They bleated and screamed, as fire charged out of his mouth and scorched the land, the protesting sheep included. It didn't matter what they thought. They were prey, and he was a dragon. Nothing was mightier, other than the no wing humans. That in itself was odd. Like everything, they fought amongst themselves, but they used other animals. Not him. His egg mates were still in their nest, confined to the ground. Dragons should not be left underground. They where the rulers of everything, apart from the sea. All animals bowed to the dragon, out of fear or choice. The land and the air was theirs to rule. But not the humans. They had no weapons, claws or fire, no great teeth or tails, no horns or beaks. And yet, they had enslaved many creatures. They used their intelligence, and so if they banded together, they would be unstoppable. He had already seen the might of large groups, and he had helped them take other nests. But that was through choice. He and his eggmates freely obeyed silverhair. She had raised them, and taught them the fire sound. Drogon was prepared to die for silverhair, as was Viserion and Rhaegal. The entire world could and would burn, before harm came to her. She was different. The others were regular humans, to be regarded in the same light as prey. But not silverhair. There was something about her, something that defined her as different. Maybe it was the fire. It was odd, that the humans couldn't sense it. There was something special about her, something that confirmed that she was from the same place, that she had been born amidst fire and smoke, and could trace her ancestry to his. They were four, alone in a sea of prey. And the prey was ripe for the taking. Drogon spread his wings and roared a challenge to the world, before picking the two fattest sheep, and flying back to Danaerys.