Archive of Our Own

“Papa, this is itchy!!” One of the whelps cries out, squirming in her outfit. Wrathion smiles at her and twitches the collar of the shirt into place. His daughter settles with a curious look. “Oh.”

“Quelaria, do you honestly think I’d let any of my children wear something itchy?” He smooths out the trousers she’d chosen and ties the boots deftly. “I’m insulted.”

She giggles as he turns to help the next in the line-up. He makes it to Aurelian, Atraxia, and Varian without any further corrections to make. Aurelian, the only whelp to choose a tauren form to shift into primarily, nervously fiddles with his braid until Atraxia sighs gustily and turns to undo it and tie it into a low ponytail instead. Wrathion gives her a grateful look, proud that she’d taken to helping all of her clutchmates like it was second nature.

As for his firstborn...Wrathion’s heart soars when he sees Varian’s outfit. It’s immaculate and regal, despite the whelp’s young age. He’d been determined to act like a prince all of the sudden a year ago, and held himself with dignity...about half the time. The older dragon grins at his son. “Well, you might actually fool Queen Thaurissan into believing you’re the crown prince of Blackrock at this rate. But you don’t fool me, little one.”

The little blond pouts. “Not trying to fool you, Papa! Trying to make you proud…”

Wrathion crouches in front of his son. “My darling, you make me proud just by existing. You might be the crown prince and my heir, but you’re my son , V. I’m prouder than anyone on the planet because of that fact alone. As if I could be anything else.”

Varian steps forward and hugs his papa, purring slightly as he does. “Thank you. I’m proud you’re my papa….we all are.”

He blinks, startled at his son’s words, as the others come around to also hug him. He shakes his head. “You are going to make me cry my happy tears and muss me up at this rate.” He sniffles and stands. “I love you, my darlings, but we’ve got diplomacy to do before you cuddle your papa. Come, let’s go meet Queen Thaurissan before we’re late and she throws us into the Core.”

“Again?” Calrion asks quietly.

“Again.” Wrathion shudders. He’s immune to the heat of magma, but it’s a pain to clean off once it’s dry. He had deserved it, though.

-

Varian squirms in his outfit, uncomfortably itchy in it. It’s not that the fabric itself is uncomfortable, but...he holds back a sigh. He needs to be on his very best behavior and make his papa proud, not mope about getting used to a mortal form. He keeps pace with his siblings and papa, but spends most of the trek down to Shadowforge City making small adjustments to the form.

He’s not supposed to be doing this, but the power in the earth around him makes it so easy that the temptation isn’t one he tries to fight. Maybe longer fingers? Yes, that feels right. Blond hair like his father, but brighter...more like the Regent Lord’s. His skin’s already where he wants it, almost a direct copy of his papa’s. It’s also fairly close to the shade of his papa’s scales when the light hits them juuuuust right on a hot summer’s day, so it stays the same. His ears, though...round like his father’s? The people in Stormwind would appreciate that, he’s sure.

Varian’s child-soft features shift into a scowl. He doesn’t like those people. They look at his papa funny. Why do they look at him so funny? It’s not like he’s an unusual dragon! Varian almost growls, but remembers that he’s supposed to not be doing this. His papa will notice, definitely, but he won’t be able to say anything in front of the Dark Iron clan.

That puts the bounce back into his step, and he shifts his ears to also be a copy of his papa’s. An elvish point to the tip, but not the full height of a sin’dorei, or the curve of a kaldorei, or anything in-between. He supposes they probably look closer to some of the half-elves living in Dalaran, which makes him happy. He’s the prince of two kingdoms, the child of two species, why wouldn’t he be a half-something? It’s perfect!

Varian giggles softly and reaches out to hold his sister Shenia’s hand. She takes it and looks at him before joining in his giggles. She gently flicks the tip of his new ear and grins at him. A few of his other siblings look back to see the cause of the giggles and also grin their approval. 

Not a one of them tattles on him, either!

-

Wrathion pretends not to hear his children giggling, knowing very well that he’s already too stressed about them meeting Moira to handle anything new. Besides, the queen-regent had a son, she likely was expecting at least some slight mishaps to occur. 

He hopes they don’t, considering the wager they had going. He’s already certain he’s going to lose anyway, though.

The dragon stops at the gates to the city and nods to the guards, who look him up and down before bowing slightly. “State your business.”

“The Black Dragonflight wishes to present its youngest members to the Queen-Regent in agreement with the continued treaty between us and the Dark Iron clan.” Wrathion states formally. In a gentler tone of voice, he clarifies. “She’s expecting this motley crew.”

One of the guards--Tradis, if his memory serves--looks at the whelps and gives Wrathion a wry grin. “They’re less motley than my own bairns. I’m impressed.”

