A/N: I've uploaded five chapters to my tumblr already, but since FFN isn't replying to any requests to open a fic archive for The Dragon Prince, I thought I'd post to misc. cartoons and change categories when they finally get it done. Have some gremaya. Enjoy.

Edit 17/2/19: I wrote the first six chapters of this fic before season 2. I will be tweaking some minor things in the canon timeline to fit what I've already written, but in general this will follow canon as closely as possible.

Waiting in the Quiet

Eirian Erisdar

Chapter 1: The Diplomat and the Commander

Newly-minted Second Lieutenant Gren turned up on the first day of his assignment to the Standing Battalion alone, on horseback, ginger hair smashed into a chaos of spikes by wind and gale, new, unstained armour sitting on his shoulders with the unfamiliar ease of something trained into him, and not out of long practice.

He saluted the sentry sharply as he rode up to camp, trying with difficulty to avoid staring at the bright crimson glow of the border just visible on the horizon; the river of molten rock that belched gases and consumed men whole, as the horror stories children shared between themselves said, back home in the provincial towns.

"Fresh out of training, are we?" the sentry said, his battle-worn pauldron shifting on his shoulder as he broke the wax seal of Gren's letter. The markings on his armour marked him a Second Lieutenant.

Gren nodded once, a hand on the helmet on his hip. He had not read the letter, of course; but he hoped that he could at least present himself in a manner that showed more than his eighteen years. It certainly didn't help that his freckled cheeks and cheerful demeanor often had fishwives back home thinking he was three years younger than he really was.

The sentry's lips twitched, pulling at the scar that ran across his chin. "You must have been quite the hotshot at the academy," he said. "You've been assigned to Commander Amaya. That doesn't usually happen right off the bat for fresh graduates."

Something in Gren's stomach leapt into the air and proceeded to hurtle through the stratosphere, screeching all the way.

Commander. Amaya.

Legend on the battlefield. Sister to the Queen. Keen of eye and steady of hand, single-handedly held countless border skirmishes against the forces of Xadia–

"Really?!" came the squeak before Gren could stop it; he winced and snapped his mouth shut.

"Really," the sentry deadpanned, grinning at Gren's obvious surprise. "Try not to do that again, and especially not in front of the commander. Her tent is down that way. I assume you've been taught basic sign-language at the academy? Yes? Take the letter, introduce yourself, wait for her orders."

"Yes, sir," Gren replied, taking back the letter with numb fingers. Clicked his tongue. Nudged his horse down the row of tents.

Commander Amaya.

On the day of Gren's graduation, his barrack-mates back at the training academy had marveled over his assignment to the Standing Battalion; an elite force on the border itself, well over a day's ride from the capital. And what was more – it was where the sister to the Queen chose to remain, year after long year. Commander Amaya held the border, the people often murmured, while her sister Queen Sarai commanded the home forces; both devastatingly precious to Katolis itself. It was even rumoured that the commander would be given commission as General soon. The war demanded it, and her talents were more than suitable. If she was made General, she would be the youngest ever to reach that rank.

But never had Gren expected that he would be personally assigned to–

And then he saw her.

She was sitting before her tent – made of equally unassuming canvas just like the hundreds of others around her – and the soothing rasp of stone on metal filled the air as she ran a whetstone over her the blade balanced over her armoured knee.

Her hair was cut short, as he had heard, and fell in a sharp line on her left almost to the angle of her jaw. On her right, it barely touched the top of her ear. Her face was unmarked, except by the faint red tint of the winds that so howled at night across the borderlands here – but there was such an smooth, curled grace to her movements that she seemed at any moment able to leap into action, a figure of lethal grace.

And then she noted the shadow of horse and rider that skirted in front of her sabatons, and looked up.

And Gren became aware that he was staring.

He got off his horse. Quickly, too.

She was regarding him with a cool raised eyebrow, a flicker of something else in her eyes. It might have been humour, but it was gone too quickly for Gren to decipher.

Gren bowed, left hand to his chest as he had been taught in the academy, and held out his commission letter with his right.

