Drogon

Drogon had initially retreated to the Harbor-most edge of the Ridge in the wake of his dalliance with Valentina, ostensibly to keep an eye out to protect the captivating little mare. It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that it was far out of the way of his normal haunts, and therefore making it less likely that he would be found. Valentina was hardly the first mare he'd taken beneath him this season, but she had been the first he'd done so out of revenge. Not even he could escape how much like his mother he'd become, and the realization haunted him.

Angry and bitter, Drogon had turned inland instead, away from the land's borders where he might happen upon Charybdis by accident. The dark stallion was no more eager to see her again than he was to see Svenja, although he was not so foolish as to think either of them would disappear. Nor, maddeningly, did he want them to leave. He wanted them to love him, as absurd of a notion as that was. It was a weak desire, and he knew it, but the ache of their rejection bit deep.

He hated that Svenja had chosen someone else. And he hated that that someone else was still here. More than anything, he hated himself for not just dealing with it. For chasing the bastard from the Ridge and out of Svenja's life.

But this wasn't like Fell.

This man wasn't holding Svenja by force. Svenja had chosen him. She didn't need rescuing this time from anyone but maybe himself, and that pill was a hard one to swallow.

Drogon stiffened as Svenja's familiar voice called out for him, and he debated shrinking back into the jungle as though he hadn't heard her but it was already too late. Her pretty blazed face was already peeking through the trees as she made her way towards him and so he braced himself with ears slightly tipped back and a wary look in his eye. He wasn't ready to hear her ask to leave him, but what else could she possibly be coming to him for?

"I'm right here," he murmured, his voice neutral. Drogon was not a creature easily given to displays of affection. His mother's touch often came with consequences, and while the same could not be said for his father, by the time Drogon aged, the damage was already done. He was ill-equipped to show his emotions physically unless they were weaponized, and he was still indecisive about what to do.

"Nothing important," he answered, brushing off her query. It wasn't as though he could admit to her that he was hiding here strictly to avoid both Svenja and Charybdis. The part of him that had softened to her over these years wanted to curl up alongside her and plead his case, to beg her to send the unknown stallion home so they could forget he ever existed. But his pride and his upbringing were stronger than this, and so he turned to her - stone faced - and pretended like he didn't know what he knew. "Did you need something, Svenja?"

Can you feel it?