here be dragons

                          MULTI-MUSE FOR ASOIAF'S DRAGONS.                                 ft. dragons from the elder scrolls.

  Watchful. There are signs: now, time passes, like never before! Skies are blue, not green and twisted. Clouds can be felt along the tips of his wings as he curves up to glide along their backs, and there is a scent of salt in the air wherever he goes. Too Sahrotaar felt it, the desire to feast, and too Sahrotaar felt it, the weariness and the rest. All good things, wanted things, until he had spotted the first of his kin and, later, on a dawn, he had met his own slimy eyes upon an ocean's mirror and he had felt distant, and afraid.

Redemption for a traitor dragon is possible, but Sahrotaar looks like no dragon.

  Kopraan dovah. Corpse dragon.   Kras slen. Sickly flesh.

Miraak remains. His Thu'um is decoration to a bond wound tightly like souls snaked round and round, Sahrothaar has little need for a call when Miraak is never far from where he swoops and soars. He outpaces the birds and the ships and the leaves strung through by the wind; in seconds, in minutes, he will arrive to his friend's side. The cure to his ailment, if loneliness is to be a disease. Sahrotaar observes him keenly, like one would look upon an ancient tome, with all the wonder beholding a relic. When something is amiss, Sahrotaar knows.

  I am fine. Lies!

It is night and the insects sing. They should be grateful for the opportunity to hear it now.

  “I do not tire as you do. But rest must not be a...” He trails off, searching for a word. “...a chore. Drem sul. Come to me.”

yes yes yes!

I make a point to write dragons as the living things that they are, able to be wounded & killed, and Skyrim does agree with me considering how common characters can still kill a dragon with enough arrows and combat lines. and while both are referred to as gods, the Skyrim dragons are much closer to gods than men, unlike the ones from ASOIAF.

they can become wounded, even ill, but it takes something severe and persistent. they can go longer stretches without needing to eat or sleep, possess the ability to “freeze” themselves in time should the world be uninhabitable; it is much harder to kill off dragons as a species, Akatosh’s creation, especially since their souls persist strongly after death and all it takes is a certain Shout to bring them back to form, should their souls not be absorbed.

they also are more of an aware species than the ASOIAF dragons, while I do think they are driven further by instinct than man (especially in regards to the use of the Thu’um), they are more rational to speak and reason with, with some having a strong love for debate. Odahviing is notably conversational after you’ve bested him in battle, and even compliments you for doing so. what is viewed as “battle” is part of their culture. they are not bound or bred with genetics like the ASOIAF dragons, and speak a clear and fluent language as opposed to the primal, guttural speech I’ve described as a dragon speaking High Valyrian.

as for the urge to dominate I write that in a way different to Skyrim, as pride is not always violent or ending in outright slavery; I do not believe every dragon wishes for the entire world to be under their feet or that their pride is inherently violent and destructive, it is the personality and life experiences of the dragon you’re dealing with that determines that. but they are of course vain creatures, greatly carried by their pride, and it can get them into unwanted situations as seen with Durnehviir rotting away in the Soul Cairn.

for connections, I will always write any dragon as capable of love & bonding; I hc heavily that Odahviing goes on to become a good companion to the Dragonborn, does truly care for them, & they are a reason that he develops a curiosity about what mortals get up to. they can make friends and keep them, some can be cold but incredibly loyal while others can be very affectionate. an honourable Sahrotaar mention…

firstly: thank you so dearly for asking something so insightful, it really brings joy to my heart to be asked questions like these. you are so wonderful.

it depends on the dragon & the strength of the bond; for example, though Caraxes and Daemon are closely bonded, Caraxes’ personality means that he is less inclined towards Daemon’s family than a dragon like Silverwing, who is far more amicable in nature and so would express more towards those bonds. Caraxes would still be loyal when the time arose, but otherwise not pay too much attention unless there was effort put into developing a secondary bond with him.

a dragon tends to have its opinions shaped by its rider. I was going to make a post about this separate, but I will include the topic here instead: I headcanon that the Targaryen dragons have been bred specifically to see their rider above all. dragons are already not overly social creatures, but the Targaryens have bred them specifically to place their rider even ahead of other dragons. for example, though Silverwing and Vermithor have an extremely close bond, with a rider bond strong enough they could be turned against one another. it is in their genes and dragons are far more instinctual than man.

  Death has reigned, a smog cloud of which Vhagar prevails, battered and weary but no less fierce than she were before. Aemond hurts. His hand upon her hide shakes, is a cold little thing, cushioned by her great green scales as she soars above what they have reckoned. They must now return; no more bloodshed awaits them here. A fire burns endlessly inside Aemond, and in times of collision she feels his fury overtake her, sharpening her teeth and wielding her flames as readily as she wields her claws with her own strong legs. Not now. There must be peace before they continue.

She affords herself a soft purr, carried up to her riders' ears by speeding winds, and her chest rumbles with the effort. They glide over ocean now, clear and pure of their war, as if in this act of flying away they had caused no carnage at all. They have entered the reign after a death, where she would fly wing-to-wing with Balerion and family held hands and cheered.

  You've always known.

She had slumbered. He had woken her. Overbearing! Her mouth had opened to douse him in flame but he, smaller than the tip of her claws, stood steadfast. Calm. Calm. It had been a call to war disguised. Vhagar's kin were distant, bonded, and Vhagar could not fit where they nested. Balerion had passed, and too long had it been since she felt another against her body.

  She knew loneliness. In this, she knew Aemond.

Trees stampede below her as she thinks of their first meeting, and then she decides to descend, slowly, curving over like a gentle yet mighty wave rather than an uproar in a coursing river. Aemond must be strong, healthy, when looked upon by his kin. He must be at his best in this world of war! Wood creaks around her and her feet squash down long-lasting ferns, her body twisting with the exertion of guiding her own landing; and yet she controls it still, ensuring Aemond does not fall.

  "Ilagon, sir," Down, now. Her voice, as great as a mountain of gravel, is deciphered by nature's winds as she turns her head to glance at her wounded rider. "Kesi sagon isse raqiros hen tēmbi. Iksā ōdrikagon." We will be in company of the leaves. You are hurt.

It pains her to slope her chest to the soil, but she does so for him.

  It is an inescapable thought as his wings, adorned with rips and tears at the edges, glide with the dance of the tide and leaves a swamping trail of blood behind the flow of his ruddered tail. There had been a great many enemies and Vermax had skirted the sea crest with a triumphant roar, pushing himself upwards to— pain! Sting! His fire catches foe unknown, for Vermax cannot see in a blear of it all, and his blood pours down to settle to the depths of the water below them. All determination lost, and he must flee, he must survive, he must live, Vermax banks away from battle with a cacophony of whines and screeches, his wingbeats tense and rigid.

The haze clears. His neck is wrapped by chill, and every breath is a ragged grunt. His survival seems secure though his heart still pounds in his chest, and he then feels remorse; weakness. To turn away from his battle in primal fear! What companion is he to let Jacaerys down?

  The shores of home dawn over the horzion and Vermax dips to land roughly on the beach of one of its great cliffs, his head tossing wildly as the awkward movement tears anew open, weeping wounds and lodges about a firm stick embedded into the side of his firm neck. Still, he firstly drops a wing, giving Jacaerys access to the sand. He must be ashamed. He must be defeated. Vermax had not even listened for a command, had not considered if he had wanted to pursue the battle despite his weakness!