George had stretched out his left paw as the gesture of a seat to the princess, but she was not completely unafraid yet. “You're not going to eat me, are you?” There was no sarcasm in her voice; the bluntness and trust of the princess almost betrayed her question.

With the air of what seemed like a smile—if dragons did smile—George replied with slight surprise, “The thought hasn't even crossed my mind.” He watched Tilde walk back towards the open doorway she had come from, then over to his left paw. She sat down daintily, crossing her legs at the ankles.

“Good,” she smiled, “If you don't mind my asking—I mean, I hope you're not offended, its just that I read that dragons breath fire, and destroy towns, very nasty things, really. Is it true?”

“Yes, well, it depends, I guess. Not all dragons breath fire, only the red ones.”

“Do you know any red dragons?” She folded her hands in her lap, then looked back up towards him.

“I don't, they usually live in volcanoes or deserts,” she seemed slightly disappointed, so he continued, “My brother, Theodore, was another black dragon here in these mountains. He knew a red dragon who lived in a volcano near his mountain. I think his name was William.”

“I love stories,” she giggled. It was obvious she hoped to be regaled by tales no human being had ever heard.

“Maybe another time.” It sounded almost like a sigh. George's eyes fell to a half open state. His head rose up on his neck, and he yawned again. Tilde nearly jumped back up. “I forgot that I woke you, sorry.” Tilde curtsied, eager to apologize.

“It's fine,” George groaned. “I wasn't asleep yet anyway. I usually have to lie there for a long while before I can doze off. It's the insomnia.”

“Oh.” Tilde blinked. She had already apologized, and didn't feel like repeating herself. “I think I'll go explore the fortress then, I'll try to keep quiet.”

“Thank you,” George's eyes molded into the black scales as his eyelids shut.

“You're very welcome.” Tilde waited for a moment, then took her soundless steps back across the way she had originally intended, passing George's mighty head without fear, but kept her eyes on him. She skittered across quickly with the folds of her skirt pinched in her hands, passed the several story high column and reached the first door quickly. It was just like the door of her tower, dark oak planks held in place by iron bands. She reached for the handle, and pulled, but it stuck fast. She took a deep breath and put her other hand and tugged with both arms; the door let out a shriek as it inched it's way out of the doorway, then stuck fast again. The slit of it that was opened was not enough to even see into, but it was enough for the distinct odor of decay to waft from the crack. Tilde gagged, let go of the door handle, stepped back and caught her stomach, then leaned over as if she was going to heave, but swallowed the small amount that came up. Dreading the smell would fill the Great Hall, she held her breath. Tilde walked back up to the door, put her hands up against the old wood, then pushed. The door let out a high pitched squeal as the base slid against the stone. Tilde stopped pushing when she couldn't hold her breath any longer, so she jumped back and opened her mouth, letting fresh, odor free air in to her lungs.

She had no idea what the smell was or what had caused it. Up until this moment she had believed, thanks to George, that there was no smell worse than a dragon's breath. There must be a great deal of horrible smells in the world, she thought, feeling sheltered. Tilde took a few steps backward and leaned against one of the stone columns. The unpleasant discovery had doused her fire for exploration. After some thought, she decided to try one more room. If the odor lingered there as well, perhaps it was best not to explore the other rooms of the fortress.

Tilde made her way to the next door down, put both hands on the iron handle, and pulled with force, expecting the door to be just as stuck as the previous one. This door opened much easier, however, and swung open almost completely. It took Tilde by surprise, and she almost swung to the side with the door. She regained her posture quickly, then pinched her nose. The smell was faint here. However, the mustiness of unmoved air lingered along with the smell, filtering it in exchange for a strange atmosphere.

It was a dining room, with a long mahogany table in the center. Tilde could see the color of the wood from underneath the dull grey dust. Opposite the wall with the door was a huge window that stretched to the ceiling, letting in light and offering a view of the black mountainside and the grey-blue skies of Vibeke. Between the window and the door, at the head of the table, sat a large chair, also of mahogany. The other chairs were not as big, and sat on the left and right sides of the table from Tilde's perspective. The room was clean apart from the dust, no plates lingered on the table. There was another door on the left wall, perhaps leading to the room with the odor. The smell must've come from the kitchen, she deduced.

This positive discovery overpowered the skepticism brought on by the odor, and she decided a full exploration of the fortress was due. She almost clapped her hands in excitement, but reminded herself George was trying to sleep, and smiled to herself instead as she picked up the folds of her skirt. Tilde spun around and scuttled out the door of the dining room, leaving the door open to air the room out. The next room, she decided, must be even better.

The next room was, in fact, much better. It was the best room Tilde could have possibly stumbled across; a library. Tilde stood in awe as she stepped through the freshly opened doorway, letting her jaw drop slightly as she stared up at the book cases lining the walls, the literature piled on the floor, the desk covered in parchments and scrolls. The room was lit by large windows opposite the wall with the door, placed above the already high bookcases. She ignored the stale air completely; the pleasure of having her wish come true was too great. She had no idea where to begin. It was almost as large as the royal library back home. This place was much older, though. Surely it must be filled with some older, rarer texts. She stepped towards the desk, eager to learn what the previous occupant had been reading, when she was struck again by the great thuds of George's footsteps. She turned around to see George's eye peeking in to the room. “What are you doing in there?”

“Just looking around,” she folded her hands in front of her again, as she was taught. “Can't sleep?”

“I decided not to. It's not like I need sleep, anyway.”

“Dragons don't need sleep?” Tilde's eyes held a look of bewilderment.

“Of course we do,” George was surprised Tilde did not catch the sarcasm. “Just not as much as you squishies.”

“Squishies?”

“Humans.”

