The chamber Arthur had been moved into after the maesters were finished with him was, in his opinion, far too grand for any man who had been born in a Crownlands farmhouse.
Prince Duncan had arranged the move himself on the morning after the attack, while Arthur had still been in the deep sleep that only milk of the poppy and exhaustion combined could produce, Arthur had woken in the late afternoon to find himself in a room with red velvet drapes pulled across two enormous windows and a fire crackling in a hearth large enough to roast an entire pig in.
The chamber had been chosen with care, however, and that was the part that mattered. It sat directly across the corridor from the rooms Mira and Cassie had been settled into during their own recovery, a fact Duncan had pointed out when he had visited on that first morning, and the proximity meant that Arthur had been able to see his wives and his children far more often than he might have under any other arrangement.
What he had not entirely expected was how little time Mira and Cassie themselves wished to spend away from the babies. Though knowing both of them he should've known that.
In the days since the births a great many highborn ladies had drifted through their rooms with offers of help, though that help was always the suggestion to hand the children over to wet nurses and take their rest. The Velaryon sisters had arranged for two such women to be available in the keep should they be needed. Even Rhaella had, very gently, mentioned that no one would think less of either of them for accepting some assistance with the feeding.
Mira and Cassie had thanked all of them politely and refused all of them entirely.
They fed the children themselves. They changed the children themselves. They held the children for hours at a stretch and traded them back and forth between the two of them whenever one mother needed sleep or a meal or a bath. They had figured out, in some understanding that had formed, that they had three babies between them and that no one in the world was going to look after those three babies as well as they could look after them together.
So they did it together.
They had pushed their two beds against opposite walls of the same chamber and turned the space between into a shared nursery.
Which meant, in practice, that Arthur did not see them quite as much as he would have liked.
He visited every morning and every evening, hobbling across the corridor with his hand braced against the wall, but he limited each visit to no more than half an hour for fear of disturbing the children's rest. But it was okay the proximity itself was almost as good as company, and as long as his wives and his children were safe and well he was willing to be patient about the rest.
Though that patience left him with a great deal of time to himself.
He spent most of the time thinking.
There was, after all, a great deal to think about. The Pendragon bloodline for instance had brought with it a whole cluster of skills and traits that were incredibly powerful, but also a little confusing.
Some of the skills were easy enough to understand.
[Master Horsemanship] had folded itself into his existing [Horse Riding] skill and pushed it up to the Master tier almost overnight. Combined with the pale horse's own otherworldly intelligence he was now, he suspected, very nearly unbeatable in mounted combat. He would need to test it properly when he was healed.
[Crown of Command] and [Battlefield Leadership] had announced itself the moment he had taken command on the wall, when he had felt that strange door open inside his chest and the men around him had turned to listen to him as one.
[Royal Swordsmanship] was different.
He had never heard of such a thing before. There had been no novice tier on the entry, no apprentice tier either, the skill had simply appeared as a Journeyman ranking out of nowhere, which meant the system considered it strong enough on its own that the lower ranks were not even worth listing. The knowledge that came with the skill, when he reached for it carefully, was not at all what he had expected.
It was not, in the strict sense, a fighting style.
It was something stranger. The technique called for the wielder to channel his own faith and his own will into the blade itself, to make the sword an extension of conviction rather than a piece of metal in his hand, and the advanced forms of the art apparently allowed for things he could barely begin to imagine. Strikes that cut through magic. Blades that grew stronger and sharper the more righteous the wielder.
He had no idea whether any of that was true or whether the system was simply being dramatic, but the fundamentals beneath it all were sound enough, disciplined stances and bladework that fed into something larger than the sum of its parts. He suspected it would be a very long time before he understood the skill properly.
He turned his attention next to the small icon flickering at the corner of his vision.
He still had a Skill Upgrade Token from the Attack on King's Landing quest, and it had been sitting unused since the morning after the battle. He had been turning over the question of where to spend it.
His first instinct had been to spend it on [Falling Star Style]. He had pushed the skill hard recently, and the bar now sat at (88/100) at the Journeyman tier, only a handful of points away from advancing to Adept on its own. But that was precisely why he should not spend the token there. Another few weeks of training, another few fights, and the rank would tick over without him having to pay anything for it.
The same was true for Water Dancing Style at (80/100). Close enough to Apprentice's ceiling that he could push it across without help.
