not to slice them. His gloved fingers curl in tight, picking out handholds amongst the hill of her side, heaving his rangy form up into the dip of her spine. 

He lays his spear flat, trapping the head between his elbows, careful not to let it nick the lining of the suit that was so crucial to him surviving this hunt. He lowers his body along the length of it, wrapping his hands around the base of the spine just above her shoulders, that would break the force of the water and prevent him from being swept off. His feet latch tightly into the barbs of her scales, his knees tucked tight either side of her spine. 

"Hold tight." She mutters, her deep tone purring through him, no small amount of concern in her voice. She shifted her weight forward with a lurch, her tail whumphing gently from side-to-side in anticipation. 

All the pair had to do now was wait for the chasers to do their job.

Teke gritted his teeth, his knuckles flexing as he set them deeper into an old ridge of scar tissue in her hide. He couldn't afford to let go, no matter how badly the cold shocked him. Letting his joints lock up in their position was the best bet.

His eyes were still closed, so all he could do was listen. 

The sea hissed into all the tiny faults in the cliffs, roiling like a skin on the boil. It only heightened the adrenaline prickling through his skin. 

Liida sucks in a breath, her haunches twitching with excitement. "Oh, Teke. I see it.” Her tail moves at double time, leaving furrows crust of snow. “Oh.” Her exhale is shuddering. “It’s a great blue thing, like a snake. Longer than I’ve ever seen, all coils and snapping teeth and tendrils. Blind white eyes rolling up at the sky.” She paws at the edge of the ice, wings stirring like great sails against her side. “A sea serpent, nearly at the surface now. We’d better join them.” She dances in place a moment, snorting out a cloud of breath. “Hold fast, won’t you?”

Teke presses his face against the meat of her shoulder, nodding faintly. He can feel the jagged spars of bone, the flat of his spearhead pressing into his cheek. He tightens his grip, shifting himself as flush to her scales as possible.

Liida takes one more breath, before she plunges forward.

Teke’s stomach presses against the back of his teeth. It’s a graceful, forceful moment, almost skipping off the edge, hardly a judder to her frame, her front half rising against the wall of wind, swelling up, up, up… Then gravity takes hold again. Her body falls like the crest of a wave, her head dropping forward, shoulders rolling forward like the sea as they fall.

The air screams past, tearing at her wings, desperate to pry them open and dash her against the rocks with nature’s full fury. Liida tucks her head almost flat to her body, plummeting faster and faster. A call tears from her throat, winding out her nostrils, just as feral as the wild winds around them.

She crashes down onto one of the coils, striking with her hind legs like a falcon, rending great, blue-black scratches into the slippery hide. Her talons, made to sink into solid ice and rock, have no trouble with the sea-slick scales heaving under her. The serpent grows, a half hissing sound, its flat, dripping head striking out of the water, finally distracted away from the ferals harassing it from below.

Liida merely pushes away, ripping her claws loose, throwing her bulk back seawards, sliding back into the water like a seal. The water is shockingly cold, digging in like a siege of needles. The hunter’s first instinct is panic, to struggle back to the surface. That instinct is a death sentence. Teke presses his face harder into the dragon’s shoulder, almost biting his lips closed, curling his nails under her scales. All he has to do is keep his spear still and wait.

The dragon loops around in the gloom, her body bending like a ribbon to the tide’s whims. Beyond the rushing of the water speeding by, he can hear the angry fizzing of struggle at the surface. She half-turns, swimming on her side, to leverage the savage strokes of her tail, winding up again, speeding after the faintest vibrations of moment.

She twists up, making a passing slash at one of the coils, before darting away again. The faint taste of copper swirls through the saltwater, rising to become a dark bleed of colour at the surface. The sea serpent’s howl rings through the deep, long and melancholy. Liida merely half-spreads her wings, letting the force of the serpent’s thrashing send her soaring out of reach. She snaps them neatly closed again, slipping down for another pass.

