Drogon

Drogon had never dreamed that he would find a land as bitter and cold as his mother's heart, and yet he could find no other descriptors to fit the bleak and barren landscape upon which he walked. Gone was the comforting wall of greenery, sheltering it's residents from sun and wind and rain. Gone too was the prospect of plentiful food, replaced instead by thick snows that would require him to work for every morsel he would eat. Even the warmth of the Atlantean sun had been leached by the northern air, turning from rich gold to weak yellow that did little to warm his frigid skin.

He hated it here, and yet, he could not forget his mission.

Regardless of whether he liked it or not, Valka had managed to impose her will upon Rougaru, and Drogon had been chosen to carry the burden. The dark young stallion didn't particularly understand her logic, but he was slowly but surely coming to understand that females rarely employed logic in their decision-making. Emotion always seemed to come first for them, with reason second, and logic a distant third. Something grumbled angrily in the back of his mind, shifting in the dark recesses and making room for itself in his subconscious the longer he considered the entire situation.

Because of a grudge that everyone but her had considered settled long ago, Drogon was now forced to a land of ice and snow against his will. And while Rougaru may have softened the blow with the lure of becoming his heir, Drogon knew exile for what it was. It was a way to remove the tension between himself and his mother while also utilizing the same skills that the hateful woman had instilled in her son for his own advantage. On paper, it was the best decision for Rougaru to make… but it didn't soften the blow.

Drogon moved further down the beach, angling for a convenient rock that could block some of the fierce wind. It was cutting through his thin, wet coat and drilling straight into his bones, rattling his very core. Once as sheltered as he was going to get on this bleak and barren beach, the near-black stallion lifted his head and called out for the pony Queen, and then curled back behind the boulder. Not that it helped lessen the discomfort, but he figured looking small and miserable would be far more in his favor than being bold and confident anyway.

Can you feel it?