Three days later, I'm still leaking from every hole, but at least I'm upright.
Also: my bathwater steams on command now. You see, traveling with a dragon has its downsides. The snoring. The ego. The way every third idiot with a sword thinks they're destined to slay him and claim his scales for a belt buckle.
But let me tell you the upsides.
Hot baths.
You find a nice little pool—clear, spring-fed, picturesque like something out of a bard's wet dream—and while you're stripping down and checking for leeches, you just turn to him and go, "Little help?"
He exhales once. A huff. Not even a real breath. And suddenly your cold puddle of goosebumps becomes a steaming sanctuary of bliss. Skin-prickling warmth, the kind that seeps all the way to your bones. And no sulfur stink, either. Just clean heat, like the sun took a personal interest in your hygiene.
Hair drying? Please. Sit on a rock. Flip your hair over your shoulder. Snap your fingers. He puffs out this little controlled gust, not enough to burn, just enough to ruffle your skin and make you feel like a spoiled princess. Hair's dry in minutes. Volume? Immaculate.
Need a fire started? Doesn't even require words anymore. I just raise an eyebrow and point at the woodpile. Foomf. Fire. Like magic, except it's not—it's just having a six-ton flammable lizard as your travel buddy.
And at night? Oh, baby. Ever tried sleeping in the wild when the frost creeps in and your ass is one twig away from hypothermia?
Not me.
I have a Dragon.
I tuck myself in beside his belly—warm as a bakery oven and twice as comforting—and dangle my toes under his tail. He grumbles, sure. Swears he's not a foot-warmer. But that tail always curls just right, like it has a mind of its own.
So yeah. He's fussy, ancient, emotionally constipated, and quotes dead poets at sunrise.
But he's mine.
And my baths are hot, my fires are instant, and my feet are never cold.
Find me a knight who offers that.