Royal Swordsmanship was tempting, but he had not even trained with it once yet, better to spend a few weeks practising and get used to the style rather than adding more knowledge to his mind.
Which left, when he weighed everything against everything else, only one obvious answer.
[Hamon]
The skill had carried him through the worst hours of his life. He had used it to numb the pain after the dragons tail strike. He had used it to keep his own body from drowning in its own blood. The sheer volume of practice had driven the skill from Novice through to Apprentice in hardly any time, but the bar at the new tier sat at a (2/100), and he was beginning to suspect that the next ranks would not come anywhere near as quickly as the first ones had.
A token applied to [Hamon] would push him directly into Journeyman territory.
He had no idea what Journeyman Hamon would actually let him do. The fact he could already numb his injuries and slow his bleeding as well as enhance his strength and durability meant it would definitely be good whatever it was.
He made the decision.
He selected the Skill Upgrade Token, and applied it to the skill.
────────────────────
[SKILL UPGRADE]
────────────────────
[Hamon] Apprentice → Journeyman
────────────────────
A warm pulse rolled outward from the centre of his chest and for a brief moment Arthur felt as though something in his blood was buzzing.
He sat up carefully on the edge of the bed and tested his [Hamon]
He drew in a breath and let it out through his teeth while he focused on his right hand. The familiar tingle of warmth gathered along his fingertips, but where before he had needed to concentrate hard to produce even a small visible spark, now the energy responded almost as quickly as the thought did, and a soft golden glow bloomed around his hand without any of the strain he had grown used to.
He flexed his fingers and the glow brightened, it felt strong, he drew in another breath and intensified it even more, letting it spread across his entire body. But mostly concentrated over the centre of his bandaged chest where the worst of the bruising still lay. He could feel the comforting energy fill his injuries, and he knew if he focused on it for longer he could probably heal them.
'This is going to make things very different,' he thought.
He let the breathing fade and the glow fade with it, he had just begun to consider whether to push himself further when he heard footsteps in the corridor outside.
The door opened gently and Rhaella stepped inside.
She had been, of all the visitors who had come and gone over the past several days, his most frequent.
Duncan had been busy with the council and with the aftermath of the battle. Mira and Cassie had been busy with the babies. Llewyn had stopped by twice, briefly, to tell him scandalously embellished versions of how Arthur's deeds were being retold around the Red Keep, and to ensure the wounded knight had not died in his sleep.
But Rhaella had come almost every day. Sometimes twice in the same day.
She came to help him eat, she came to bring him watered wine when his throat was dry, and she came simply to sit with him when there was nothing to do. Though Arthur had to admit to himself it was sometimes very hard for him to be alone with her.
She closed the door behind her and crossed the chamber to his bed. She wore a gown of pale grey today, simple by the standards of the Red Keep but cut beautifully against her figure, her silver-gold hair had been gathered into a simple braid that ran down over one shoulder. Her violet eyes found him sitting up on the edge of the bed and a small smile curved at the corners of her mouth. "Good morning, Arthur. How are you feeling today?"
"I am healing well, Your Grace." He smiled back at her, shifting carefully to give her room as she came closer. "The maester says a few more days of rest and most of the bruises will have faded, though my ribs will take longer. How are you?"
"I am well. Tired, but well." She moved to the small side table where the silver pitcher and goblet had been left. "I have spent a great deal of time with your children over the past days."
Arthur's expression softened. "Have you?"
"I have. They are utterly cute, Arthur. Utterly. Mira's little girl made the most extraordinary face at me yesterday afternoon when I was holding her, I do not even know how to describe it, it was as if an outraged septa has been trapped in a baby's body. Cassie laughed so hard she nearly woke the boys. And the silver hair on Cassie's son, gods, he is the most beautiful babe I have ever seen, I cannot stop staring at him whenever I am in the room. I do not know how either of them gets anything done."
Arthur laughed, and instantly regretted it as a small sharp pain stabbed through his ribs. He pressed his hand against his side and grinned through it. "Mira says she sometimes does exactly that."
"I believe it." Rhaella poured the wine into the goblet, watered it generously from the pitcher beside it, and crossed the few paces back to the bed. She held the cup out to him, her fingers brushed his briefly as he took it. "Drink. The maester said you needed more fluids."
"Yes, Your Grace."