A scratched bracer entered his field of vision. Accepted the letter.

Gren took it as his cue to straighten and stand at parade rest.

The commander's eyes flickered over his parade-perfect posture once more as she perused the letter. A smile – a true smile, Gren was sure of it now, full of wicked mischief – curved across her face, and she rose, set the letter aside, and raised her hands.

Every single sign language lesson he had ever attended at the military academy flashed through Gren's mind in that one moment, and he found himself suddenly sure that it was not enough.

"Introduce yourself," the commander signed, hands nimble and strong even in layers of gauntleted metal and thick leather.

Right. He could do that – that was the first lesson one ever learnt in sign language, after all. "My name is Gren," he replied, fingers horribly slow and encumbered in his new armoured gloves. "Second lieutenant. At your service. It's an honour."

He is sure he garbled that last bit a little, but the commander nodded, seemingly unsurprised at his struggle, and continued, "The academy says you–"

And just like that, he was lost. Embarrassingly so. His eyes darted between each sign without comprehension.

Gren opened his mouth automatically. Closed it again, brought up his hands–

But the commander had already held up a hand to still his motion, and reached for the parchment and ink set to the side with the other.

Gren blinked. He had not even noticed it was there.

She held up a line of writing.

The academy says you're quite the diplomat.

Her handwriting was terrible, and Gren remembered something someone had told him when he was younger – how those with quick minds had the messiest writing. At that time hadn't known if it was a jab at his own perfect calligraphy – he had hobbies, and calligraphy was one of them – but the commander's chicken scratch was just so…her.

"Thank you. Yes, I try." Gren replied, forcing his hands to move faster. Mentally, he kicked himself; he should have known to practice more in armour. What did he think he would be wearing to battle – leather tunics and thin gloves?

Find the quartermaster. He'll assign you to a tent. You may join training drills after midday meal.

He snapped to attention. "Yes, sir!" he said, with his voice and hands.

The commander's smile widened imperceptibly, and she penned another line. She narrowed her eyes, clapped him on the shoulder once, and held up the parchment.

Later, Gren would look back on that moment and realise that he was not quite sure if she was going to kill him or not (and part of him wasn't even sure if he minded if she did) but even as his head screamed at him to look at the weight on his shoulder (because Commander Amaya was touching his shoulder the legend was touching his shoulder what should he DO), sense won over and he looked at her words instead.

And loosen up, soldier.

"Yes, sir," he said immediately, snapping to attention again, before blinking and realising that actually, no, that was the exact opposite of what she said to do–

She caught his frozen expression and laughed once.

And Gren just–

Forgot to think.

Didn't think, even as he bowed his leave and led his horse away by the reins. Her laugh was a bright, shining thing, a roar more than anything, that the ladies of court would call boisterous with disapproving sniffs, and men would call hearty; a soldier's confident laugh. It was musical, but not in that flute-like way he'd heard men back home speak of sweethearts' laughter; it was more like the call of a war horn than a silver flute.

It was a laugh that was not diminished by constricting things such as propriety, because Commander Amaya couldn't hear it for herself and likely wouldn't have cared what people would have said even if she could.

And it suited Commander Amaya perfectly.

That afternoon, after he was settled and his horse watered, he stood in a ring of fellow soldiers and watched as the commander pounded a half-dozen men into the dust.

At once.

With nothing but her gloved fists.

And then she straightened and began systematically deconstructing each participant's mistakes with an encouraging expression and hands that flickered between sign language and parchment, when the explanations got too complicated for the soldiers' limited vocabulary.

Gren watched, slack-jawed. Commander Amaya was…wow.

Right, so Gren might have been a little starstruck.

And then–

And then she spied him in the crowd, held out a gloved hand, and beckoned him once, a clear challenge in her eyes. The gathered soliders exploded into good-natured teasing at their newest recruit.

What.

A heavy hand thumped into Gren's back. "It's tradition! Newest recruit gets to spar the Commander!"

