Archibald was not new at this position. His mind was a cavern of experience and knowledge, of tactics that reached far beyond the realm of this dragon-land. He saw through the eyes of the birds, moved with the sway of the trees. He was Captain, the guardian, the protector. He knew each stone, knew each misstep that the herd members took, knew each intruder as they entered. Today, however, it was not an intruder that fueled his gallop, but the enticing scent of his eldest son.

Loretta bound at his side, their heads down as they bolted through the trees. The pair were a hurricane, shaking the earth in their wake with the massivity and power. Small animals scattered, seeking shelter and protection from steel clad hooves and claw ridden paws. The Dauntless puffed as he drew closer to his son, and, finally, as his steel grey appearance lightening in the distance, Archibald skidded into a smooth trot, ears pressed forward and head up. "Reginald." Archibald breathed out, his voice a booming calm of the storm. The Captain stopped, his balance square, as he looked at his son with molten gold eyes, swimming with different, unreadable emotions.

The colt before him was no longer the foal he had protected in the meadow. He was strong, muscle pulling across his thick, hardy bone structure. Thick, black feathers covered his hooves, reminiscent of the Dauntless. His lion's tail was thickly muscled, covered in the thick hair that matched his mane and feathers. His dappled grey coat rippled over his shoulders and thighs, muscles well toned by travel that would grow even harder and larger with proper training. His horn, solid and arched, stood as a proud crown on the prince's forehead, curling away from his inky forelock. Eyes of grey, such a reminder of the mother that birthed Archibald and the sins of his past, stared at him hard.

Archibald felt the wall of anger that followed behind Reginald, the familiar look of unstoppable determination of his mission etched in the silver eyes that mocked him. "My son." Archibald nodded to him, wanting to reach out and place a kiss on his boy's bulging neck. He knew the look in his son's eyes would not welcome it, and so the Dauntless stood statuesque, preparing for the lashing that his ironborn would surely give him. Where was Abraham and his dragon? Was Circe close to follow? Archibald would ask, but first he would give his son the stage he deserved, and the father would answer the questions that he could feel seething beneath Reginald's anger.