Sleeping Dragon there should be stars for great wars like ours

Gyda had been sleeping though the insistent wails of Hvitserk had stirred the slumbering mother out of it on the principle of instinct. Half awake, she noted Thuringwethil's presence in the birthing den and thus did not give much thought to it, her head rising for the briefest of moments before it lowered and her eyes slipped back closed. She assumed he simply cried for the Commander's attention, though after a while and no doubt plenty of attention from Heda his wails did not cease. It was only when they began to pick up in their intensity did Gyda awake in full, her maternal instincts poking her, telling her that something was wrong. Her own intuition mirrored Thuringwethil's question as Gyda shifted closer to the commander, careful not to disturb her daughters too much. “Hvitserk,” She spoke to the deaf babe, panic swelling in her chest, beneath her breast, though she attempted to get a handle on it. Gyda sought the Commander's gaze with unbidden concern. all the same. “Something is wrong,” He couldn't be hungry, and usually a few swipes of a comforting tongue was enough to lull the baby Dragons to sleep, yet he was insistent and his cries were pained. “His cries are different,” Gyda told Thuringwethil, having learned over the week or so that there were different cries for different things. There was a hunger wail, a cranky wail, a wail just for fun but this...this was not one she'd heard yet. “Can you call for a medic?” Gyda asked her, silently praying that it was something they could help him with. She dared not think that it was something more serious.