He is surprised as Confutatis addresses Cynder directly - the dragon, too, is astonished, but immediately puffs herself up and chatters happily away with a series of draconic chirps and hums. Those unbonded to dragons assume they are dumb beasts, and rarely address them as sentient individuals - they speak to the stallion instead, assuming the creature perched on his back is a pretty, shiny death machine, possessing neither emotion nor intelligence greater than that of a common brute. As one, Tyradon and Cynder's mutual respect for the mare rises, and the jade war-dragon waddles over to Confutatis' foreleg, seeking to affectionately rub her scaled head against the fetlock. This even takes the warlord aback - his green has never shown such outward affection to anybody but him, but after the initial spasm of jealousy he takes it as a promising sign. She-horse clever, comes the sing-song mental voice of his bonded, and he looks down to see her peering sweetly at him. She make good eggs, strong hatchlings. Is it just his imagination, or is there a slyness to Cynder's words, a subtle hint that she has detected his appreciation of this mare and is twisting it like a knife against him? He simply chuckles, shaking his heavy head in amusement. Dragons - so unpredictable.

His attention is dragged back to her, his queen of bones, as she speaks of empires and the kidnapping of a boy-prince, of taking him as her suitor and bearing him a son. An unknown emotion shoots through the warbringer, and with a certain smug satisfaction Cynder's voice rings in his head again; jealous. He pins his ears and glares down at her, but she simply gazes innocently back up at him, still fawning around Confutatis' fetlocks like a lovestruck kitten. Everything the mare says screams of a strong mother, one unwilling to let nature dictate that one must blindly love a child and coddle them; Tyradon knows better, knows that wrapping a newborn in cotton wool will do them no good. On some level, he loves the fruit of his loins - there is no doubt of that - but he is not a warm father, not a loving sire to kiss their wounds and assure them of their perfection. They have to learn to stand on their own hooves and survive, and if they do so hating their cruel creator then so be it. For Confutatis to drag her own son from her womb due to weakness, she must have similar ideas.

Imagine what they could create together.

He chooses not to comment, focusing instead on her words about her magic. Her poison - he wonders what she can do. Shifting, he turns so a muscular shoulder is pointed in her direction, his gargantuan head pivoting to look at her with thinly-veiled interest. "Your magic," he says. "Show me." He thinks of the acid he saw bubbling from her mouth, imagines how it will feel as it eats through the flesh of his shoulder - he cares little for pain, but is keen to know what exactly her saliva has the power to do. Perhaps he is foolish, or perhaps - as Cynder idly remarks through a series of mental images - he is seeking to appear strong and fearless in front of the demon mare, to show what a fine suitor he would be. No, he tells himself; it is all in the name of science, to discover what weapon he now has on his side.

His dragon glances at Mongrel - who seems to have enjoyed her cooked delicacy - with an expression on her face that says my bonded is a testosterone-fuelled idiot, then stops her fawning to gaze anxiously up at the stallion in preparation to intervene if necessary.