Chapter Text
As it turns out, unifying all of Fódlan and breaking open Fódlan’s Throat is an awful lot of work.
Not that Claude particularly minds. He’s been working for this moment ever since he’d first come to Fódlan, scrambling to put himself in a position where he could break down those preconceived notions and prejudices between countries and work towards peace and understanding. He’d always known that getting into that position was only half the battle, and there would be so much more work to do once he was situated to make those changes. The changes themselves are the real difficult part.
Fortunately, Claude is nothing if not ambitious. It will be a hard battle, maybe the work of years, but he will see his dream through.
But it does involve a lot of work, and he’s constantly busy. One would think fighting back a five-year occupation of Fódlan and defeating the King of Liberation reborn would be the most difficult part of the plan. But at least he’d had time to chat with his friends and find a few moments to himself then.
Ever since he’d been officially declared the leader of unified Fódlan, Claude hasn’t had a moment to himself. Diplomatic meetings, discussions on how to best restructure the Church of Seiros, reports from all over the country about crops and troops and bandits, spy reports about Fódlan’s border neighbors inching closer at the scent of blood—it’s all a lot to handle.
Not to mention, while the war is technically over, there’s still a lot left to be done to clean up the remnants of Edelgard’s hostile takeover. The former lands of the Empire are in a state of disarray, with a few former Edelgard supporters and a few noble houses fighting back in a bitter and grudging rebellion.
The lands formerly of the Kingdom of Faerghus to the north are even worse. With Dimitri dead and no other heirs to the throne, the country had been consumed by a violent takeover from a former advisor to the royal line. If Claude’s spy network is even half right, she’s also associated with Those Who Slither in the Dark. Digging her out and providing aid to the people of the Faerghus region will be difficult to say the least.
At least Claude isn’t required to do it all alone. He certainly has helped with clearing bandits and reinstating order in more remote areas that had suffered from the ongoing war. But Teach had volunteered to deal with the Faerghus campaign, and several of his former Black Eagle classmates had provided invaluable assistance in diplomatic relations and cleanup in the Empire. It meant he had time to deal with the political maneuverings of Fódlan as a whole, which made his life at least a little easier.
But he has the afternoon all to himself, and it’s a blessed relief. He’d gotten a great deal of work done, Teach had sent news that the Faerghus campaign was going well just today, and he’s even convinced several Alliance house leaders to consider opening talks with Almyra. He’s earned a little peace and solitude, and he intends to enjoy every second of it.
Which is why he heads for the House Riegan aviaries with a spring in his step, whistling lightly. It’s been too long since he’s been able to go on a flight just for the hell of it, and he’s sure his wyvern could use the chance to stretch her wings. It’s a beautiful sunny day with clear skies, perfect weather for flying.
The Riegan aviaries are relatively new, compared to the rest of the centuries-old estate. Wyvern weren’t nearly as common to Fódlan as they were in Almyra, and when it came to aerial combat, the pegasus was the usual preferred mount of choice. That didn’t mean they were unheard of—Garreg Mach had a number of Knights of Seiros who preferred wyverns, not the least of which was Seteth himself. But as a general rule, most traditional Fódlan estates didn’t come with wyvern aviaries. Claude had asked his grandfather to build them for his animal, when he’d first moved to Fódlan almost eight years ago.
Fortunately, times have changed since then. House Riegan now boasts an excellent aviary for a large wing of wyverns, and expert caretakers. A number of his own house troops are skilled wyvern riders, and have gained a reputation for their aerial warfare.
“Hey there, Erik,” Claude greets the wyvern master, as he steps into the open courtyard in the aviary proper. Erik isn’t much older than himself, but he’s knowledgeable about all things wyvern and loves looking after the creatures. “Can you get Sania saddled up for me? No need for the silks or tassels, it’s not a business flight.”
Normally, Erik is always ready to jump to work the moment Claude asks, but today he fidgets nervously and looks downright uneasy. “Um, I can’t do that, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”
Claude raises an eyebrow. By now most of his House staff have grown accustomed to his relatively easygoing attitude, and know they can speak freely with him, noble or not. Erik has never been an exception to that rule. But now he acts afraid, like he’s just waiting for Claude to fire him.
“Alright, what’s going on?” he asks after a moment, intrigued by the sudden change of personality.
