Chapter Text
A long time ago, in a kingdom far, far away (or perhaps not so far, as it does depend where you are right now as you read this) there was a tall tower in the centre of an immense forest. At the top of the tower lived a young, spindly man with lightly-coloured curled hair and a merry face. He was often to be found whiling away the days enthusiastically singing along as he tickled the ivories of his upright piano, and this particular day he was singing a new song that his Aunt Dahlia had kindly bought the sheet music for and given to him.
I'm a little lamb who's lost in the wood,
I know I could, always be good,
To one who'll watch over me.
Won't you tell them please to put on some speed,
Follow my lead, oh how I need,
Someone to watch over me...
"I say, what rot," said the young man. "All that sappy nonsense about 'little lambs' and 'oh-how-I-needs'. My teeth might very well fall out from this sugary stuff. Is this what passes for music these days in the real world?" He paused and slumped onto the windowsill, staring out at the forest carpeted below him. "Although," he added, "one can't help but admire such resilience - if that's the word I want - in the face of abject loneliness. And the melody is pleasant. Perhaps a better singer than this young Wooster would do it more justice, mmm?"
There was a bone shaking rumbling and a dinner plate-sized eye met his bright, baby-blue ones.
"Was 'resilience' correct, my dear dragon?"
It nodded and the quake happened again as it lowered its head and crawled back down the tower to curl up around the bottom to sleep.
"You could at least pretend to be interested in what I have to say," the young man called down, "instead of only popping up for my linguistic queries. There's many a dragon that would happily sit absorbed by the arousing musings of Bertie Wooster."
The dragon only quirked one of the small tufts of hair above its eyes; what Bertie had long assumed worked much like eyebrows in conveying emotion. It seemed amused, currently.
Bertie left the window and closed the shutters to keep out the rising afternoon sun. He did not enjoy being imprisoned in the tower, but he did enjoy the shade it provided at these times. There was only one window, so he could not open another to let a cooling breeze through. Instead he sweated out the summer and kept his water rations for drinking rather than washing.
"Those knights would be far less enthusiastic if they could smell me," Bertie sighed. "I do rather miss running water."
Since he was twelve years old, after his parents were involved in an untimely accident and left him orphaned and siblingless, he had been under the care of his aunts and uncles. His luck fell further when it became apparent to every lady in the kingdom that he was to inherit the desirable title of Lord Yaxley from his Uncle George. This made him a tantalising prospect for marrying, and one some young women were prepared to shed blood over.
They frequently turned up at his school, and even his temporary home with Aunt Dahlia at Brinkley Court to vie for his attention. During an exceptionally violent kerfuffle between two sisters, Bertie's Uncle Tom had several beloved pieces from his silver collection damaged beyond repair, and it was the final straw for the otherwise moderately patient guardian.
It was Agatha's - Bertie's other and less affectionate aunt - idea to lock him away in a secret location to deter them. However, word got out, as it so often did, and Bertie Wooster had spent most of his adult life watching girls 'duke it out' (as one of his old school chums delicately put it) on the ground far below.
In fact, he was quite certain watching attractive women engaging in fisticuffs and duels was the only reason his friends even visited him. They seemed to get a thrill out of it. Bertie just found the whole thing immensely depressing.
His only solace was the dragon that guarded his tower. It spent most of the time curled around the base to make sure no-one tried to sneak in without permission or earning the reward first. But sometimes it would climb the crumbling bricks of the tower and put its head in the window so it could listen to Bertie's complaints, or singing, or his latest writings.
Bertie did think it strange at first. He'd been taught as a lad that dragons were dumb, vicious beasts that were a pest and better off found at the pointy end of a sword. This dragon was highly intelligent. It understood not only what Bertie said, but what he meant to have really said. It couldn't read his writing, but he was quite certain that that was only because it was too small for it to see.
