Drogon

Before he had quite known what was happening, winter was circling around again. This time, however, he had the unfortunate pleasure of watching it happen in slow motion. Instead of arriving with a thin Paradisian coat in the depths of the most frigid temperatures he'd ever endured, he stood idly by, watching frost slowly grip the land. It wreathed the waving tundra grass first, wrapped icy tendrils around the distant trees next, and finally began choking at the watering holes from which the herd drank.

He hated it just as much now as he had before.

His heart longed for the familiar embrace of the jungle, and for the gentle cacophony of the Paradisian herd beneath the canopy. He'd even gladly suffer through his mother's fussing and preening if it meant that he could be home, where he belonged.

But it was no longer home, not really.

Not since Valka had taken it from him.

In truth, Drogon had tried not to blame her. To try and see things from her perspective, if only so that he could swing things in his favor. However, no amount of mental gymnastics ever allowed him to look upon his frigid prison with anything but distaste. As much as she had attempted to reopen the door to his cell, he knew better than to walk across that threshold.

Rougaru had given him a mission, and while Drogon knew that this mission was equal parts dismissal and duty, he could not abandon it. In the year that he'd been moored to the Bay, he'd done little to disrupt the herd. He was cautious, not wanting to make his actions so overt as to paint him as an obvious thorn in Valka's side, but he had made some progress. The swelling of Svenja's petite belly was indicative enough of his success in the autumn, and he knew that there were sources of general unease in the herd as well.

The young stallion paced through the Bay without a destination in mind, his thoughts meandering over the possibilities sprawled out before him. The odds of his father taking him back - even if he succeeded in somehow disrupting Valka's life and alliances in any meaningful way - were slim, and yet his heart ached for the only parent that had ever given a damn about him. The bleak years in which he'd been separated from him were painful memories, and he shied away from the thought of the Peak and the Crossing.

Or he did, at least, until one such memory gained corporeal form before him.

Brow furrowing in confusion, Drogon paced to a halt and studied the ebony-coated mare before him. She bore little resemblance to the fierce mare that had greeted Vanya upon their arrival in the Peak, and yet Drogon knew it was her. His mother had always impressed upon him that it was vital to not forget the equines that you met, lest you give away an advantage you could have had. Their meetings had been brief, but he had watched her stride across the Peak in those days with the confidence of someone who not only belonged there, but reigned.

"Is Valka stealing from the Peak now, too?" He murmured conversationally, his gaze appraising as it raked over the rough shape of her figure. "Or are you like them and prefer freezing your ears off every winter?"

He didn't know if she would remember him, and he had no intention of giving it away first. The last time he'd seen her, he'd been hardly more than a nondescript weanling with precisely zero markings to differentiate him from a thousand other horses. The only "interesting" thing about him had always been his mother, and she was no longer at his side.

Can you feel it?