“I’m so sorry, sir,” Erik repeats, wincing. “It’s terribly negligent for me not to have noticed sooner, and I understand if you want to sack me for this, it’s my fault—”
“Woah! Slow down,” Claude says. “Relax. I’m sure whatever it is, it isn’t nearly as bad as you’re making it out to be. What happened? Is Sania okay?” He briefly envisions his wyvern sick or injured, and certainly hopes that isn’t the case.
“She’s fine, sir,” Erik says hastily. “Relatively speaking. It’s just that, er...she, uh, laid a clutch.”
Claude stares at his wyvern master. The man stares back anxiously, wringing his hands. After a long moment, Claude finally says, “Huh.”
“I’m so sorry, sir,” Erik says. “I’m ashamed that I didn’t notice until it was too late. I’ve never worked with albino wyverns before, and the signs of a gravid female were a little harder to spot, but it’s no excuse for my failure, sir—”
“Erik.” Claude waits until the man stops rambling anxiously, before raising his hands in a ‘relax’ gesture and saying, “Calm down. I’m not angry. Hell, I didn’t notice either. I mean, I noticed she was getting a little chunky, but I figured it was just because she wasn’t getting as much of a workout now that we’re fighting in fewer battles.”
“We exercise her properly, sir,” Erik says, a little affronted but obviously trying hard to be respectful.
“I’m sure you do,” Claude says. “You do a great job. That’s why I hired you and why I’m not firing you. So, when did she lay? Is she healthy? Are the eggs okay? Were there any problems?”
Erik winces. “Yesterday evening, but I’m not sure, sir. She won’t let anyone into her stall.”
Claude blinks. “What?”
Erik sighs. “She’s...well, she’s a first time mother, sir, and particularly defensive of her clutch. None of us are allowed to come near her. She’s bitten or clawed at anyone who’s tried.”
Claude frowns. “Is anyone hurt?”
“Jakk took a nip to the arm, sir, but it’s already healing well, we had a cleric look at it. Just a few close calls otherwise, sir.” He sighs. “But I’m worried. Because of my negligence, I didn’t even know she was gravid, so I wasn’t able to move her to a lay-stall in time. Your personal stall is at least a bit removed from the main aviary, but I’m concerned about her becoming overly stressed by the constant traffic in the area. Not to mention ensuring the conditions are right for the eggs to hatch.” The man rubs his face in frustration.
They aren’t completely unfounded concerns. Female wyverns in the wild tended to find remote caves or defensible places to lay a clutch of eggs, where they could guard their brood until hatching. They were extremely protective and could become stressed if there was too much activity nearby that could be a potential threat to their young. And a stressed wyvern was often an aggressive wyvern.
Domesticated female wyverns were much the same, which was why special lay-stalls were usually prepared in any good wyvern aviary. They were secluded away from the hustle and bustle of the main aviary and the constant movement of humans, other wyverns, horses, and the like. They were also designed to provide exactly the right conditions for healthy eggs to incubate and hatch safely. Female wyverns expected to lay eggs would usually be moved to them a week or two in advance, because they wouldn’t leave their clutch once laid.
From the sounds of it, nobody—including himself—had expected Sania to lay eggs at all. Which meant she was in her regular stall, near a lot of stressful activity, with a clutch of eggs she was going to be extremely defensive of.
“Well, no help for it,” Claude says. “What’s done is done, and we’ll just have to figure out how to make it work from here. Since her stall is private, I assume you can raise the heat and humidity in it for the eggs?”
“Of course, sir, I think I can.”
“Great. Then I’ll go in and take a look at her.”
Erik’s eyes widen in alarm. “You can’t, sir! It’s too dangerous!”
Claude snorts at that as he starts for Sania’s stall. “I’ve raised her since she was a hatchling. She knows me. And I do want to make sure she’s okay after laying a clutch.” He wasn’t a wyvern master, but he’d been around wyverns long enough to know what to look for, between his years before Fódlan and a whole year of mucking out the Garreg Mach aviaries as part of his training. He’s going to at least try.
Erik follows nervously, clearly preparing to either yank Claude back to safety or run for the nearest cleric when something inevitably goes wrong. Not that it will. But Claude supposes preparedness isn’t a bad thing.
Because of Claude’s status as the head of House Riegan, his wyvern has her own special larger than average stall in the aviary. He makes his way to it with long familiarity, heaving open one of the large reinforced double doors and peeking in on his mount.
He smiles when he catches sight of her. Most of the bedding hay has been scraped into a large nest in the center, and Sania is curled up in the middle of it. She’s crouched defensively on her massive back claws, with her wing-forelegs swept forward for balance and to act as a shield. Her long tail and its wicked venom-coated tip is wrapped forward around her wings and legs, ready to lash protectively against would-be predators. She’s certainly hunkered down for the long haul.
