Dragons need better PR agents.

“Hmrph… but that’s how it always is, isn’t it? Just because they have so many prolific bards and scholars in their employ, they think they get the rights to dictate how everyone else is seen by the future generations - they don’t even TRY to ask my opinion… I’ve got scales on my butt older than their eldest king, and they still think they know more about my kind than I do… Humans are utter idiots.”

Catlike, the great elder dragon stretched and yawned, settling back in place before resuming his remarks to his one-woman audience.

"Er, that is to say, present company excluded, of course.  But honestly, it just is aggravating, how things get twisted. I invest in the region by keeping my finances local, and they call it ‘hoarding wealth’.  I defend my property from attackers, they cheer on the ‘heroes’ who ‘assaulted the monster in its own den’.  I can’t even go out for a bite to eat without some peasant who barely has enough wits in him to play in the dirt-patch he calls a farm screaming that ‘the dread beast is pillaging his prized cattle’… Prized? You mean the weak and elderly of an already-pathetic herd?  Which I only took because the royal huntsmen already claimed all the best boar and deer in the Grand Wood for His Majesty’s table? Bah.  And I didn’t burn down that orphanage intentionally - a moth flew up my nose and I sneezed when passing over it on my way to the Southlands. Could’ve happened to anyone, really.”

He shrugged, gently passing the delicate satchel back to the royally-garbed woman.

“Feh… they’ll probably even find some way to spin this little meeting of ours into some ‘villainous machination of the demon wyrm’, I imagine. Probably claim I kidnapped you to eat you or something. Ridiculous.”

(#00723 - A358)

“Well I am a princess,” said the bard. “I just happen to be temporarily out of the princessing business.”

“I know,” said the dragon. “I could smell it on you. Something about the royal inbreeding.”

“Excuse me?” said the Princess Bard.

“Well you do tend to mate with your cousins a lot. Knights errant who are promised your hand don’t happen that often, do they?”

“Uhm…” she blushed. “Yeah. I was going to marry my second cousin twice removed? He’s thirty-five. I’m not even almost fifteen. So… I ran away.”

"Thirty five,” rumbled the dragon. “Since we are chatting, I suppose introductions are in order. The long form of my proper name is… a little unpronounceable for you… you may call me Gort.”

“I’m Ivy,” said the Princess Bard.

“The same plant, but a different name. Interesting. Is thirty-five so terrible? I understand it’s more than twice your age.”

“…i’m… closer to thirteen…” Ivy mumbled. “I don’t even have my moon time yet and they were trying to put me out to stud and I’m not sure if I ever want a man with me like that. Let alone him. I’d rather be a bard and sing for my supper.”

"Good for you,” said Gort. “I shall hire you to be my bard. I don’t suppose dragon-roasted meat is your thing.”

“Er. No. Sorry.”

“To each their own,” enormous talons gently plucked what seemed to be a small urn from the pile and filled it with gems and coin. When Gort put it next to Ivy, however, it turned out to be an urn well above her own height and half again as wide as she was. “Is this sufficient payment? I know little of human furnishings, so I trust this will be sufficient for the alcove?”

“More than sufficient for my entire life!” Ivy had to stand on a rock just to reach into the top and pluck out an emerald the size of a warrior’s fist. “What do you want me to do?”

“Simply tell the truth about me,” said Gort.

Ivy sighed and picked up her instrument. A simple traveller’s harp. “Do you know the name for this?”

“A lyre,” said the dragon. “Yes. An appropriate instrument for a bard. I see. Very well. Gild the truth about me. You will fly with me when I fly. See the world from the clouds. Share in the Dragonsong. And, in general, know about me.”

This was more than Ivy had ever expected. It beat the living hell out of huddling under trees and getting kicked into the gutter. “Thank you, sir dragon! I’ll do my best, I promise!”

Gort chuckled. “Dear little princess bard,” a head big enough to dwarf four horses swivelled around on a huge neck so the gigantic lizard could whisper, “Ivy is ever a girl’s name. In all its forms.”

“Oh. Lady dragon…” Ivy curtseyed. “My apologies, m’m. I was always taught that dragons were male.”

"Humans,” Gort rolled her gemlike eyes. “How do they expect little dragons to be made, hm?”

“I suppose we never thought of it,” allowed Ivy. She was staring at the emerald. A King’s ransom. Certainly enough to hire workers to cut a stair up and into the alcove. And craftsmen to make what furnishings she liked. She remembered her mother telling the craftsmen what she wanted. Ivy could certainly do it with a little more grace. And spin the tale of the generous dragon who just wanted people to understand.

…and maybe even have some spare coin for a better lyre. Yes. Maybe even get a dragon put on its body, somewhere. In honour of her sponsor.

And she’d have to think of something a little more poetic than ‘Gort’. It just didn’t sound very lyrical.

[Muse food remaining: 13. Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]