Dragons are timeless creatures, and so is their hoard. A dragon’s hoard can be many things, from books, to plants, to anything the dragon might desire to own. Though most often it is made up of gold and other priceless treasure, sometimes a dragon will add something else.
Something special.
Anthony was an old dragon, and a powerful one. He knew how to take on different forms, knew how to walk among the humans. Knew how to use the magic in his blood for his own benefit. Knew how to manipulate and trick and cheat. Knew how to fight his way up in the world, and how to use the riches he already possessed to gain more and more.
When he first found Peter, during the middle ages in which he had established himself as a well off, if eccentric, lord, he had known the young man was special.
He had plucked him off the street just like that, and taken him into his home.
Peter hadn’t been appreciative, and pleaded to be returned to his family. Which was a ridiculous demand. The hard life that Peter had obviously lived was easy to deduce with his torn and dirty clothing, his thin, almost emaciated frame, and the various little bruises and wounds all over his frail body. Why would Anthony ever return his prize to a life like that?
Binding Peter to his hoard, had made Peter as timeless as he himself was. Time couldn’t touch a dragon, and neither could it touch a dragon’s hoard. While a dragon could, in theory, be killed, the task of slaying one was far from easy. And over the years, with the older, more powerful dragon’s learning how to disguise their massive forms, and tales of their existence fading into fairy tales with every passing decade, it wasn’t as if anyone was even hunting for them.
Anthony kept Peter chained to his home for the first year, after binding him to his hoard. His prize was too attached to his old life, and had tried running away from the dragon one time too many.
The dragon had a particular hobby of adorning his human with pieces of his hoard. A gold crown here, a diamond ring there, a finely tailored silk shirt, finished off with a glittering choker.
As the years went by, Peter got used to being part of the dragon’s hoard, and nightly paramour in Anthony’s bed. While the world around them changed and the people in it advanced, as years turned into decades, and decades into centuries, the two remained, untouched by the hands of time.
Anthony took on the mantles of Lord, King, Duke, Viscount, whatever gave him a position of power. All the while the magic in his dragon blood kept them concealed from suspicion. No one ever questioned why the rich, handsome man and his treasured partner never seemed to age.
In the year 2010, a little more than 500 years since Peter had been bound to his dragon’s hoard, Anthony went by Tony Stark, owner of Stark Industries, the biggest and most successful company in this world.
The papers described him as a billionaire, genius, philanthropist, and, to the never ending disappointment for many of his fans, devoted husband.
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First kinda moodboard. I know it’s not really good, I just found and uploaded these pics all over, I don’t know how to do shades, or align colors, or any of that other fancy stuff.
The story idea is likewise a bit half-assed, and kinda all over the place, but hey, maybe someone might enjoy it, or feel inspired by it, or something.
because @ilunabarrean wrote such a good I ALSO HAD TO WRITE GOOD DRAGON TONY
... part one, i guess, because this got WAY longer than expected. Whoops. I have no regrets.
The girl has heard stories, shouted over wine and rum by her father and her friends, whispered between the bitter, jealous queen and her maids, stories of a monster, a demon, of fire and hatred and burning things. Stories about the smell of smoke and blood, stories of children stolen from their beds. Stories of great red death killing whatever it wishes.
She grows up afraid, of sharpness and fire and anger, of hoarded gold and envy, of plated armour and red, red eyes.
She does not grow up afraid of the thing in the myths.
The page tells her stories, too. Stories of a protector, of a guardian, of one as old as the oldest oaks and just as kind.
He tells her of a place that the afraid can find a home.
They’re stories of a beast, yes, with claws as big as a full-grown man and twice as sharp as a sword, with fire breath and eyes as big as her window, but he also tells her of kindness. Of claws used with the utmost carefulness, of fire used to warm, of eyes that understand.
She is 13.
She has never been afraid of the dragon.
She is arranged to be wed in a fortnight.
(read more under the cut)
She writes a letter on the finest paper she can find, draws out every letter with care she never showed in her lessons and seals it in wax. She doesn’t have a stamp, so she improvises, presses her grandmother’s pendant into the cooling wax.
She watches the page, the one who told her the stories, ride west from her tower window.
Three days later, three days of staying awake and looking out over the woods for a sign of something, three days of falling asleep at lunch and getting confined to her rooms due to sickness, he comes.
She doesn’t see his shadow across the stars, she doesn’t hear him land on the roof, graceful beyond his size, so careful that not a single tile is forced out of place, she doesn’t notice him coiling around her tower like a serpent.
She does see when he looks in her window with his great golden eye, and all she can think is that the page was lying.
His eye is bigger than her window.
“Hello, little tinderling,” It says, voice deep, deep like the dungeons below the castle, like the cellars that her father spends too much time in, but warm as a hearth, and one massive claw slips through the window, the letter she sent held carefully in its grip. The seal isn’t even broken, pried away from the paper with care she wouldn’t’ve shown. “You called?”
She nods, unable to make a sound, not because of fear, but because of awe, because she can see the smoke curling into her room that smells like the richest cocoa and wood, because the night guards have not noticed the hill-that’s-not-a-hill, because she still thought him a myth, until now.