“Well, now,” he drawls, stepping into the room slowly and putting his hands on his hips. “I hear you’ve been sleeping around on me. What’ve you got to say for yourself, huh?”
He gives her enough time to warn him off, if she really doesn’t want him there. But she doesn’t hiss or show her teeth or rattle her tail warningly. Instead, she greets him with a crooning rumble deep in her chest, and the moment he’s close enough, she stretches out her head and licks his face with her rough tongue.
He laughs, and obligingly rubs under her jaw when she pushes her angular head into his arms. “Alright, alright, pretty lady! I forgive you. I wish you’d told me earlier, though. And just where did you find a boyfriend anyway?”
Sania doesn’t answer, obviously. Wyvern are very intelligent creatures, capable of learning a vast number of commands and tricks, but they aren’t sentient. Though it is a valid question. Claude hadn’t actually intended to breed her for a few more years, once Fódlan was a little more stable. He hadn’t introduced her to any male wyverns intentionally. Apparently, she’d had different ideas on the matter.
Though, considering the timing...if she’d just laid eggs last night, then she’d probably gotten feisty with a male wyvern during the campaign against the Empire. They’d spent days in encampments as they pushed their way forward, without proper aviaries. Most mounts, ground and air alike, had been picketed in whatever open spaces they could find along the way. And between the Knights of Seiros and Nader’s additional Almyran troops, there had been quite a few wyvern on the road.
“I don’t suppose I get to meet the lucky father?” Claude asks idly, as he shifts to scratching her in her favorite spot, just behind her horn ridges.
She croons happily in answer, a low rumble that he can feel reverberating through his whole body just as much as he can hear it. After a few all-important head scratches, she finally pulls away and twists her head to gently nip at one of the billowing sleeves of his Riegan jacket, tugging him forward.
“Sir!” cries a panicked yelp from the doorway. Claude glances over his shoulder at Erik, standing at the entrance to the stall, who wears an alarmed expression and looks ready to bolt.
Sania releases Claude’s sleeve immediately, raising herself to full height and hissing in Erik’s direction. She twitches her tail warningly and displays all her teeth, and the message is very clear. Erik is not wanted, and if he takes a step closer, she will strike to defend.
Despite the obvious threat display, Erik looks ready to try it anyway. His eyes are on Claude, and he looks genuinely terrified for his safety.
I really need to pay this man more, Claude notes to himself. If the man was ready to throw himself into a literal den of danger to try and save his lord, knowing full well the risks, then he definitely deserves a raise.
Out loud, all he says is, “Relax, Erik. I’m perfectly safe. Why don’t you go get her something to eat? With extra bones, since she just laid and needs all those nutrients back.”
“Are—are you sure, sir?” Erik asks meekly, alarm still evident on his face. He looks like he wants to leave the leader of all of Fódlan alone with an angry, defensive wyvern as much as he wants an arrow to the eye. Which is to say, not at all.
“Positive,” Claude says. “She’ll calm down as soon as you leave, trust me. I know my girl.”
As if proving his point, Sania’s hissing grows even louder, and her head lurches over Claude’s defensively. Apparently, he’s now a part of whatever she’s defending.
Erik is a wyvern master for a reason. He nods hastily and backs away. “Right. I’ll...wait outside when I have food ready.”
“That’ll be great, thanks,” Claude says, and the man disappears from the doorway and down the hall.
Unsurprisingly, Sania calms down almost immediately. Claude reaches up and strokes her neck scales soothingly, and she settles back down, crooning instead of hissing. Her tail stops rattling, and she twitches it safely aside, so there’s no chance of accidentally cutting Claude with its venomous tip.
“That’s it,” Claude soothes. “The scary man is gone now, and I promise he won’t hurt you or your clutch. Alright? Nice and calm now, pretty lady.”
Sania croons again, and then catches his sleeve once more, tugging him forward. He lets her, knowing full well that if she wanted to she could tear his arm right off. But she knows how to be gentle, and he trusts her.
She unfolds her shielding wings from around the nest of hay, revealing a stack of off-white eggs nestled just in front of her back claws. Her gentle grip on his sleeve guides his hand to the top egg on the pile when he crouches in front of it, as large as his two fists at least. She releases her grip on his sleeve, and croons proudly, as if to say, look at what I made!