"Stop calling me that when we are alone."
"Sorry, Rhaella."
He drank the wine and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened his eyes again Rhaella had perched herself on the edge of the bed beside him, close enough that the hem of her gown brushed against the side of his hip.
She tilted her head at him and her smile turned slightly mischievous. "And is there anything else the mighty Dragonslayer requires this morning?"
Arthur groaned and let his head drop back against the pillow stack behind him. "Please do not call me that."
"Why ever not."
"Because every single person in this keep has been calling me that for a week. The guards in the corridor, the maester when he comes to check the bandages, the servants who bring the food, the kitchen boys, the stablehands. I cannot bear it. I killed one dragon. One. And it was already half-crippled when I got to it. The wings had been cut. It could not even fly. It is hardly the stuff of song."
Rhaella was openly laughing at him by the time he finished, one hand pressed to her mouth. "Oh, Arthur."
"What."
"Well. You should enjoy the title while they can as they might not be saying it for very much longer."
He looked at her properly and saw a glint in her eye.
"What do you mean."
"As you know the body of the beast was been moved to one of the cellars under the Red Keep, and the Grand Maester himself has spent most of the past three days going over it. He sent his findings to my uncle yesterday evening and Duncan told me about it this morning."
"And."
"It was not a dragon, Arthur."
Arthur blinked. "What."
"It was a wyvern."
"A wyvern."
"A wyvern." Rhaella's smile had spread into something that was delighted at the absurdity of it all. "The maesters were quite certain. The neck is too short, the proportions are wrong, but the most damning evidence is that the throat does not allow for fire. The creature cannot breathe flame. It is large and dangerous, probably the largest wyvern anyone in the realm has ever heard of, but it is not a dragon."
Arthur stared at her for a long moment, and then he started to laugh, properly this time, he had to press his hand against his ribs again to keep the laughter from doing too much damage. "I am the realms first Wyvernslayer. Slightly less impressive."
"Slightly."
Arthur shook his head with a grin. "Honestly. If the bloody thing had actually breathed fire none of us would still be standing here having this conversation."
Rhaella's smile faded slowly. She reached out and laid her hand over his where it rested on the linen beside him. "I am very glad it did not, Arthur."
He looked at her.
Her hand was small and pale and felt warm against the back of his. That wasn't unusual, every time he'd ever touched Rhaella he always noticed how hot she was and how warm her skin was. Though now was really not the time to think about it lest his thoughts turn to a different train of thought.
"I am glad too," he said quietly.
The silence that stretched between them for what was probably only a heartbeat or two but felt considerably longer, Arthur could feel the heat rising along the back of his neck, and Rhaella's lips parted very slightly as if she were about to say something and had then decided against it.
He cleared his throat. "Has there been any more news," he asked, slightly too enthusiastically, "about who attacked us."
Rhaella drew her hand back gently and let it rest in her lap. "Not very much. Without the Master of Whispers in the city, the information has been thin. My uncle has been doing what he can but he does not have access to the network of spies that the Master of Whispers has. He has prisoners, of course, from the ships and they have been taken to the cells beneath the Red Keep. He says they will be talking soon enough, that he simply needs to be patient with them."
Arthur set the goblet down on the side table and pushed himself to his feet, if he could use the shining the help interrogate the prisoners he should at least try. The world tilted for a moment before he righted humself and braced his hand against the bedpost.
Rhaella was on her feet a heartbeat later with one hand outstretched. "Arthur. What are you doing. Sit down. The maester has not cleared you to walk yet."
"I am going to dress."
"You are injured."
"I am healing." He gave her a small reassuring smile. "And I am also bored to tears, I have been lying in this bed for a week. I want to see my wives and my children properly. And I think I should make myself useful while I am up and about. Perhaps I can be of help with the prisoners."
"You absolutely cannot. The maester said—"
"The maester says all manner of things, but I am not going to lie in this bed for another three weeks while the city is in this state." He moved toward the chair where someone had laid out a clean tunic and breeches earlier in the morning.
Rhaella sighed in the particular put-upon way, and she stepped close to him with her hands raised to brace him under his arms. The size difference between them, however, very quickly proved to be a problem.
