Drogon

The little red mare wears an expression he cannot easily read, despite his best attempts to do so. There is no triumph in her face, as he might have expected given her against-the-odds win. Nor, really, is it even true regret. Her expression is somewhere in between and he finds himself hesitant to act too quickly or to say too much. He could not fulfill his father's mission without staying here, although Drogon was well aware of how nebulous the mission had been in the first place.

There was no roadmap for easy success, and no criteria to meet in order to return to Paradise. It wasn't a simple matter of checking a few boxes or making a few threats. He had no end goal to look forward to, only an endless grey future trying to safeguard his father's legacy as an outcast. As much as Rougaru might spin it otherwise, Drogon knew, at his core, that this spelled the end of his time in his father's lavish jungle. It hadn't truly hit until he'd begun his swim and been separated from the carefully chosen words of the Wolf King. Without the warm balm of his father's proud gaze, Drogon couldn't pretend to see this exile as anything other than punishment of some kind.

The young stallion does his best to keep his own fears and doubts to the side. They wouldn't help him navigate these first few moments with the Bay Queen, and he wanted to have a clear head when dealing with her. He couldn't remember much of what she was like beyond the rumors that swirled through Paradise, although he did remember that her time in Paradise had been meant as a punishment of sort. That her stallion - Ironclad - had traded her away after he'd found her canoodling with another stallion. He also - distinctly - remembered her stealing Paradise out from under the nose of his father, and then handing it back as if that was a lesson that Rougaru needed to learn.

Drogon didn't know what his father had taken from that moment, but the young stallion had learned that mares were ever-fickle, and that even when they had power, they very rarely knew what to do with it. It took a special kind of mare - like Monster - to not only hold that power but to wield it effectively. And mares like that were few and very far between.

Drogon remains quiet and still, save the restless flicking of his tail across his hocks. It takes real effort to keep his expression mostly neutral as she makes her case, pretending as though she had done all of this as an effort to teach his father a lesson. As though Rougaru had bothered her in the years since her dramatic exit from Paradise. His lip curls into the scaffolding of a sneer and then smoothes as he turns away, his ears tucking back against his poll.

The lure of freedom was strong.

He could return home. He could support his father. He could build his own herd and find a way to surpass his brothers. He could do a million other things… but that was not where his duty laid.

"My father honors his debts," Drogon finally says matter of factly, his lips pursed in both genuine and manufactured frustration. No matter how much he yearned to be free, it was far more than Valka's claim that held him anchored to this frigid wasteland.

The question was whether it would benefit him more to explain as much to Valka, or if he should go for a different route. Often, the truth was just as powerful of a weapon as any lie. Finally, he makes his decision and his flinty gaze turns outward toward the ocean that crashed in the far distance, his voice even more gruff than before. "If I return now, what do you really think I will face in Paradise??"

His lip curled into a snarl as he stared outward, drawing on his hatred of his brothers and their successes to fuel his righteous indignation. Only, he doesn't really leave room for Valka to speak. What she thought he would face back in Paradise didn't really matter. The point was that he couldn't return without sacrificing a great deal of his father's respect, and he could not bear to do that.

"Whether you intended to or not," he says, finally turning back to face her, his voice as cold as the land around them. "You have trapped me here as effectively as any prison."

And then, effortlessly masquerading as a young man lacking the emotional capacity to keep up the facade, he turns to her with and gestures outward, beyond them. "Where do I eat? Sleep? Drink?"

Can you feel it?