“Thank you, it’s not easy.” Wrathion waits while they open the massive doors to the city, still definitely not looking back. He doesn’t want to know until it’s too late. Better to only have one panic attack, thank you very much. Both guards salute him and the dragons walk into the city unhindered and unescorted.

That last is a slight surprise, but he supposes the treaty’s held since he started living in the mountain, so he probably can come and go as he pleases in the relatively public areas. He clears his throat. “Alright, we have to go straight to the Imperial Seat and present ourselves. Then , with the queen-regent’s blessing, we can explore the market, alright?”

The chorus of “yes papa” from all eighteen whelps eases his mind and he walks with purpose towards the Seat.

When they get there, the guards simply bow and gesture for them to enter the room. Wrathion’s a little impressed with the discipline of the guards and how quickly information passes through the city. Perhaps he can request Moira’s assistance in training his own guards once the children are older. Wrathion steps to the side and arranges his children in a neat line for Moira to inspect. He pauses when he sees Varian and arches an eyebrow at the whelp, who ignores the expression and continues looking forward.

Wrathion touches the tip of an ear and whispers, “You little mimic.” Varian’s lips quirk upward before he schools his expression back into neutrality. He’s going to have to have a long chat with his heir if he can alter his form so quickly and without making a sound.

He finishes moving the rest of them into a perfect line, then steps aside and bows low. “Queen-Regent, I present the whelps of the Black Dragonflight, as requested.”

Moira steps down from the dais and walks over to the children to greet them. It’s a cold affair, a quick request for their name, and then a bow from the child--executed perfectly, much to Wrathion’s relief--and finally moving on to the next in the line. 

Until, of course, she reaches his heir.

“You’re the wee prince, then, aren’t you?” Moira asks, tone as steely as usual. “You’ve the look of your father on you. Both of them. Tell me, young prince, do you intend to keep the treaty between the Dark Iron clan and your family?”

Varian stares at the queen-regent, an unnervingly focused gaze for someone so young. Moira meets the whelp’s eyes with her own placid stare. Suddenly, Varian cries out, turning his now-distressed expression towards Wrathion.

“I don’t know if I’ll even be taller than her!”

“Titans preserve us…” Wrathion mutters under his breath. To his son, he responds, “Varian, you’re speaking to the queen-regent of the Dark Iron clan. Please attempt to show some respect?”

“You said honesty is respected by the clans!” Varian snaps back, small form confident in this information. “And it’s true! I’m tiny and she’s the tallest dwarf I’ve seen!”

“She’s one of three dwarves you’ve met.” Atraxia chimes in helpfully.

“And she’s the tallest!!”

Wrathion startles when he hears Moira start to laugh, shaking her head. The laughter grows until she’s wagging her finger at him. “Don’t say I didn’t warn ye, lad!”

The dragon sighs deeply, rubbing his temples. He needs a nap . “Varian, answer her question.”

“Oh.” The whelp straightens his back and, with a shockingly sincere tone, replies, “I, Varian Prestor, heir to the Black Dragonflight and Blackrock Spire, will strive to uphold the treaty between our families. It is my...um...opinion?” He pauses and looks to Wrathion for help, eloquence fading quickly once he runs out of rehearsed words.

“Belief.” The older dragon supplies.

“It is my belief that the Dark Iron clan and the Black Dragonflight should be allies for as long as Blackrock stands.” He fumbles, breaking eye contact to look at his feet. “Um...I forgot the rest.”

“It’s alright, little lad. That’ll do until you’re of age. Not bad for a wee bairn.” Moira looks over at Wrathion. “Alright, lad, take your family and go explore. The poor little ones need to move around or they look like they’ll burst! Go on, get!”

Wrathion turns to his children. “Go wait outside for me, my darlings. I’ll be out in a moment.” He watches them scurry out of the room with very little dignity and gives the queen-regent an exasperated look. “Well?”

Moira’s expression is full of respect and no small amount of amusement. “I’d go mad in a week, raising eighteen children. I’ll have several casks of our best vintage sent up tomorrow.” She starts walking towards the side doorway, which Wrathion knows leads to the more private parts of the city. 

He blinks. “But...the wager?” He’d lost it the second Varian had his outburst.

It’s the dwarf’s turn to look exasperated. “Lad, if I hadn’t made a wager, you’d have kept them to yourself! I just wanted to meet them. And now I have. Bring them down for the weekly dinners...our city needs the entertainment.”

“Gee, thanks.” He says dryly.

“My child’s grown, it’s my turn to laugh at a poor parent wrangling their wee ones.”

“Sadist.”

“Only to dragons.”

Wrathion chuckles and walks closer, allowing the queen to reach up to pat his cheek. “Thank you, Moira.”

“You’re family, lad. Get used to it.”