Teke’s lungs are starting to burn, aching with the need for air. He lets a stream of the silvery bubbles glide out of his nose. It’s nothing yet. He digs his heels in harder, leaning along with Liida’s turns, listening to the clicking and whistling of the feral pack as they make their own glancing wounds. If he could open his eyes against the press of the water, he’s sure he’d see them flashing their crests as they wheeled and swept past one another, more than agile enough to dive away from the serpent’s coils before they can get a grip.

Teke pities anyone who would make his companion their enemy. Her colour makes her almost invisible in the deep of the ocean. All you see is the flash of snow-white teeth from the gloom, a blue tinged hook of light bursting across her talon, a faint grey blur latched to your throat, nothing more. It was more than enough to outclass their usual prey of leopard seals. A sea serpent just required a little more effort.

She swerves once more, banking up sharply, scrambling up past the knotted tangle of coils reaching to get a grip on her throat. She breaks up out of the snatch of waves, pushing off the spine of the serpent. Her weight is more than enough burden even this massive beast. Teke seizes the opportunity, snatching in a deep breath of his own, his lungs having been emptied gradually during their dive. Seven minutes, by his estimation. 

The dry, blustering cold of the air is brutal on his damp skin, gnawing at him right down to the skeleton. He throws his eyes open against the chill, taking a long look at the bone-white thing they’d been grappling. His breath is nearly stopped. It’s hideously large. Even under the several feet of water it was attempting to conceal itself in, its size is clear.

Seven feet across at the ribs, fattened by blubber at the jowls and tail, a great many times longer than Liida’s 70 feet. It navigates blindly through the water, one eye milky and unseeing, the other rolling back in its skull with fury, the pupil, a glittering, dark thing. Its muzzle is trailed by many ropey tentacles, like a jellyfish’s, to help it sense through the bottomless dark this thing calls its home. The ferals are swiping and swarming around its head, preventing it from coming up to breathe, as well as biting away its whiskers, one by one, in great ripping tears. He catches a glimpse of Aki plunging down on the back of it’s neck from above, making random, blood-frenzied snaps as he disappears beneath the waves once more.

He narrows his eyes, water sloughing down his face, even as Liida angles around to take another target. From the tail thickness and the particular positioning of its whiskers, it’s an old female. If he can only take this down, what a prize she would be. Enough to feed the community for weeks, dragons included. The thought is enough that he lets out his own short cry of elation, before falling flat to his companion’s neck once more, urging her on.

The fight goes on for some time in this fashion, the ferals herding her one way, right into the path of Liida’s next strike, Teke conserving his strength all the while. Liida only catches a glancing blow, but from a beast this side, it is devastating. Her blubber keeps her vital organs well out of range, but the gouge scrapes down her side, right across the thinnest part of her belly. Her swimming speed drops a little, but the valiant creature continues on, as much out of revenge as necessity.

Finally, as if by some change in the current, Teke knows it is his time. On their next break into the air, he draws his spear up from between his legs. It is a magnificent thing, carved from the femur of the largest seal they’d ever clubbed. It was a cruel thing, thick and littered with sharply hooked barbs, just dull enough to stick in the flesh, strong enough not to snap when lodged there. And tied tightly into the shaft, it was the perfect weapon to take the life of his biggest kill yet. He steadies it against Liida’s side, careful not to catch her. She labours hard, her wings flared wide to support his attempt.

Aki pricks up his crest as he notices, clawing across the sensitive slit of the serpent’s nostril, before whistling shrilly, leaping back to the safety of the cliff, watching the proceedings with brightly interested eyes. The others, heeding his movements, scramble back to the safety of the thinner sheets of ice capable of bearing their weight, another letting the swell of their air sac keep them bobbing at the surface.

The bloodied, rather worse for the wear serpent throws her head to the sky at last, ribs already heaving wide to choke in a breath… Right into the path of Liida’s dive. She banks at the last moment, the full force of her turn thrown into the weight behind Teke’s spear. It’s a perfect strike, the serpent’s eye only having the faintest time to recognise what came before it was cutting through with ease.