Arthur was a great deal taller than she was, and a great deal broader, and the moment Rhaella tried to take any meaningful portion of his weight on her shoulders her own balance shifted forward, and Arthur, who had been preparing to lean on her, instead found himself trying to compensate by pulling her up rather than letting her support him down, and the whole arrangement collapsed in the only way it could collapse, which was that the two of them ended up pressed against one another with Rhaella's hands against his bare chest above the bandages and Arthur's arms instinctively around her waist to keep them both upright.
For a moment neither of them moved.
He could feel her breath against his collarbone. He could smell the nice scent that she always carried with her, something like jasmine and honey and something else he could not name. Her hands were resting flat against his bare skin where the open neck of his bedshirt had fallen aside, her face was tilted up toward his at a very dangerous distance.
Her violet eyes were very wide.
His own were probably not much better.
Neither of them spoke.
Rhaella's lips parted and he felt himself begin to lean forward, fractionally, and felt her begin to rise toward him at the same time, and there was a moment when the distance between their mouths could not have been more than the width of a finger.
*Knock*
*Knock*
*Knock*
Rhaella sprang back from him so quickly that she nearly stumbled, and Arthur caught his balance against the bedpost behind him and the two of them stood three feet apart by the time a young messenger opened the door and stepped just over the threshold.
He bowed deeply at the waist, almost double over.
"Ser Arthur. Princess. Forgive my intrusion."
"Speak, lad," Arthur said, though his voice came out slightly rougher than he had intended.
"His Grace, Prince Duncan, sends his regards and asks whether you are well enough to attend a meeting of the small council at your earliest convenience, Ser. He says he understands entirely if you are not, and that there is no urgency, but he wished to extend the invitation rather than wait for the maesters to clear you."
Arthur drew a breath and pushed himself upright off the bedpost. "Tell His Grace that I am well enough, and that I will attend. Give me an hour to dress properly and to spend a little time with my wives and my children first, and then I will come down to the council chamber."
The messenger bowed again, even more deeply than the first time, which Arthur had not realised was possible. "Of course, Ser. Of course. I will tell him at once."
"Thank you."
"It is, ah, it is an honour, Ser. To, ah. To carry a message to you. I just want to say that. I was on the wall during the attack, Ser, my brother and I, and we saw you on the back of the, well, on the back of the dragon, and I just want you to know that—"
"Thank you, lad." Arthur kept his face carefully neutral and managed not to glance at Rhaella. "Truly. Now go and tell His Grace I will be there shortly."
"Yes, Ser. Of course, Ser. At once, Ser."
The messenger bowed a third time, somehow even lower than the previous two, and backed out of the chamber with the door pulled carefully shut behind him.
Rhaella waited approximately one second before she began to laugh.
"What."
"What."
"Stop it, Rhaella."
"Oh Arthur, the poor boy was so star struck he almost forgot to breathe."
"He was not."
"He absolutely was. Did you not see his hands? He was trembling. He looked at you the way a small boy looks at a knight at his first tourney. The dragonslayer himself, in his very own bedchamber."
"He looked perfectly normal."
"He looked at you as though you had pulled the moon down out of the sky and were holding it under one arm."
"Rhaella."
"Wyvernslayer."
Arthur rolled his eyes and turned his back on her so he could begin the slow process of getting dressed. She was, mercifully, too well-bred to comment on the colour of his ears, and she busied herself instead with picking up the goblet from the side table and refilling it from the pitcher while he made his way through the buttons and laces of his clothing one at a time.
...
The visit across the corridor was short but it was the best part of his day.
Mira saw him at the door first and her whole face lit up the way it always did when he came into a room, and Cassie looked up from where she was nursing Percival in the chair by the window and her tired eyes brightened up at the sight of him. Arthur crossed the chamber with Rhaella a step behind him, and he sank down onto the edge of Mira's bed first.
Mira was laying there with the smaller of the twins, Morgana, lying on her chest in a tiny wrapped bundle.
"How is my wife," he murmured as he leaned down and pressed his lips to Mira's forehead, then to Morgana's tiny crown.
"Better for seeing you, my love." Mira reached up and cupped his cheek with one hand, brushing her thumb along the line of his jaw. She had not had time to pin her hair this morning and it spilled loose around her shoulders in soft wheat-gold waves. "You look stronger today but are you sure you should be on your feet."
"I am sure. The maester would have caged me if he could, but I am up snd I've been invited to the small council meeting ."
Cassie made a small protesting sound from across the room. Though it seemed she was too tired to do much else.
