[ Dany's heard of Seelie dragons. She's heard of a child dragon who fell near Caer Scima. She's heard, too, of a dragon that had slumbered beneath Redgate, who when awoken had lain waste to the surrounding villages until shardbearers had seen it slain. She's no fool: Dragons are not trusted here in Dorchadas. If anything, they are feared. How curious, that a creature so aligned with who she is should have hated the Unseelie. Are dragons not agents of chaos before order? Perhaps these Seelie dragons did not possess the same fury that courses within her own. ]
If any Seelie dragons remain, they are either guarded from enemy eyes or turned to stone, [ she sighs. It would be a distinct tactical disadvantage if the race lived still, especially with her own dragons yet largely untrained--but truthfully, her feelings on the matter of the Jabberwock's legendary decimation are more complicated than Morla would like. A massacre of dragons, enemy or not, leaves a sour taste in Dany's mouth. ] I know dragons are not loved here, but my children are bound to me by a spell until I deem them fit to be released. The Unseelie shall have little to fear from them.
[ A generous declaration. Likely too generous, but she hasn't yet seen the unintended destruction they bring.
At the roar, Dany seems curiously serene, raising her eyes to the thinning clouds above them. ]
That "detail," [ she tells Loki, with no small measure of maternal pride, ] is named Drogon.
[ From above comes the sound of thunder, distant--but it isn't rain that the black shadow brings. It's no storm that passes over them now with every flicker of the sun, every beat of his magnificent wings. Drogon is her Balerion Reborn, her Black Dread--and, though she has yet to realize it, he is everything primal that lurks in her veins. Her blood fairly calls to him as he dips gracefully beneath the cloud cover, his body turning to glide with ease in a wide, sweeping circle as he looks to land. Primordial trills echo from the rocks around them in his wake. ]
Drogon, [ she sings out, and as though answering some ancient bond, he flies to her, with his wings stirring dust and wind in great, hot waves. They don't touch, not yet, but he soars gently--almost pointedly so--over her head toward a low-hanging outcropping behind her, ruffling strands of silver-gold hair and pale silks in his wake. It's clear that this dragon, more than either of the others, is well and truly hers. ]
no subject
If any Seelie dragons remain, they are either guarded from enemy eyes or turned to stone, [ she sighs. It would be a distinct tactical disadvantage if the race lived still, especially with her own dragons yet largely untrained--but truthfully, her feelings on the matter of the Jabberwock's legendary decimation are more complicated than Morla would like. A massacre of dragons, enemy or not, leaves a sour taste in Dany's mouth. ] I know dragons are not loved here, but my children are bound to me by a spell until I deem them fit to be released. The Unseelie shall have little to fear from them.
[ A generous declaration. Likely too generous, but she hasn't yet seen the unintended destruction they bring.
At the roar, Dany seems curiously serene, raising her eyes to the thinning clouds above them. ]
That "detail," [ she tells Loki, with no small measure of maternal pride, ] is named Drogon.
[ From above comes the sound of thunder, distant--but it isn't rain that the black shadow brings. It's no storm that passes over them now with every flicker of the sun, every beat of his magnificent wings. Drogon is her Balerion Reborn, her Black Dread--and, though she has yet to realize it, he is everything primal that lurks in her veins. Her blood fairly calls to him as he dips gracefully beneath the cloud cover, his body turning to glide with ease in a wide, sweeping circle as he looks to land. Primordial trills echo from the rocks around them in his wake. ]
Drogon, [ she sings out, and as though answering some ancient bond, he flies to her, with his wings stirring dust and wind in great, hot waves. They don't touch, not yet, but he soars gently--almost pointedly so--over her head toward a low-hanging outcropping behind her, ruffling strands of silver-gold hair and pale silks in his wake. It's clear that this dragon, more than either of the others, is well and truly hers. ]