The ice coating Lagertha thinks all Tundra members wear was already firmly protecting Crito long before he stepped foot into the kingdom. He gained his in utero. If not there, then certainly not long after. Most assuredly, it was in place by the end of his mother’s first sentence towards him; her own icy breath left her son forever shielded, forever anticipating the need for defense. She wasn’t a terrible mother - she never took up arms against him, never raised her voice or leg to strike him – she just wasn’t a mother at all. Years later, once he learned that he had been a changeling child at Echion’s doing and that he truly belonged to Katriel and the Desert dunes, he understood why. The truth never melted his rigid exterior, however. He hadn’t forgiven the Khaleesi like Scorch, hadn’t lived his life always seeking the favor of a woman who didn’t really want him at all.
The Tundra had simply been a natural progression for a hard child who became a hard man.
Now, coming back all these decades later, he is still glad he hadn’t stayed.
He is happy to see Lagertha, at least. The sight of the similarly chiseled mare softens his face. He looks like the man he might have otherwise been, had circumstances been different in his formative years: he’s more grey than bay these days, his shoulders take a dangerous dip before meeting his back, but his grey eyes are light like summer clouds after a rain. She laughs at his comment about the ravens, making his gaze even brighter and smile wider. Surely it isn’t easy to make the iron woman laugh. He finds he doesn’t even mind that it is at his expense. “I appreciate your sympathy, however fabricated it may be.” Crito laughs, a brief but deep sound rumbling in his chest. He’s not sure Lagertha is capable of sympathy, truth be told.
But in only a few moments, something shifts on her face. He sees the change and cuts off his laugh, his stony expression creeping back every second. His sister. There’s only one reason the fiery mare’s name could turn Lagertha into steel so quickly. “Dead,” he says absently, looking away into the trees. A howler monkey skillfully pulls itself up one of the trunks, putting one hand over the other in rapid succession until it finds a final branch to rest on. Crito watches it pick for bugs on its fur for a while, too lost in his grief and not trusting his voice to respond just yet. Why hadn’t he visited more often? When had they lost their connection, their unspoken promise to be there for each other always? They’d been comrades from the womb, twins united against the granite-warmth of their false-dam. Did she blame him for leaving the Jungle?
He’d never know any of these things. And as much as it pains him to admit it, perhaps he didn’t want to know the answers. When Crito looks back at the Amazon sister – Khaleesi – he reins in his overwhelming emotions. It’s clear that Lagertha has moved on, so it’s easier for him to do so as well (at least for now). Her strength gives him some of his own, though he’s not sure where it comes from. “Naturally,” he says simply at first, the corner of one lip quirking in a small grin. “You’re the best for the job. After my sister, that is.” Damn her for not waiting for him. “Are you still as ambitious as ever? You always had a raincloud of schemes hanging over your head, and I always admired it.”
C R I T O
king's hand of the tundra