Gren's disbelief distilled itself into something more like pure, ice-fed fear. Edged with not a little awe and exhilaration.

Okay. Right. He was doing this. Granted, he was probably going to die doing so (the second time he contemplated his mortality in the past hour, no less) but what a way to go, right?

A dulled practice sword was pushed into his hand. Gren hid his expression by squashing his helmet onto his head; the Commander remained helmet free, dark hair stirring in the wind, a wicked smile of challenge on her lips as she tested the weight of her own dulled blade.

Gren settled into ready position, brought his blade up to guard, blinked once–

And he was suddenly flat on his back in the hard-packed dirt, ears ringing, the breath driven out of him all at once.

Dragon. Spit.

He had the sudden and very bizarre urge to laugh through the bruise that must be forming on his chest.

Commander Amaya was amazing. Astonishing. Astounding. those were only the adjectives beginning with A–

Gren yanked off his helmet, wheezed into the cool air. The Commander was crouched at his side, a knowing grin on her lips. She signed something – a word he saw, barely an hour ago.

Ah. The colour rose in his cheeks, turned his ears the shade of his hair.

"A diplomat, indeed. On your feet." She completed the last word, extended a hand to him.

He took it, surprised when she reached further and turned it to a soldier's forearm grasp, and allowed her to pull him to his feet.

Her eyes were warm and firm like a summer storm, and it was only as Gren stood opposite her with their hands in a warrior's hold that he knew, suddenly, that there was more to her than the sharp flicker in her eyes – that one could understand her further than the simpler shapes of her signs.

And yet, here, no one did; each soldier knew enough sign language to understand battlefield commands and basic military terms, but not enough to understand her. Not truly.

Commander Amaya, whom Gren was suddenly quite sure that he would wholeheartedly die for.

Her eyebrows rose as she watched his face.

He schooled his expression before the thought made its way there, but as their hands loosened and their forearms slipped away from under leather gloves, Gren was struck by the complete and utter determination that he had to do better.

In a camp such as this, there had to be at least one book on sign language.

If there wasn't, he was spending his first self-earned coin on procuring one. As soon as possible.

It was hard work. Gren practiced each word and each phrase again and again, first with his hands free and unfettered by gloves and armour, and then again with his arms weighed down by bracers and gauntlets, fingers and wrists dull and frustratingly clumsy at first and then slowly slipping into the supple grace that the commander's hands had as they spoke. Gren lost count of the number of long nights he spent huddled in his tent in front of a guttering tallow candle, squinting at the tiny letters and detailed diagrams until his eyes grew gritty. During the day he watched the Commander speak as often as possible, traced the shapes and movements of her hands with sharp, blue eyes. The way she spoke was beautiful – fluid and graceful, like the way she fought.

And then came the day he realised he could learn this new language well enough in theory, but there was no possibility of fluency until he had enough practice.

Which only meant one thing.

His calligrapher's hand and diplomat's way of putting words (if he wished) had granted him an irreplaceable position at battalion command (or a nicer way of saying he was very, very good at paperwork) and so, a day or so after his new resolution, he found himself giving a report to Commander Amaya as to the progression of documents for the king.

The Commander glanced over his desk as she swept back the flap of the command tent and strode over to him – likely looking for a written report. Finding none, she raised her head and skewered him with those clear, intelligent eyes that Gren always found a challenge to meet – electrifying and terrifying all at once.

Gren gulped once, stood, and raised his hands.

"The documents are progressing ahead of schedule," he said, hands faltering once as they skipped between a sign before soldiering on. "However, I'm sure you're aware of the political component regarding our recent combined exercises with the Southern Guard, and I thought that we might take more care over the wording regarding those, in case the King chooses to share the report with any of his advisors.

There had been a curve to corner of the commander's lips as Gren began to speak, but now the grin reached her eyes; she halted him with a raised hand. "You've been practicing," she said, hands moving with that grace that Gren had so come to love watching; words formed into dance, just as spoken speech was a song.

He nodded. "But I think I need more." He hoped she would understand his unspoken question.

