Sleeping Dragon daughter of Vingolf

Just gonna... quickly snags this

Less than a week had passed since his birth, and he'd hardly done anything more than gorge himself on the milk that was provided. Thus far, he'd maintained an average streak of silence, barely ever babbling save for when his source of food or warmth was taken away from him. In which case, he'd ensure that it was known how unhappy he was, but rarely did his cries ever last for longer than a moment or two. Sleep always seemed to override his desire for food eventually, even if he'd been wide awake but a second prior. No matter how often he was pushed against or squashed, the little boy would usually cling tight and suckle away—as was his initial response when he'd felt another form against his own.

Hvitserk could not understand the intentions of the mass that would someday be known as his sister, but he had felt her moving around quite a bit. Having been pushed off of, he'd grown about as disgruntled as a bundle of fuzz could get, for he'd felt as if his meal had been interrupted. So, of course, he did the most reasonable thing and pushed back, tiny forelimbs flailing about as they tried to make contact with just about anything.