"Don't worry Cass, I won't push myself too much." Arthur gave her a quick reassuring smile and turned back to lift Morgana off Mira's chest carefully, easing the tiny weight up against his own shoulder. Morgana made a soft contented snuffling noise as he settled her against his neck, and her tiny fingers curled and uncurled against the fabric of his tunic. "There she is. There is my little Morgana. Has she been good for you today?"
"She has been a perfect angel. Mordred is the one giving us trouble. He has been refusing to settle for anyone but Cassie all morning, and Cassie has Percival, so we are in something of a stalemate."
"Bring him here."
Mira's smile widened and she reached carefully into the bassinet beside her bed to lift the larger of the twins, his small face pinched into the particular outraged frown that he had inherited from gods knew where, and as she settled Mordred into the crook of Arthur's free arm the boy's eyes opened, very briefly, to fix his father with a judgemental stare that no babe of his age should have been capable of producing.
Arthur burst out laughing despite his ribs.
"You see," Mira said, with helpless affection. "That is what we have been dealing with all morning."
He sat for a long contented moment with both twins held against him and he watched as Cassie eased Percival away from her breast and adjusted her gown back into place before lifting the boy up onto her shoulder to be burped. The little silver-haired prince made a small disgruntled noise at being moved, which Arthur thought was very fair of him under the circumstances. He wouldn't mind attaching himself to that nipple. 'Not now Arthur...' he chided himself.
He carried Mordred and Morgana over to Cassie's chair and lowered himself carefully to one knee beside her, both babies still cradled in his arms, and he leaned forward and kissed Cassie's forehead and then her lips, while Percival was patted firmly on the back over her shoulder. "How are you, my love."
"Tired. Sore. Happy, though mostly tired." Cassie reached up with her free hand and stroked his cheek. "I would be much happier if you would stay in bed like a sensible man, but I have learned not to expect that of you."
"It is one meeting. I will be back before supper."
"Mhm."
"I promise."
"Mhm."
Rhaella had crossed the chamber quietly during the conversation and now she lifted Percival expertly off Cassie's shoulder and brought him over to the small rocking chair near the hearth, and Cassie sighed gratefully and let her head fall back against the cushions for a moment of rest. Arthur stayed there on his knee beside her chair while he let the babies feel the warmth of him for as long as he could, and he kissed cassies brow once more before he stood, and
kissed each of his children in turn on their heads, and then he straightened and himself with one hand on the bedpost and made his way slowly back toward the door.
"I will be back as soon as I can, my loves."
"Be careful, Arthur."
"Try not to threaten any more princes today."
"I will do my very best, Cass."
...
The corridor felt much longer than it had a few minutes earlier. Arthur made his way down it at a dole pace, his hand resting against the wall every few yards for balance. By the time they reached the council chamber his ribs were complaining in earnest and the bandages around his torso felt tight, but he straightened himself before he stepped through the door.
The chamber had been put back together since he had last seen it.
A new oak table had been brought in to replace the one he had hurled at the wall during his last visit. Duncan was seated at the head of the table. The prince looked tired his eyes were exhausted and his hair had clearly not been properly washed in a day or two. He rose immediately when Arthur stepped into the room, and the rest of the council rose with him. Llewyn was on Duncan's right side, and Ser Gerold stood at the opposite end of the chamber in his white armour with one hand resting on the pommel of his sword.
Every single one of them inclined their heads as Arthur entered the room.
It was not the polite nod that men gave as a courtesy. It was something a great deal more significant than that, and Arthur was so startled by the gesture that he nearly forgot to bow back. Llewyn was already moving around the side of the table, his hand outstretched, and the Dornish prince guided Arthur gently into the chair that had been pulled out for him at Duncan's left, easing him down. "There you are Arthur," Llewyn said quietly. "Take it slow."
"Thank you Llewyn."
Duncan settled back into his own chair and waved the council back into their seats. He rested his hands on the table in front of him and looked Arthur over from top to bottom with an expression that was equal parts relief and apology. "Arthur. I am glad you are here. I am sorry to disturb your recovery but I would not have called you down from your bed if I did not think it was important."
"It is fine, Your Grace. I needed to get up and move around. The maester would have me lying still until winter if he had his way." A small ripple of grim laughter passed around the table.
