Drogon

The wait was not long, if you counted it in minutes. But if you counted it in the number of convulsions that marked his shivering, it was an eternity. His body held little fat to shield it from the temperature, and his coat was designed to handle winter in Paradise… not on Tinuvel. He was thankful - for the first time - for his mother's disobedient stint on the mainland and in the Peak. Without those long, lonely months, Drogon would not have had even the thin coat that he did possess.

A flurry of hoofbeats - impossibly light despite the mighty the pony queen wielded haphazardly around her - announced her arrival and he tried to straighten himself into a less pitiful position. Considering the shivers that raced across his body against his will, he wasn't sure how much of an impression this would make upon her. His fluted ears tipped back as she flounced to a halt, and he met her flinty stare with a resentful one of his own.

Drogon had not forgotten his father's mission, but he could not foresee the pony mare expecting anything other than sullen resentment from her new captive. Conveniently, he did feel rather sullen and resentful, so the expression on his face was natural. Her question forced his lips to tighten into a frown and his ears pinned further against his poll as he lifted his head. "I am."

Drogon was not Rougaru's by blood, although there were precious few clues to signify that on the boy's body. His coat was dark, like his adopted fathers, and his mother's fine features had been coarsened enough by his bloodsire's influence that he was a conceivable match for the Paradisian King. Furthermore, he was and had always been Rougaru's child in all the ways that mattered.

He stands silently before her, opting to match her demeanor rather than fill in the silence with meaningless words. The ball was in her court, and she simply needed to decide what to do with it.

Can you feel it?