They walk over; they walk under; in times of war they burn asunder

From ancient tales, carved beauty of stone, a child's toy, smooth and cold, rolling to win the game of old. Eternal and timeless, polished by years, a sculptor's dream, in halls it appears.

Breathing flames yet never burns, scales like armor, wings that churn. A myth of old, a tale untold, guarding treasures, fierce and bold.

I appear as lower class, but I am not without a touch of southern sass. People associate me with The Devil going south and being taken to mass..

I stand the height of my wielder, armed of spike and blade alike. Guards love me, yet cavalry despise me. I stand high atop the king’s blade, yet always in his shadow. What am I?