And it was an exceedingly odd-looking dragon. It was shining black and broad, whereas most dragons in the region were a muddy green and sleek. Bertie assumed it was an exotic species his aunt had found on a hunting trip abroad. Its head bulged slightly at the back, and though it shared a pale-coloured belly with its cousins, there was also a ring of black around the neck leading into a stripe down the middle of its chest. It reminded Bertie of a tie.
Then there was its habit of walking on its rear legs. Apart from when it slept around the bottom of the tower, it seemed to loathe the idea of crawling along on its belly like a common lizard.
Not to mention the expressive eyebrows. Dragons didn't normally have eyebrows.
Still, Bertie was thankful for the company, as intriguing as it was. Anything that broke up the monotony between warring fiancees was a godsend in his book.
~~~~~
"I say Bertie, she's a corker! Don't you think?"
"She's a hundred feet below us and wearing a helmet, how can you possibly tell?"
Bertie's visitor put out his cigarette and pouted at him. "It's not just about pretty features and a slender silhouette. Gumption is also attractive, and I can see hers from a mile away. Any red-blooded male could see it."
"Well, I'll have to check the colour of mine the next time I do myself a mischief because I see no gumption from here, Bingo."
"To be perfectly honest," Bingo said, looking aside guiltily and reaching for a fresh cigarette, "I met her on my way up here. She's named Rosie M Banks; a writer, you know? Oh Bertie, she's a heavenly creature."
"You carry on then, my old chum. Don't let me stop you."
"But she's set on you, Bertie."
"My title and money is what she's set on. Isn't that right, my dear dragon?"
The dragon sniffed in polite agreement from its spot at the window.
Bingo frowned. "Bertie, I do wish you wouldn't speak to that thing. People will think you queer."
The dragon's eyebrow twitched in a fashion that suggested to Bertie that it was tempted to help light Bingo's cigarette for him.
"Now now," said Bertie firmly. "I'll not hear a word against my faithful guard. He's watched over me for five years and not a single beazel has accosted me in that time."
"Only you could be proud of that. What a waste."
"What do you mean?"
"Take Ms Banks down there. She's willing to go up against Ms Glossop for you, and you'll not even look the poor girl's way after."
Bertie dashed back to the window in a panic. "Good lord, not that beastly woman... Ms Banks will be crushed by her handshake before the match even begins."
Honoria Glossop was one of the few women that had survived a previous fight with enough energy to make it up the tower. Bertie was grateful that the dragon had subtly tripped her up with its tail before she could reach the entrance. They both knew that she was the most likely woman to prove herself eventually, unless - God willing! - some other unfortunate sap earned her affections instead.
Looking down, he found Rosie was proving to be a formidable foe in their duel, being smaller and faster than Honoria's brash but clumsy moves. They agreed to a draw and waved cheerfully up at the two men watching from the tower window.
Bingo swooned. "Oh Bertie, if only Ms Banks would be mine."
"I'd say now's your chance. Go on and catch her before she leaves."
Bingo jumped up and grabbed his jacket. "Good thinking. She must need comforting after her bitter failure."
The door slammed and Bertie heard the footsteps fading away from him until all that was left to hear was evening birdsong and Honoria's braying laughter wafting up from her conversation with her opponent. Most women seemed to come away from a fight over him with a new best friend, Bertie realised. That at least was something nice that came out from the whole nonsense.
~~~~~
Summer came and went in the blink of an eye and Bertie was relieved to have the air cool down around him. He rather liked autumn now he was older. As a child he preferred summer because it meant no school, and running around causing mischief for his nanny or whomever was unfortunate enough to be monitoring his behaviour for the day. Autumn meant a golden forest to gaze out upon and an earlier night for stargazing. He wished he knew a little more about that sort of thing. He had books about it, but all he saw when he looked up were clusters of dots, not dogs or bears, or any animal that could resemble a cluster of dots.
"There's a dragon up there," he told his own dragon excitedly one night. "I'll be damned if I can find the blasted thing, though." It nodded at him. Bertie supposed it was so clever it knew exactly where it was. If only you could tell me, he thought wistfully at the time.
That autumn, the awaiting Lord Yaxley got his wish.