Iora had had an...interesting week. Actually, now that she pondered it, shifting a little in her uncomfortable southern clothes, it had been nearly a month since she had first skirted Stonejaw's warband moving south and had slipped her own carefully selected group of a hundred into Kaelath's northern holdings. While they kept moving, she and she alone took on the dangerous mission she was now about. She somewhat envied them, as she had no taste for spycraft, though she understood it's necessity.<br/><br/>It had taken her little time to acquire servant's clothes from a family near one of the 'noble' manors, and even less time than she had hoped after the arduous process of the border-crossing to infiltrate this palace. Apparently good, obedient servants were always in demand, though she sneered at the low wages they pulled. The garments had taken a little altering from a discreet tailor, but that too had taken little and less time. The worst part of the whole experience had been concealing her warrior's muscles and movements, moving like the cowed people of the lower classes instead of a snow leopard of the taiga. Also difficult was keeping her accent down as much as possible, which she had practised for nearly the whole trip south, knowing that this was coming. Of course, even the servants were not fooled very much, but what could a single, poor Crerian girl do, shy as she was?<br/><br/>She moved quietly along the edges of the court proceeding, keeping an eye out for those needing something from the otherwise invisible servants, but no one seemed to want her services.<span style="font-style: italic">So much for the better</span>, she thought to herself, an unconscious smirk on her face. She admitted at some point to herself that she liked the feeling of being an unknown combatant, fully capable of outright killing many of her unsuspecting prey. As she meandered in the way of the wandering waitstaff, she picked up tidbits of conversation that she might use later. This lord's crops may not do so well next year, or that lady's servants seemed disquieted by something. All sorts of information that she squirreled away in her memory for safekeeping.<br/><br/>She listened intently when the Dragon Man, as she called him, gave his report of armies on the borders.<span style="font-style: italic">So, the Stonejaw thinks to take the Boy-King with straight force of arms? Or will he have scouts piercing into the kingdom proper?</span>She knew, now, having glimpsed them, that the dragons were not a mere fairy tale, and she had yet to formulate a plan to deal with them when her own time came. She also knew, having watched his shrewd eyes, that young as he was, the King of Kaelath was no fool. Still, she liked the thought of a rival being roasted like so much pig fat on a spit, and was so consumed suddenly by imagining this that she forgot to school her features for a moment. Anyone looking at her might notice the wolfish grin across her features, which would be very unfortunate for her, especially given the new topic of conversation. She finished scolding herself and correcting her mistake as the door blew open and the Father of Winter strode in. She knew him in an instant, and fought to not drop to one knee and offer a palm's full of blood then and there. Her own father had taught her well the respect for that which killed so well.<br/><br/>After his proclamation, and the subsequent hub-bub, she watched one woman timidly approach and offer to lead a search party, but another thought consumed her as she slipped away into the servant's area and began to make her way out of the palace along the common-folk routes.<span style="font-style: italic">What would Ashorn do to the one who stole it? Something horrible, most like.</span>She stopped, midway along a passage, a slow smile spreading across her face and a predatory glint in her eye.<span style="font-style: italic">What, precisely</span>, she thought,<span style="font-style: italic">could one do with a hatchling dragon?</span>