"To business, then." Duncan straightened slightly and his expression sobered. "I will not waste your strength, Arthur, by recapping what you already know. We have spent the past week assessing the damage to the city and counting the cost of the attack. Lord Celtigar."
Lord Celtigar cleared his throat and lifted one of his parchments. "Three hundred and forty-two confirmed dead among the Goldcloaks and household guards, my lords. Approximately twice that number wounded, of whom perhaps a third will recover fully and a third we are likely to lose to wound rot or fever in the coming weeks. Among the smallfolk we count perhaps two thousand dead from the bombardment alone, with hundreds more rendered homeless by the fires that spread from the impacts. The harbour is functional but damaged. Two warehouses and a stretch of the lower wall will need to be rebuilt.
"What of the enemy ships," Arthur asked.
Lord Redwyne stirred himself and answered. "Twenty-one were sunk or burned beyond repair. Eleven more were captured intact when their crews surrendered. The remainder, perhaps fifteen vessels, slipped away into the bay during the pursuit and have not been seen since."
"Where did they go?"
"Unknown. We have sent fast scouts down the coast and out across the Narrow Sea, but the trail is cold."
"Prisoners."
"Ninety-seven prisoners taken alive, Ser. They are being held in the cells beneath the Red Keep. None have spoken yet of any substance. His Grace has been... patient with them so far."
Arthur glanced sideways at Duncan, who met his gaze and inclined his head a fraction. "That is changing," Duncan said quietly. "I have given the order that questioning is to begin in earnest tomorrow morning. We have been waiting on certain... resources to be brought up from below. Those resources are now in place."
Arthur did not particularly want to know what those resources were, although he could guess.
"There is more, however," Duncan continue. "We have still received no word from Dragonstone."
"How long has it been?" Arthur asked with a frown.
"Eight days," Duncan answered. "I sent a raven within the first hour of the attack. I sent a second one the morning after. I sent a third one three days ago with a personal seal and a personal request for any kind of response, however brief. None of them have returned. None of them have been answered. Dragonstone has not so much as sent a single bird back to King's Landing in over a week."
"That is impossible," Arthur said slowly.
"That is what I keep telling myself."
"Dragonstone has more ravens than King's Landing does. They have a maester. They have a permanent garrison. They have boats in the harbour that could reach us in less than a day under sail. There is no possible scenario in which they have not heard about an attack on the capital and yet have made no attempt to communicate."
"I know.... I think we must consider, gentlemen, the possibility that the island has fallen. That it was taken before the attack on King's Landing began."
"That should not be possible either," Arthur said quietly. "Dragonstone is a fortress. The keep itself is built into the volcanic stone of the island. A hundred men inside those walls could hold off ten times that number, possibly more."
"Yes, which only leaves the possibility of a larger force out there or perhaps a traitor at Dragonstone, nevertheless I have asked Lord Daemon Velaryon to return immediately to Driftmark," Duncan continued. "His ships are the closest we have to Dragonstone, and his sailors know the waters around the island better than any man alive. I have asked him to investigate quietly, with as small a force as he can manage, and to send word back the moment he learns anything at all."
"Do you think it could just be a mistake?"
Duncan's mouth tightened. "No. I don't. If Dragonstone has not answered eight days of ravens then I do not believe we are going to like what Lord Velaryon finds when he gets there. But we must know."
Arthur nodded, the frown still etched onto his face.
Then Duncan drew a breath and seemed to set the topic aside. "There is one more thing, gentlemen, and it is the principal reason I have called this meeting today. I received a raven this morning from Harrenhal."
"My father has been informed of the attack on the city in full detail." Duncan paused for a long moment. "He has cancelled the remainder of the royal procession and he is coming back to King's Landing, along with every member of the court who travelled with them. They expect to arrive within the month."
Then Duncan turned in his seat slightly and looked at Arthur directly. "He also wished me to pass along a personal message, my friend."
Arthur's mouth went dry. "To me, Your Grace?"
"To you, Arthur. He wishes to speak with you. In person. The moment he arrives in the capital."
The room was very quiet.
"Did he say what about, Your Grace."
"No, Arthur. He did not..."
(AN: So Arthur has recovered and upgraded his Hamon. And yes it turns out the dragon was a wyvern. I thought I made it pretty obvious with the lack of fire, tbh they would've all been cooked had it been an actual dragon. Anyway hope you enjoyed.)
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