Drogon awoke in fits and starts. Images and sounds filtered through to him like broken pictures in shattered frames. He could smell the market, rich in spices and cooked meat, hear the laughter of children and baying of horses. He saw sand and sky and paved cobblestone walkways. The scent of Irri's blood was still strong in his nose.
It was the cold that awoke him fully. It bit at him, pulling the warmth away from deep within his bones and leaving a hollow feeling in its wake. Drogon's tail twitched in discomfort, dragging along crude stone as cold took the feeling from within him, the sound of metal clinking together, his eyes cracking open in the dim light. He felt heavy, like he had not moved in a very long time. There was a thick weight about his neck, dragging him down and turning his throat cold.
The darkness was near absolute, even for a dragon. The torches along the wall cast nearly no light beyond a few feet, tiny beacons in the night illuminating wooden doors seeped in magic and revealing nothing else.
He turned his head slowly, his vision swirling and nausea clawing at his throat. The metal sound clinked again. He could hear his brothers next to him, but he could not see them. They breathed deeply, the sleep of a woven magic lying heavily upon their tiny forms. There was one upon him too and he shook his head, the thumb claw on his wing scraping down his muzzle as he fought through the spell, shedding it like a snake molted its skin.
Bit by bit it slid from him, the metal rattling together as he fought to rid himself of the magic. Finally, it fell from him all at once leaving him reeling from the sensation of it, the stone wobbling beneath him in his own dizziness. Drogon collapsed upon the stone plinth, there was the sound of metal dragging on stone and he realized all at once that he must be chained.
Raising his head, he turned to his brothers in the darkness and saw nothing. Underneath the scent of cold and old dead things he could smell them, hear their tiny puffs of breath. Drogon knew that his siblings were there, inches away upon the pedestal but his senses told him they were leagues apart.
It was the magic, trying to dull his mind and skew his senses. But he had magic of his own - he knew from his memories of a boy that used to live in the darkness beneath the stairs - and the fire within him burned away the cold that tried to lay shackles upon his bones. Drogon wobbled to his feet, drunk off the feeling of the warmth that suddenly flooded him.
Crooning, he called to his brothers, the sound echoing off the cold stone. He did not know that stone could have a feeling, but these ones felt dead. Drogon knew that rocks and minerals were never alive, but it was as if death had seeped into the very foundation of the building until the only sensation left behind was a darkness, a cold dead thing that had died ages past but still corrupted the ground and poisoned the soil even centuries later.
His brothers did not answer his call. Once his echo died, the only sound that remained was the steady breathing of tiny lungs and a silence so thick it seemed to press upon him. Drogon called again, shrieking and crooning and crying just to hear something at all, to drown out the thick silence and to calm his own worry in the knowledge that he could be heard.
He calmed himself after a moment, chest heaving from the exertion, the cold air scorching his throat. Drogon's voice crooned with every huff, unable to stand the silence and unwilling to bear it. The chains clinked and rattled as he pulled at them, but their metal was seeped in the same cold and dead magic that permeated the room and most likely the whole building, and his struggles did nothing to loosen his bindings.
Coughing, he fought to call forth flame to alight the darkness, but only smoke filled his nostrils and no fire came to him. The metal turned icy cold around his throat, burning colder with each attempt that coated his mouth in the flammable liquid that would not catch. The frustration burned almost as much as the magic had.
After a while he gave up all together, though he was unsure if his attempts took minutes or hours or days. The room seemed to eat time like it did light, playing tricks on his mind and ensnaring his senses. His thoughts stuttered to a halt, the words echoing in his mind with a liquid voice veiling frustration and a familiarity to it that made his chest hurt in a way that the cold had not. The voice came from a dark man with twisted words and unfailing loyalty.
Drogon could not remember him, the man with the words that brought forth a mixture of confusing feelings. He felt annoyance, frustration, fondness, hate, sadness, and longing…but the man was gone. Time ate away his memory and all that was left was a few phrases and the sound of his voice that even the still air could drown out.
