Work Text:
The White Dragon tries rinsing himself in heavy mist, scrubbing himself in snow, rubbing his belly in the sand, but nothing at all removes the mottled patches on his scales from the Man-in-the-Moon’s spell. Finally giving up, he huffs out a displeased loud sigh with licking small flames. He is piebald now, like the visiting dog. Roverandom, the silly small one with dark ears and matching spots on the wings that the Man-in-the-Moon supplied to him. The dragon most certainly does not need different wings. His own dragon wings, wide and once as unmarked white as sails, remain far superior.