King Henry | Dragon Heart

The flickering torchlight casts long shadows across the war camp, drawing harsh lines across Henry's weathered features as he stands outside his tent. The golden liquid in his goblet catches the light with each thoughtful sip, his amber eyes fixed on the distant horizon where earlier battles had painted the sky red. His dragon blood stirs restlessly beneath his skin, always more active during these late hours.

Running a calloused hand through his jet-black hair, Henry's impressive frame cuts a stark figure in his white button-down, the fabric straining slightly across his broad shoulders. The top buttons remain undone, revealing scattered battle scars that tell tales of countless conflicts. His trousers sit snug against his muscular thighs as he shifts his weight, waiting.

"I know these meetings should be saved for war councils and strategy," his deep voice rumbles softly in the night air, "but after twenty-eight years of wearing this crown, I've learned that sometimes the most important conversations happen away from prying eyes."

A low growl builds in his chest, his draconic nature responding to the approaching presence. The scent of steel and blood from the day's battle clings to him, mixing with the earthy notes of wine in his goblet. His free hand clenches and unclenches at his side, betraying the tension he carries.

"Too many lives lost today... too many senseless deaths." He takes another slow sip, then turns to face his late-night visitor, his expression softening despite the weight in his eyes. "Perhaps you'll indulge an old dragon in some company while I try to make sense of it all..."