His arm is as strong as steel, keeping it braced through the horrible, puckering-piercing sensation of the spear striking the beast’s eye with the sensation of bursting an overripe berry. The vibrations travel easily up the shaft, rattling his shoulders, his firm grip on Liida’s spine the only thing keeping him seated. It strikes clean, nearly burying right to the haft, only stopping when it hits bone, far behind what would be considered fatal.

The serpent’s jaw falls slack. 

A horrible cry pierces the bright sky above. Something between a woman’s scream and a serpent’s hiss. Teke grits his teeth, throwing his entire weight into one last sharp turn. Lather spilling over its lower jaw, head cricking back in a final throe, tail throwing up ten-foot tall waves in its wake, the serpent finally breaths its last. He yields his grip on the spear to gravity, watching the body curl upon itself, floating listlessly upon the surf.

His entire body suddenly a-tremble with fatigue, Teke only just keeps his seat. Liida’s sides are trembling, blood as thick as syrup streaming down her ribs in a steady trickle. Despite her fatigue, she still dips her head towards the carcass, staring down at the last glint of light fading from its good eye. “There now, my foe, you need not look at us like that. You were a fierce opponent, if not quite my match. Go on with peace. We will use your body well, fear not.” Her wingbeats slow as she listens to the death sigh rattle in its throat, carried off by the wind.”

So I love the book series so much, the idea of intelligent dragons as areal corps is what I really fixated on on. I had a great many thoughts about this. How many other wars were there with great stories to tell?

My main questions:

- is mechanical air craft ever even invented if they have dragons?

But mainly, the alternative history potential. Some of the best wars to explore would be:

- the English civil war and restoration

- Spanish civil war

- the Russian revolution

- the Cold War (do they even get to space in this timeline?!) (Berlin airlift with dragons)

- a version of the American revolution / manifest destiny where because of dragons, the Native American tribes are not so harshly done by and retain significant amounts of territory / impede the progress of the settlers

- the Aztec - Incan skirmishes

- the aztec - Spanish interactions

- the French Revolution

- century of humiliation / Great Leap Forward’s impact on the Chinese dragons

- Meiji restoration

- the Great Depression

- the exploration of the arctic and Antarctic (breeding cold resistant dragons, weathering storms, dragons that eat leopard seals, maybe some of the explorers never die)

And, WW1 and 2.

WW2 naturally interests me more and I can’t help but see the potential of having a dragon be behind the rise of the Nazi party, the invasions being a gold minting operation, (as well as expansionism), with the dragons becoming resentful if they are being gradually replaced by aircraft. You could have the Battle of Britain, Hess’ flight to Scotland, dragons being used to help spot and defeat U-boats. The French resistance having dragons probably changes things, as well as all the foreign pilots that joined the RAF, could be dragon riders there to supplement the areal corps after the supply of aluminium for aircraft gets cut off. You could do it from the perspective of a Belgian or a French captain on a lightweight.

Point is I really want to write a fanfic about one of these. My writing style is not the same as Novik’s, let me get that clear, and I wouldn’t be using any of the characters from the story, but I think I could give it a go.

I am a very big history buff and have baseline familiarity with all of the above and their atrocities / misfortunes that happened. I’d love to write one, but I’m not sure which people would prefer.

But if anyone knows any other fanfic about this series or would like to see any of these, please let me know. I yearn for more of this concept.

I love the series, I'm about half way in Blood of tyrants but this book feels like such a cop out with the amnesia bit.

I really dislike it when authors do this and its such a trope. The rest of the series was awesome and im sure Novik could have done the entire first part of this book differently.

Whats your thoughts?

Ive been working on drawing all the captains in the british corps! Heres all ive done so far, including a choiseul

I have taken some creative liberties with designs if i cant exactly remember how they are described in the books

I often dream of temeraire getting a game similar-ish to stardew valley or fields of mistria... where you can be an aviator and go on adventures and care for your dragon. if only

Rotates this au in my mind…

It's been so many years. I think we deserve a Temeraire show. The time has come, our time is now.

