Raevyn reminded herself that she was doing this for her children, but the sight of Maerok made her nearly collapse on the inside. The same golden-blond hair accustomed to all southerners, the dark skin of house Sommyr, and the deep, emerald eyes that all southern royals had. The ship was docking, rocking steadily from side to side, just like her conflicting heart. Frey, Olaf, the rest of the crew, and even crusty-skinned Baldur were pulling themselves onto the deck. Olaf bore an expression of confusion and hurt, probably thinking that there was something wrong with the dagger that made Raevyn storm off. Raevyn felt bad, now, for leaving the hold without any explanation. She would explain what happened to Frey and Olaf later. Right now, she had duties to attend to. Raevyn adopted a royal stature, raising her chin and standing tall, giving her hand to a man who tried to help her down from the ship. Raevyn stepped down, putting both feet on the ground and feeling what it was like to be on land again. The ground was… still. Calm. Like ancient, unchanging stone. Like the western palaces Raevyn had escaped. She hid the feelings inside her and continued, towards a smiling Maerok, ever a statesman. Above, whole bunches of dragons flew, some bigger than others, many smaller than the rest. The Royal Dragon was always the biggest of them all, but was never a War Dragon. The royals usually preferred beasts like these. Powerful, yet not as powerful as they were gorgeous works of living, breathing art, brought into the world when the gods deemed fit. Raevyn made out fifty-four dragons, each one unique in its own way.