fire made flesh; and fire is power

“Come on,” Rhaegal moaned, jumping on his brothers each in turn within the den. “We’re going to be late.” The sterling boy had hardly ever been the most punctual of the trio of boys; or even really concerned himself with being at any certain place at a certain time. Typically such things were the antics of Viserion, but this morning saw Rhaegal eager to get his brothers up and moving. Sorcha had organized a time for telling tales, and the young prince still had a burning question about the last story she’d told him. Well, he knew one way to get Drogon moving a little quicker, and so he quickly darted in and nipped the tip of the darkest child’s tail. He got the exact reaction he’d been hoping for – Drogon curled around and lashed out at his brother with flashing teeth. But Rhaegal just laughed and danced out of the way, darting out of the den’s mouth and barely glancing back to make sure his brothers followed. He knew they would.

The call of the storyteller lifted on the early morning breeze, as the last few dried leaves rustled and finally gave up their grasp on the trees above. They drifted down into the boys’ path, and Rhaegal leapt up to grab at one. He missed, but attracted Viserion and Drogon to the game, and as they loped down the trails that would lead to the valley where Sorcha was the competed against one another. Who could grab the most leaves as they fell from the sky? Rhaegal swore up and down he’d caught more than his siblings, but Viserion confirmed that by his count it was in fact Drogon who had prevailed in the contest. Sharp ruby eyes flashed tauntingly at his usually haughty brother, a payback for the pinch to his tail that seemed far better than the usual nips he would deliver.

The trio emerged into the meadow, and though it was far from intentional, they fell into their typical formation. Viserion and Rhaegal flanked Drogon in a way that had become natural to them, even if it was not on purpose. “Over there!” Rhaegal exclaimed, putting on a burst of speed when he spotted Sorcha. His brothers matched his pace and together the boys trotted towards the stream.

“Hello, Embla,” Viserion cordially greeted the pup who had arrived before them, a girl who, if possible, seemed to be filled with more questions than even the golden pup could muster. Realizing her sister was present, Rhaegal’s mismatched duo-toned eyes flitted around in search of Bastille, but did not spot her. He huffed, but focused on Sorcha once more, trotting right up to the rock where she perched. Placing his front paws on the side of the rock he yipped up at her. “Hello, Sorcha! It’s good to see you again; these are my brothers, Viserion and Drogon.” He then pushed off and trotted around Drogon before finally sitting down just beside the brook, glancing over and catching his bubbling reflection in the water. His head tilted slightly to the side in curiosity.

Drogon settled into the grass out in front of Sorcha, looking up at her with interest but no real expectations. After all, their uncle Taliesin was quite the storyteller. Rhaegal might have thought the story she'd told him was pretty good, but would her stories stand up against the true history of his great family?

drogon; rhaegal; viserion