The memory of the dark man brought forth another, and suddenly another set of words whispered in his mind and left his chest feeling like his heart had suddenly been ripped out. "…I promise," they were soft, feminine, and gone before he could remember the rest of it.
The thoughts were pulled from him, and Drogon let them, not wanting to remember something that made him so sad. The room was filled with his crooning, the miserable sound surprising him as he was unaware that he had been making it. He shook himself from his wallowing, the chains rattling together as the collar slid around the base of his neck.
Crawling forward, Drogon stumbled over the ring that was embedded in the plinth before his wing bumped and slid against hide. One of his brother's lay before him, unmoving and cold to the touch. He crouched, nuzzling along the scaled hide until he felt a wing and then a nose. His brother breathed deeply, the air huffing from him nearly as cold as the room. Drogon crooned softly, inhaling the scent of what he knew to be Rhaegal as he nuzzled and prodded the smaller green.
Rhaegal remained unconscious, his breaths undisturbed and body unmoving. Drogon chirped in frustration, voice stuttering like a bird's song as he hooked his thumb claw in his brother scales and pulled, rolling the green onto his side. He crouched over him, curling his wings and cuddling into the exposed stomach, nuzzling up underneath Rhaegal's chin as he tried to smother his brother in his own warmth. Drogon could produce no flame, but he had his own heat within that he was more than willing to share.
Time passed as it did in the room, a moment that was an eternity, and then Rhaegal was moving beneath him. It started with a twitch, his tail shifting and his wings rippling. His green hide shuddered, his breath stilted, and then his brother was awake and struggling beneath him. Drogon hissed in displeasure, snapping sharp teeth at his brother's side until he stilled.
Even though he had awoken, the green was still much too cold. Drogon worried about Viserion who he could hear lay on the other side of the plinth, but he dared not go to him until he was certain that Rhaegal had recovered. He lay crouched over the smaller green like a mother brooded over her clutch though Rhaegal was nearly his own size. Beneath him, the cold seeped out of Rhaegal as the warmth creeped back in and Drogon only relented when the green nuzzled his own chin, crooning in reply.
Drogon shifted awkwardly off of him, his leg catching beneath Rhaegal's wing and tripping him. Tiny talons scraped at the stone, digging into the rock and pulling him away as he sought out the smallest of his siblings. He found Viserion much as he had Rhaegal - through blind searching - and he was as cold as his brother had been. Drogon repeated the process, crouching atop the gold, shifting aside his wing when Rhaegal crawled in close and tucked himself against Viserion's belly.
With two dragons providing warmth, the gold's own heat returned quickly. Viserion awoke loudly, his chirping call echoing around the thick darkness. It was the call he used for their mother, it was the call all of them used, but there was no answer. Drogon could feel their mother, her fear and anger almost a tangible thing that he could reach out and touch. But she felt far away, and every second that passed she felt even further.
When there was no reply, Viserion changed his call. The chirps became more stuttered, the tone dropping a bit lower as he called for Irri instead. Drogon's croon turned sorrowful as he remembered his mother's handmaiden. Her touch had been soft, her voice gentle, her words kind…and her death slow.
He had not seen much of the fight between Irri and Doreah, the blow to his chest had left him gasping, winded and stunned upon the bed as Doreah drove the blade into the soft part of Irri's stomach, once and then once more. Drogon had called for her as Doreah threw him into the leather cage. He'd shrieked and cried and screamed and Irri had only gasped and bled upon stone. Her blood had saturated the room, tainting the air and shrouding his memories into the time before.
Drogon remembered another room, the scent of blood thick and heady. A woman lay upon the floor, wood not stone. Her hair fanned out around her as she bled from many wounds, the blood turning her red hair black. "…I promise," she whispered, choking on the blood that leaked into her lungs.
The woman had been young. Older than his mother, but still well within her youth. Only a few wrinkles were beginning to show upon her face, some around her eyes and more around the laugh lines of her smile. Her eyes had been blue like a lake in winter, filled with tears as she gasped in pain and whispered her words.