Claude whistles, impressed. He’d fully expected to be allowed into the stall—he’s raised Sania, after all, and he trusts her implicitly. But it’s another thing entirely for any animal, much less a wyvern, to blatantly invite a handler to see the babies they were so protective of. He’s actually a little honored, even if it’s maybe a silly way to feel about touching a few eggs.
He’s proud of her, though. “You did a good job,” he praises, as he pulls off his gloves and runs his bare hand gently over the first eggshell. “Look at all these eggs. What a good mother you are.”
Sania rumbles, obviously pleased with herself. She nudges a little more hay closer to the eggs, and then licks Claude’s hair a few times with her rough tongue, sending it into disarray. She’s watchful as he runs his hands over the eggs, but not protective, and she obviously trusts him with something so precious to her.
He grins a little as he checks each of the eggs carefully. They’re already sticking to each other, which usually happens after a few hours and helps keep from turning over and killing the babies inside. The shells are good and solid, a bit leathery but firm, as they should be.
There are seventeen eggs in total. Seven of them look like slugs, gray and squished, which means they’re unlikely to actually hatch anything. That’s unfortunate, but not unexpected, especially with a first time mother. But ten of the eggs are a healthy off-white, and have a good chance of producing baby wyverns two months from now.
Claude is relieved by that. Since they hadn’t known she was going to have a clutch, they hadn’t altered her diet to add more bone for egg-laying, and the shells might have been weak. Not to mention she had been injured against Nemesis and the Ten Elites, and she’s fought with him when clearing out bandits and rebels in the months since. He worried that it might have affected the eggs, since he hadn’t known she was gravid when he flew her into battle. Conditions like that could have ruined an entire clutch. Thankfully, that doesn’t look to be the case.
Claude runs a hand through his hair, fixing some of the damage from an impromptu wyvern-grooming session, and stands up again. “You did a very good job,” he says, scratching behind her horns again. “Ten eggs! Without a lay-stall, or anyone even knowing. And people say you’re weaker.” He scoffs. “You’ll show them, won’t you, pretty lady?”
Her so-called weakness was one of the reasons she was so strongly bonded to Claude as a mount. Albino wyvern were rare in Almyra, only seen once in a blue moon. Their white scales and pale eyes made them more sensitive to sunlight, which Almyra had in abundance. Because of that, they were often considered a nuisance at best, and a bad omen at worst.
She had hatched the only white wyvern in a clutch of traditional brown- and tan-scaled animals. She had struggled to get food against her clutchmates, and her keeper hadn’t given her special attention, which meant she rapidly became the runt of the pack. When the whole clutch had been presented to the royal line as gifts, the traditional hatchlings had been snapped up rapidly, leaving her the sole hatchling unspoken for. Nobody wanted a weak, ill omen.
But Claude had wanted her from the beginning. The intrigue and mystery of such a rare-scaled animal had excited him, and he thought her white scales were beautiful. Not only that, but he understood what it was like to be an unwanted outsider amongst your own family. He didn’t believe in any of that superstitious nonsense about bad omens any more than he believed in the goddess of Fódlan. With a little work, he was sure he could turn her into a fierce and noble mount.
He’d named her Sania. It meant radiant, in Almyran. He’d need a mount that shone like the sun when he flew to the top of the world and changed it all.
She’d never let him down, from that moment on. She’d bonded to him fiercely, drinking up every speck of attention he gave her. She was intelligent, a fast learner, deadly in combat, and responded to his commands with barely a call or a touch. Her venom was some of the most potent he’d ever seen even amongst wyverns, and often made its way into his poisons. She was wildly protective of him on the battlefield and off it, but trusted his guidance implicitly, and would fly into the flames of Hell itself at his command if he asked it of her.
And she’d been his best friend, long before he ever came to Fódlan. He’d spent hours complaining in her aviary about his hardships in Almyra, or talking to her about the difficulties of adjusting to life in Fódlan. Sometimes he’d sleep in her stall if he was paranoid about an expected attack, curled up against her warm scales, because nothing could sneak up on a wyvern and he trusted her more than he did some humans. She was one of the things he’d missed the most when he went to the Officer’s Academy, but he’d had to leave her behind at House Riegan—a white wyvern had been a little too distinctive and too easy to identify back then.
It was why he hadn’t been frightened for a moment, walking into the den of a brooding mother wyvern. Because she was his Sania, and she would never hurt him for a moment.
Sania rumbles, and pushes him towards the eggs again. Clearly, she’s not finished showing off her hard work, or being lavished with praise.