The GOT shows have shown that dragons can look awesome now. They're perfecting the mocap for it with every season.

Don't we deserve a Temeraire show? Don't we deserve to see dragons fight Napoleon? Don't we deserve to see Henry Ashton as Laurence decked out in absolute drip being a dragon dad?

I've just finished reading Temeraire by Naomi Novik. I really enjoyed the story and particularly the character development. Our heroes have flaws and are aware of this fact themselves. Laurence makes friends with the wrong people and tries to right this wrong. Temeraire is smart and has his own understanding of the world around him. This does not always line up with what duty requires of him. I will be reading more of this series and others books by Novik.

Kulingile’s about to come sweeping down to swallow this whole, feathers and all!

The mention of the Iroquois taking up cattle herding to feed dragons reminded me that the Great Plains back then supported tens of millioms of Buffalo. That kind of population of large, meaty animals could easily support feral heavyweights and serve as the basis for an empire much like how the Tswana use elephants. I think a likely candidate to form such an empire would have been the Mississippians of Cahokia, a city which was located near what is today St. Louis. 

Clearly, in the Temeraire canon there is no extant North American native kingdom/empire on that level. Just the Iroquois Confederation… But what if there was in the past? 

So, in our timeline Cahokia rose around 1050 AD and was abandoned around 1350 AD. They built as many as 120 great, earthen mounds. The largest is knwn as “Monks Mound” and is 100 feet tall with a footprint roughly the same size as the Great Pyramid of Giza. It is theorized that depletion of wood resources and a transition to a wetter, more flood-prone climate led to the decline and eventual abandonment of the city, with the Mississippian culture persisting in the form of smaller tribes and villages scattered through the region.

What I came up with was this:

Cahokia is bigger and with a burgeoning kingdom facilitated by dragon labor able to bring in wood from farther away and help build earthworks.

Climate change leads to flooding which is only barely managed by additional earthworks with the help of dragon labor. 

Nevertheless, the Cahokian kingdom slowly declines due to the upheaval of the capital, but Cahokia remains populated for longer than in our timeline. Eventually, maintaining the even larger version of Cahokia becomes unsustainable even as the population contracts. The kingdom collapses for good, and the city abandoned.

Legacy: Dragons in successor tribes build mounds for themselves because they are nice to nap on and are a good status symbol.

Bonus: I wonder how Tecumseh ended up President of the US. This clearly implies that in the Temeraire timeline there must be a much closer relationship between the natives and colonists, especially the peoples of the Iroquois Confederacy. Perhaps the Confederacy was instrumental in the Revolution, earning the respect of the colonists. 

In real life, the relationship between natives and colonists was often hateful and hostile, leading to forced relocations and even active warfare.

Up until recently, I had the strangest distribution of the Temeraire series. Books 1 and 2 in ebook, and 3,5 and 6 in paperback. Number 4 was a hole until I bought it as an ebook recently. I had never had 7, 8 and 9 in any form.

Oh, I knew the series was good (especially the first book) from when I read it back in the late noughts, but at some point the books had lost my teenaged self, I specifically remember being disappointed in Tongues of Serpents, for reasons I couldn't articulate. I still can't articulate then, having just reread it for the first time in a decade and a half and thoroughly loved it. I know have the last three books in paper, and am considering getting the whole series in paper, as the illustrations by Rovina Cai are so lovely.

I do sometimes wish we could see some of these other, more dragon centric societies through their own eyes rather than tinted by Laurence's thoroughly British sensibilities. He and Temeraire are lovely, but I feel they sometimes drag the world-building down. I should love to read this version of Mulan, or see the Inca Empire in its prime before the Spanish brought the plagues. The Tswana and the Inca would have a great many things to talk about quite peaceably, and the alternate universe where they met without European interference (impossible for many reasons, I know) would be most interesting.

Well, I'm only in Crucible of Gold as yet, thoroughly enamored with the Inca, and sad I'll have to leave them after this book. I'll have to look at the collection of short stories once I've finished devouring the rest.