His hopes were dashed. She did understand, but she was not letting him off the hook that easily. She raised an eyebrow, expectantly.

Gren met her steady gaze with his own exhausted one, and thought, Very well, then.

He thanked hours of practice that his hands were steady as he asked, "If I could make a request, sir. Would it be alright if you helped me practice?"

The commander nodded, and said, almost too fast for Gren's tired eyes to follow, "Evening meal. You know the fire-pit I favour?"

Gren nodded. The adrenalin was draining out of him; his legs started to feel more like jelly than anything.

"Meet me there. We can discuss your accent, and more."

Gren blinked, hands falling to his side. I have an accent?

"Yes you do," the commander said, and Gren added mind-reading to the list of things Commander Amaya could apparently do. "I'll see you then."

And then she was gone again.

The tent flap swung shut behind her.

Gren realised, belatedly, that the entire tent was staring at him.

He sat down in a flurry of armour and buried himself in his paperwork, ears burning.

"You up to mischief?" Corvus teased as he passed by, young face smiling, and Gren denied his friend an answer; doing so would only invite more teasing.

His stomach did not stop flipping until dusk.

It became a nightly ritual, their conversations over evening meal. Meals this far out near the border were simple things; pieces of meat fried on hot stones pushed near the fire-pits, simple stews from rare game hunting parties encountered in the wilds.

They spoke of the practical side of things, at first; refining Gren's signing, teaching new words. And then as Gren's fluency improved, they began to speak other things – Gren's childhood home, their shared preference for wind and sky, Amaya's fiery resolve to serve Katolis born of her love for her sister; conversations that only they could understand, the two people most proficient in their language in the entire camp. Amaya had parchment and ink at her side their first few meetings, but as Gren's hunger for new words and new expressions increased, and their conversations picked up speed, the parchment more often than not remained untouched on the log she sat on.

If anyone ever asked him afterward, Gren never could quite point out when she became Amaya to him, and not the commander; now he never saluted her beyond a perfunctory nod when he showed up to their fire-pit bearing that evening's food, and she never expected him to call her sir.

People whispered curiously at first when it became apparent that this would become a habit of the two of them.

"What were you talking about?" Corvus called once as Gren moved past him to scour his and Amaya's finished bowls with sand.

"Oh, anything and everything," Gren replied. "She's so amazing to talk to, and there's so much she's seen."

"You're shaping up to be quite the fluent sign language speaker."

"Not quite, but I plan to be," Gren murmured. "Eventually."

And so the months swept by. Their conversations grew more complex and more often than not left them laughing – Amaya's laughter her true voice, and Gren so adored it for its candor.

And then there were the times that Amaya and most of the camp would ride away to war; sometimes Gren accompanied them, and sometimes not, but even if he did go he remained in the temporary camps behind the battlefield itself; he was not a combatant.

Those days he waited for the carrion birds to start to descend over the horizon; and then watched for the sight of Amaya's banner over the crest of the hill, a tightness in his chest he could not explain until he saw the battalion return, triumphant.

The nights grew longer, and the days shorter; midwinter approached. Gren became attuned to Amaya's way of speech, the tone in her words; how the smallest lift of her eyebrow or tilt of her shoulders could mean an entire different emphasis, how the simplicity of certain words in sign language did not impede her when she meant to sign a synonym that she did not bother to spell, not when Gren could understand her meaning so clearly.

But as the days grew colder, Gren often woke with half-frozen hands; he was grateful for his fur-lined under-armour gloves from his hometown tailor, whose work was self-proclaimed "the best in all of Katolis". Gren's fingers usually regained their dexterity in minutes, as long as he warmed them by a fire-pit before putting on his gloves.

Amaya, he noticed, had taken to blowing on her hands when he was speaking during their conversations; her gloves were of fine make and no doubt fur-lined as well, but seemed to work rather less well than Gren's did. Her signing was not slow in the slightest, but there were moments where he noticed a lack of the liquid motion that her signed voice should have.

And so, as midwinter approached, Gren was left with a dilemma.

