Stavanger Bay we are graveyards reaching, with haunted bones

As Drogon watched her face fall he actually felt a legitimate twist of guilt in his chest. Would he had been an apologetic sort, one might’ve slipped from betwixt his lips. “Well, there are plenty of packs around, maybe I can escort you to one. Make sure you get there ok.” Not that she couldn’t take care of herself, of course, it was just …he didn’t like that feeling that twisted and writhed around in his chest like it was a living creature trapped in there and he wanted to soothe it and hence was not sure what to do with it, how to cope with it. Drogon Ansbjørn didn’t feel guilt. Except, evidently, when he did. Blue-black ears perked as she mentioned that she normally hated kids and he can’t help the deadpan look that follows in a ‘well thanks for that’ manner. In truth: he gets it. If he’s judging by his own behavior: kids are assholes. Self-righteous, rebellious assholes that thinks the world owes them and that they have it all figured out when in reality their blundering idiots that have no idea what they’re doing and aren’t owed a single lick of anything. Or …maybe that’s just him.

“Is…is that a compliment?” Drogon gasps over-dramatically, teasing her because he can. He doesn’t do it to be an asshole this time: it’s meant in good natured fun. “but…thanks Sunspot. That means a lot coming from you.” He speaks sincerely. The truth is Drogon revels in the praise ( especially praise so rare! ). “It’s not like I didn’t deserve it.” He admits, acknowledging but ultimately brushing away her apology: because she had nothing to apologize for. He’d picked and instigated and he’d deserved everything she’d given him that day. “I’m sorry for being such an ass that day.” Since, if he was going to do character development: he might as well do it right. Perhaps he’s not such a lost cause after all.