Claude laughs. “Yeah, yeah, I see them. They’re very nice. Your children will be unholy terrors. I can’t wait to meet them.”
She licks his face again. He sputters, resigning himself to another few minutes of wyvern-grooming.
“Alright, enough of that,” he says eventually, shoving her enormous head and rough tongue away from his now extraordinarily messy hair. “My turn. I need to look you over, pretty girl. Can I do that? I want to make sure you’re okay after laying so many eggs.”
She rumbles, apparently not bothered by the notion. Though she does shove her head into his arms to bargain for another scratch behind the horns, first. He laughs and obliges, before running his hands further down her neck and sides to check her over.
The greatest potential danger currently is if she hadn’t been able to get all the eggs out, especially given she’d had her clutch in the much less humid regular stall, instead of a lay-stall. An egg-bound wyvern was in danger of dying a slow and painful death, unless the keepers intervened. If that happened, Claude would have no choice but to call in a mage armed with sleep spells to sedate her long enough for medical help to assist, because there was no chance she would let anyone but him near willingly.
But she doesn’t seem to be in any pain or discomfort as he runs his hands carefully down her side and belly, checking for lumps or swelling. If anything she looks and feels a bit deflated, but that’s nothing a few big meals won’t cure. She tolerates his ministrations calmly, and when he’s done a few minutes later she shoves her head forward into his arms again for well-deserved rewards.
“You really want attention, huh?” Claude says with a chuckle, as she nudges his chest insistently with her nose until he scratches her under the jaw again. “Well, you deserve it. What a good girl, you did an amazing job.”
She rumbles happily, clearly proud of both herself and the attention she’s getting, and settles her head comfortably on his shoulder as he rubs her neck and throat. He ducks his head out of the way of her horns with well-practiced ease, and indulges his wyvern for a few more moments.
“I think you deserve a spa day for all your hard work, how does that sound?” he asks eventually. “I think I hear Erik coming with your dinner now, and then we’ll give you a good rub down until your scales shine. Sound good, pretty lady?”
Sania rumbles contentedly.
“That means you need to get off,” Claude adds, slapping the side of her neck playfully. She huffs, but when Claude issues a sharp click-whistle, she obediently retreats and settles back down in her nest. Affectionate wyverns are better than aggressive ones, but wyverns of any kind are too big to be allowed to always have their way. Give them an inch, and they’d take a mile. So it was important to make sure they were obedient and trained to be aware of their size and strength.
“That’s my good girl,” Claude praises, and she nearly purrs in response. “Give me a minute and I’ll be back with your dinner.”
Outside the stall doors, Erik is waiting with a wheelbarrow heaped with the freshly killed carcass of an entire deer. Normally, the wyverns are fed smaller portions, but the bones, organs and horns of the animal will go a long way towards giving Sania back all the nutrients she’s just lost to the eggs.
“Thanks, Erik,” he says, as he strips off his cape, outer regalia, and heavy Riegan jacket and tosses them over the nearby aviary gate for safekeeping. It won’t do to get them covered in blood and who only knows what else, but his silk shirt can at least be replaced. “Can you grab me a shovel, the wire brushes and cleaning rags, and Sania’s wyvern oils? I’ll get her cleaned up once she’s eaten.”
Erik’s eyes widen in alarm. “You don’t mean to tell me you actually plan to muck out her stall like a stableboy, sir?” he asks, horrified.
“I don’t see why not,” Claude says, collecting the wheelbarrow. “Who else is going to do it? Nobody else can go in there safely.”
“It’s unseemly sir! You’re the leader of the Alliance! Of all of Fódlan, now! You—you can’t be shoveling wyvern dung. It’s not proper!”
“I think you know by now, Erik, I’ve never been one for ‘proper,’” Claude says with a grin. “I might be a bit rusty compared to you and the other stablehands, but I think I can do an okay job. Minding the aviaries was one of my jobs at the Officer’s Academy, after all. Not the first time I’ll have cleaned a wyvern’s stall.”
“But sir—”
“Stay outside, Erik,” Claude says cheerfully, as he shoves the wheelbarrow into Sania’s stall. “She’ll get snappish if you go in, and then I’ll have more mess to clean up. We wouldn’t want that, now would we?”
Erik looks like he’s not entirely sure how to take that morbid joke, for all manner of reasons. But it does stop him in his tracks as he tries to work out the meaning, which gives Claude enough time to escape into the stall again.