But really, it was not a dilemma at all; what was half a month's pay so that his commander could speak?

He put in the order with the next departing rider, and pocketed his – rather lighter – coin pouch without the slightest regret.

Then he hastened back to his tent to retrieve one of Amaya's spare gauntlets, which he had filched behind her back in order to take measurements from. If she found out she was likely to verbally flay him alive. Here he was, risking life and limb for a midwinter present, of all things – but it would be worth it.

The package came the afternoon of midwinter's day, to Gren's great relief. He checked that all was in order, re-bound the package, and tucked it under his cloak as he headed towards the fire-pits, where soldiers were huddled side-by-side in the wintry air. Snow had begun to fall; Gren's boots crunched through a new white covering.

It was only as he spied Amaya's distinctive silhouette sat before their preferred fire-pit did Gren realise that he had not really thought this through.

Did soldiers give each other presents for midwinter's day?

Did…junior officers give their superiors presents for midwinter's day?

The thought was as jarring as it was sudden. He slowed. Stopped. Traced with his gaze the snowflakes settling on Amaya's pauldrons; watched as she brushed the covering off and breathed over her hands, rubbing them together.

But friends did.

Friends gave each other presents for midwinter's day.

That was enough.

Gren moved into the circle of firelight, and Amaya, noticing the new shadow at the periphery of her vision, shifted to the side to let him sit.

"Happy midwinter," Gren said, once he had shook his hands free of his cloak.

"Happy midwinter," she echoed, the corner of her mouth curving over her quick hands.

In the face of that almost-smile, Gren found himself grinning irresistibly as well; and, ever vigilant, Amaya noticed.

She raised an eyebrow and a hand. "What?"

Gren slipped the package out from under his cloak and held it out; she accepted it with curiosity in her gaze.

Amaya placed it on her lap so she could speak. "What is this?"

"A gift," Gren replied.

He could see she is surprised now, though it was likely that none of the others nearby could see it; it was only Gren, who knew how each part of her expression and the smallest changes in the way she carried herself held meaning.

She untied the wrappings, and the surprise in her eyes melted into fond understanding as they settled on the gloves – fur-lined, close-stitched, and supple, yet tough enough to withstand years worn under armour.

Amaya raised her gaze to meet Gren's, and he was suddenly hit with the urge to explain himself; he signed with such attempted speed that he slurred over the words like he had not done in months. "The winter has been growing colder and I noticed your gloves had grown worn and it was affecting your signing and I know a tailor back home so I thought you could do with some new–"

The last part was cut off as Amaya placed her new gloves to the side, reached out to still his hands, and very deliberately pulled him into a hug.

Gren forgot to breathe.

It was short thing, barely an instant; but her head fitted into the curve of the pauldron at his shoulder, and he hugged her back automatically before he really knew what he was doing, only that she was there and so was he, and his mind had temporarily lost all ability to function.

He hadn't exactly forgotten that component of hero-worship that fired up within him on that first day.

But even through all the layers of armour, it was warm.

He remembered to breathe. Her armour smelt like dust and iron, and the battles he could only observe from afar.

She drew back, slipped off her old gloves, and pulled on the new ones. The leather gleamed as she signed, "Thank you, my friend."

"You are welcome," he returned, and pressed his hand to his chest as he inclined his head.

He had not ridden to the border expecting that Commander Amaya would become his closest friend, and he was willing to bet that she had not expected a green recruit to become her dearest friend, either.

But here, on midwinter's evening, with warm stew in their bellies and good conversation in their hands, Gren could not imagine it any different.

Next Chapter: Amaya comes to a realisation that Gren's new sign language skills are invaluable, and with time, Gren realises something of his own.

I've posted the first five chapters to my tumblr account, but I'll upload all existing chapters to FFN, one per day. I'm halfway through writing the sixth chapter and that should be up soon, too. My tumblr url is eirianerisdar()tumblr()com.

Chapter six should take us to the end of Season 1, and then I'll get to updating The Silent Song! Reviews are appreciated!