I’m not sure how Dad would react if he found out that his new “grandson” is a dragon.
The thought kept revolving through Rythien’s mind as he began the process of changing out of his pajamas into his heavy combat robes. “Adopting” Sethrion had seemed like a good idea when Jameston had suggested it, but…
He’s a dragon. Worse, one of the Twilight flight. He’s weakened and underfed now, and claims we have his gratitude, but what’s going to happen when he’s feeling better? Who’s to say he’s not just lying to lull us into a false sense of security? His pajama top hit the floor, to be replaced on his person by a snug black turtleneck. He keeps reminding us he’s a drake, not a child. And he’s fought for Deathwing.
He cannot be trusted. Better to cull him now. It would be easy, a little something in his food…
Rythien’s ears pinned back. You’re agreeing with me; now I know I’m being irrational. He changed his pants for a sturdier pair and began doing up his under-robe. It split at the waist for ease of movement, and wasn’t nearly as complicated as the steel-and-leather one that topped the whole thing off. While not strictly necessary, he’d discovered that Northrend was cold. And doing up the buttons helped him think. He is a drake. But a young drake, inexperienced, and he was being held as a captive figurehead when we found him. It would be the…decent thing to help him, to teach him.
He shrugged on the outer robe and started buckling all the many straps that held each component in place. Bill is right. It’d…look good, too, us adopting a kid. But we’ll have to get a bigger place soon. He grimaced. One where he won’t be so cold he’ll be compelled to crawl into bed with us. Though the previous night had indeed been warmer, it had also been terribly awkward.
Idly, he tugged on his breastplate—thin, lightweight, heavily enchanted steel—to settle it in the proper position. Guess we have things to do when we get home. I’ll have to budget for expenses all over again.
The thought didn’t make him feel any better.