Sania’s head rises immediately, and her tail lashes in excitement at the scent of food. “Yeah, I bet you’re hungry,” Claude says, as he shoves the wheelbarrow and its deer carcass right up in front of Sania’s nest. “You would’ve been fed last night after laying, but you just had to be a stubborn brat about letting the handlers in, huh?”
Sania growls and ducks her head. The sound is more petulant than angry, to Claude’s ears.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Claude says, rubbing her nose. “You’re just protecting your nest. I get it. Don’t mess with a mom defending her kids. Mine can be just as fierce.” He smiles wistfully, thinking back to his mother. It’s been a long time since he’s written to her, and it’ll be even longer before he has a chance to do so, or the opportunity to visit. Ah, well. The price of achieving one’s dream is sometimes costly.
Sania digs into her meal, and Claude settles down against one wall to let her eat in peace. Watching a wyvern eat is always a fascinating experience, no matter how many times one sees it. In smaller portions, they can just swallow the food whole, but with something as large as a deer, she can’t pull the same trick. So she uses her powerful winged forelimbs to pin the food in place while she tears off chunks with her serrated teeth and gulps them down. Wyvern wings are strong enough to hold themselves, a rider, armor, and additional luggage in the air for hours, but they aren’t particularly dexterous. It means meals are usually clumsy and messy.
Still, Sania obviously enjoys her dinner, from the way she tears into the deer carcass eagerly. Her massive jaws and sharp teeth easily crush bone, hoof and horn with unsettling crunching noises, and she barely chews on muscle and organs before tossing them back and swallowing them in huge chunks. When the carcass is finished, she licks up every remaining speck in the wheelbarrow and the surrounding floor, and then settles in contentedly, grooming her messy wing claws with her rough tongue.
“Nice and full?” Claude asks, hauling himself to his feet. Sania’s humming purr is answer enough.
Erik had long since left the requested equipment, along with several extra bales of clean hay, outside the door to the aviary. Claude dutifully collects the shovel and rake, and for a while it’s like he’s back in the Officer’s Academy, when life had been so much simpler and he’d still been friends with his fellow house leaders. He cleans out the stall and spreads new hay, which Sania almost immediately appropriates to build up her nest even further, to his amused exasperation.
Last of all comes her personal care, which Claude had always enjoyed. He scrubs her down with a few buckets of water and the wire brushes, paying special attention to her messy jaws and bloodied wing-claws, until her scales are fresh and clean.
Then he takes the cleaning rags and the wyvern oil, and spends a diligent hour rubbing it carefully into every single one of her white scales. It was good for any wyvern, in order to prevent their scales from drying out or cracking painfully. But it was essential for an albino, with their increased sensitivity to sunlight, and needed to be done much more often to protect them. The extra time and care was one of the reasons Almyrans generally didn’t want to bother with white wyverns, but Claude finds it worthwhile and had always been willing to put in the extra work since the day he claimed her as his future mount.
Plus, it served as an excellent bonding activity. Sania rumbles contentedly as he rubs her scales down with the oils, stretching out lazily on her bed of hay and only keeping one wing curved defensively over her clutch. She lifts her wings, feet, tail, or head as directed when he whistles or clicks in command to her, but otherwise she sprawls in blissful happiness, eyes closed and nearly purring.
“You’re a real princess and you know it, don’t you?” Claude says, as he finishes off the last of the sensitive pink wing membranes and sets the oilcloth aside. “I’m inheriting the leadership of two countries, and yet here I am, waiting on you hand and foot. How’s it feel to know you’re the most powerful creature in hundreds of miles?”
Sania lifts her head, rumbling deep in her chest, and regards him curiously. After a moment, she hooks her wing-claw into his shirt and pulls him close enough to start running her rough tongue over his hair again.
“Oh, it’s my turn now, is it?” Claude says, batting her head away gently. “Sorry, but you’ve groomed me enough for today. I probably look a sight as it is.” Between his dirty wyvern-stall clothes and what has to be a bird’s nest for hair by now, he’s sure he looks anything but noble.
She rumbles, but doesn’t protest as he pulls away and starts collecting the gear and settling it outside the stall doors. After a moment, she heaves herself upright again and settles once more in a defensive crouch over her eggs, curling her wings in a protective shield around them to both hide them and promote warmth.
“That’s it, pretty lady,” Claude says, coming back to stroke her nose one last time. “You know just what to do. Keep taking good care of those eggs, and I’ll be back to keep taking good care of you, alright?”
She huffs, shoving her head into his arms for one last scratch behind the horns. He grants it to her, grinning.
“That’s my amazing girl. You’re gonna do just fine.”