“Oh,” she seemed slightly offended. After a slight pause, she asked, “Have you ever killed a human, George?”

The question took him by surprise. A short while passed before he answered, “I like you, Tilde. I won't kill you, if that's what you're worried about.”

Tilde didn't like that he avoided her question. Uneasily, she changed the subject. “Isn't it wonderful?” she gestured around the room, “Look how many books there are!”

“Books?” George's head tilted.

“You read them,” she explained, feeling particularly intelligent, “I mean, people write things down, whether it be important information or stories, so other people can read it later.” She picked up one of the parchments from the table. “See,” she held it up to the light, “this one is about . . . actually, I can't read this language.” She put it down, and picked up another, “Oh, see, here's one: Major Cities of the Human World,” she recited the title.

George snorted.

“Back home, there was a library in my palace filled with books. My favorite was Tales and Legends of the World. It had all kinds of stories in it.” Though he did not show it, George was more amused by Tilde's excitement than by the content of her words.

“Hmm.”

“I can tell you a bedtime story,” her idea was one only a child could produce. “Maybe that will help with your insomnia.” Again, she smiled eagerly.

“It couldn't hurt,” George added. Inadmittedly, he wanted to know what humans told stories about; in his eyes they were a lesser race, but they had their amusing points.

His mighty head rose as Tilde floated out of the room and into the hall, and he stepped back, then curled himself up with his head resting on his left paw, and his long black tail brought around in front of his belly, like a cat. “Wait here.” Tilde disapeared into the dining room, and returned dragging one of the smaller chairs behind her. She placed in far enough from George's mouth so his breath would not feel like quick breeze when it reached her, though she did not mention this. She felt like a hardened stench-warrior in the face of his breath—it was nothing compared to the odor of the kitchen. After sitting down, she adjusted her skirt and crossed her legs at the ankles. “Now, where should I begin,” she licked her lips and raised one finger to her cheek, habits signaling she was deep in thought. She didn't want to tell a story that would offend him. “Oh, yes. Once upon a time . . .”

It took a three stories to put the dragon to sleep, and just to be sure, Tilde picked the last story because it was particularly dull. It didn't stop George from interrupting her to ask questions, of which Tilde was mostly glad to answer. She would have preferred to tell the story straight through, however. The content of her stories made her consider her own situation. Still sitting in her chair, Tilde let her light brown eyes hang half open as she stared into space. Her days here with George were numbered, she best enjoy them while she can. If only there was some way to make this last forever. She didn't see what was so great about marrying a prince and living happily ever after.

The princess let out a long yawn. Exhausted, she retired to her chambers.

Tilde pried open the heavy oak door, listening to the squealing sound it made as the base scraped across the stone. It reminded her too much of the kitchen, but she ignored it; no foul smell eminated from this room, only the unpleasant but bearable heaviness of stale air. This room had smaller windows than the rooms she had discovered during her previous expedition, but there were many of them scattered across the wall opposite the door. Late afternoon light filtered in through them, glinting off the various pieces of metal lying about the room. There were weapon stands on the ground, pedestals displaying weapons of smaller size, and racks of various sizes holding the swords and halberds that lined the walls. The glinting light reflected into her eyes, and she moved closer, admiring but afraid to touch.

“What have you found in this one?” George loomed behind her, peering in to the room. Either he had learned to take lighter steps, or by now she had grown accustomed to the sound. It had been a little over a week, or perhaps a two, since she discovered the library. The place had kept her occupied for quite some time, and she didn't want to continue exploring while George was sleeping. Creaky doors would wake him, after all, and that was just rude. It wasn't as if she didn't have time.

Tilde stepped around one pedestal in the center of the room, admiring a curved dagger with a golden handle. She looked back up at George. “I think it's an armory, or maybe a trophy room . . . Maybe the old owner of this fortress kept the weapons of the opponents he defeated, or he was skilled in all of these martial arts . . .” her voice trailed off. She stepped over to the wall, fixing her gaze on a broadsword engraved with strange symbols. Maybe it's magical, she indulged herself in her fantasies, but dared not to touch the heavy thing. George's head floated away from the entrance of the door.

“Ugh.”

“What is it?” she asked, floating towards a display of twin short-swords on the wall.

“Too bright.”

Tilde smiled. Had she been paying more attention to him, she would have giggled, but the room captured nearly all of her attention. The room was great—not as impressive to her as the library, but exciting none-the-less. It made her wish she was not such a scrawny girl, so she might have the chance of lifting one of the monstrosities on the wall. Tilde was around five feet tall, which was alright for a thirteen year old who was just hitting puberty. She was rather skinny, though. Not to a sickly extent; as a princess her parents always kept her well fed. She was just weak, considering she never had to do the slightest task in her life. It was the first time Tilde considered her appearance since she had been locked up. Her brown, wavy, shoulder length hair was tangled, and she had not bathed in a long time. She was very glad the spell that bound her here provided for sustenance, as she had not found a privy yet.

Tilde wandered about slowly, then picked up a rapier that was leaning against the wall. It took some effort for her to hold it up, but she managed to move it about, sweeping the air with random motions before she dropped the edge to the ground again, wishing she had someone to play-fight with. She turned around, looking for George's eye, then recalled that he had moved. She set the sword down and walked out of the room.

“I wonder who used to live here,” she stated, gazing up towards the dragon.

“It was some mage and his warrior brother, I forgot their names,” George explained.

“How did you know that?” Tilde walked over to where she had left the dining chair, and took a seat.

“I've lived in these mountains all my life. I know some things about who and what goes on.” By now George had been able to decipher his location, thanks to clues found by Tilde in the library.

“I wonder what happened to them, it doesn't seem like they abandoned this place. All their things are still here.”

“What happened to them, indeed,” George seemed to trail off.