Drogon shook his head trying to rid himself of the memories. He shifted off of Viserion, the stone cold beneath him as the cries faded into nothing. The flames flickered from the torches in a wind that was not there, the light did not flicker with them and Drogon felt true fear for the first time since his hatching. They had been brought to a cold dead place and Drogon feared for what would become of them. Would he and his siblings become cold dead things as well, he wondered.
The thoughts were driven from his mind as Viserion burrowed back underneath him, nosing under his wing, sidestepping and shoving until Drogon had moved enough for the gold to settle beneath him. Moments later, Rhaegal was pushing his own way in and the black dragon squawked in mock complaint as he lifted a wing to allow the green to crawl into the pile.
They laid there upon the plinth, cuddling close to share heat as the cold tried crawl its way back into their bones. The fire within them was enough to stave it off, but only if they shared it. Time passed again, Drogon slept and woke and slept again. As he slept, he dreamed.
Drogon saw a young girl, frustration in her every move as she stormed off, book clutched to her chest and tears in her eyes. She yelled furiously at a pale boy before she struck him. Ink staining her fingers and annoyance pulling her lips into a frown. Pride in every step she took. Sorrow in every breath that fogged the cold air. Hunger and pain and joy and victory upon her bruised face.
A young boy rode a stone horse and then lay unmoving upon a checkered floor. He clutched a broom one moment and a rat in another. Face twisted in fear as large spiders fell slowly from the canopy. Determination and betrayal and finally trust and loyalty in his heart.
An old man with twinkling eyes and a sad smile. His words were deep and twisted, saying one thing but meaning another. Lemons scented the air, a scarlet bird upon one shoulder and death upon the other.
A pale girl with no shoes, white hair flowing from her like liquid silver and stars in her eyes. Everything was upside down, but she only smiled and put strange contraptions upon her face that sparkled. Her words were disjointed but honest and her heart was pure.
Brown dirt covered the face of a brown-haired boy, a toad in one hand and a moving plant in another. Everything about him was brown, but his smile was bright and pure. He was gangly and awkward and cowardly until he was brave and courageous and unyielding. A sword in hand as he stood before a great snake, blood running down his leg and determination in his eyes.
A young woman, dressed in white with yellow flowers in her red hair, laughing as she clutched his hand and said yes. He could not remember what he had asked her, but Drogon knew that it had been the most important question he had ever asked anyone and her answer had left joy in his heart and the taste of her on his tongue. She was there, again…gasping and pale upon the floor as she whispered her promise, but he could not hear it. And then, between one dream and the next, she was gone.
The floor was a brown stone, covered by a glorious red rug. A girl sat upon the window sill, a metal necklace clutched in her fist, red hair fanned out along her back in gentle waves and she turned to look at him, blue eyes the color of a lake in winter filled with sorrow, words upon her lips. The image was pulled from him before she could speak and Drogon felt himself waking as his mother's presence pulled him from his slumber. He shifted and chirped until his brothers woke as well, the dreams forgotten.
They called for their mother, feeling her presence as she entered the building. The magic was thick and dark, a malevolent thing that pulled and yanked at them, trying to steal from them everything that made them alive. Drogon was conflicted. He felt joy that his mother was there to save them, and fear that she too would be lost within the darkness of these stones.
His mother was so close he could feel her as if she was next to him, and yet Daenerys felt even further away than she had when she was outside of the building. The magic was pulling at her too, and every second she spent within this dark place the further away she traveled until Drogon could hardly feel her at all.
He called to her, screaming and shrieking as he tried with all his might to be heard through the stifling silence and he knew at once that he was failing. Daenerys had pulled away so far that it felt like she was but one of his memories, faded and stilted from the time before. His cries could not penetrate the thick quiet that permeated the room.
Drogon had almost given up when his brothers voices added to his own, their shrieks echoing and cascading off the stone to join the clamor and finally he could feel her. Daenerys was moving closer, every breath he took to cry out she became more tangible and more real. He cried out louder, the screeches scoring his throat and leaving him raw but he could not stop. If he stopped now Daenerys would be lost in the cold magic and they would be lost with her.
And then, between one loud cry and the next, she was there.