She feels, more than sees him shift, sees one massive wing furl up through her other window, fold back into place, feels the gale it causes, despite moving so slowly.
He doesn't say anything more, just watches her, waits for something, a signal or a sign, patient as the ground the castle, not her home, never her home, was built on.
Eventually, after one very slow blink, she takes a breath. “I do not wish to be wed.” She says, and the dragon rumbles something that sounds like mountains moving.
“You wish to leave?” He asks, like he knows the answer anyway, and she hesitates.
“What if I don’t?” She asks, because if there is one thing she knows, it is not to believe empty promises. It is that everything, so small as a couple words spoken out a window in the dead of night, has a price.
The dragon rumbles again, something like laughter, but there is something far too understanding in its eyes. She wonders what could make a dragon this big, this ancient, afraid. “Then I will leave. If you need me, I will always come back. Alway.”
“Ok.” She says, nods, and all of a sudden, she doesn’t know what to do. The dragon seems to sense this, and his eye crinkles up, like he’s smiling.
“Take all you want, child. I have carried heavier than this tower.” He tells her, and she believes it. She’s already packed, the things her grandmother left her, her favourite embroidery and a bag full of thread, brightly coloured and expensive, one of the few measures of excess that she had actually enjoyed. Her favourite books, her sturdiest clothes, a pack full of dense bread and dried meat.
A sword, bare-bones and undecorated, with a simple leather handle. She wraps it in cloth, and ties it to her side.
The dragon waits as she fills her bags, looks around her room, her prison, one last time. She will miss it. It’s the last place she saw her grandmother. It’s the place she learned to read, it’s the place she learned to sew. She will always miss it for those memories. She will never regret leaving it for what it became.
The dragon moves away from the window, lowering it’s massive head, and she takes it for the invitation it is, taking a deep breath before stepping out of the window, bundled in rough clothes more fitting for a stable hand than a princess, her belongings on her back, about to fly away on a dragon’s back.
His scales are smooth, barely sharp at all, and the small spikes make handholds as she picks her careful way across his head, between his horns, to between his wings where there is already a saddle made of soft, warm wool resting.
She can feel him holding very, very still. She’s not sure if he just breathes that slowly, or if he’s taking special care not to jostle her. Either way, she’s not afraid.
The saddle is more like a nest, really, nestled in between two spines, and there’s a blanket behind her that she could pull up over her head, if she wants. She doesn’t, just settles in and looks out over the castle from an angle she’s never seen it from before.
Everything looks very, very small, the dragon’s tail nearly reaching all the way around the walls, and she doesn’t doubt that one of his wings could cover the entire courtyard, if he so wished.
As soon as she’s settled, he shifts, uncoiling from the tower that she once lived in, and turning his head to face her again. “Are you ready, little one?” He asks, and she is. She wants to leave, to fly, to run far, far away from all the things her parents expect of her, and she nods, breathless for all that the air is clear and sharp. His mouth moves into something that might be called a grin had it not had so many teeth, and turns back, rustling like a cat about to pounce, making a noise like a million softly shifting coins. She grabs the spine in front of her, and he launches into the air, massive wings beating once, twice, unfurling like the sails of foreign ships leaving for home, catching the wind and soaring.
She laughs, the sound torn from her chest, delighted and sharp and unexpected, and the dragon laughs too, deep and rumbly like a cat’s purr, the wind cold on her face but the dragon warm beneath her, a pocket of safety in the endless sky, wings pumping like forge bellows, stirring up the air beneath.
She wishes she could see the stars, but it is too cloudy to even see the moon. That is the only thing she would change.
The dragon turns, again, and his eyes glitter in the darkness, like the light of a wax candle cast off an old book. Yellow, and old, and full of stories. “Do you want to see a trick?” He asks, and despite years of her father warning her away from street jesters, clutching her close and his coin purse closer, she nods, giddy and breathless and for once, completely unafraid. “Then hold on, little tinder.”
There’s rope around the saddles, and she ties it tight around her waist, knots she had to bribe the royal ship-hands to teach her. As soon as she’s secured, holding onto the spine in front of her with a white-knuckled grip.
And then the dragon’s flying higher, powerful beats of his wings pushing them up and up and up, and she has to close her eyes as they stir up the clouds. They’re not as soft as she thought she would be, damp and thick and freezing, but the dragon is warm beneath her and the blankets are soft, and she can feel water beading on her eyelashes.
And then it all stops, the air against her face and the wet, the cold, and at another rumble from the dragon, she opens her eyes, and gasps.
They’re above the clouds, and the stars are strung out above them like nothing she’s ever seen before. There’s no black in this sky, shades of blue and purple and everything in between, but not much of that, either, for every single space is filled with stars. “Oh, wow.” She says, and reaches up like she can touch them, if she stretches far enough.
The dragon laughs again, wings spread wide but not moving, just hanging in the sky like snow on a windless day, like a leaf caught in an updraft, still and quiet and between sitting on a dragon the size of a hill, above the clouds and under the stars, she feels very, very small.
It’s freeing, feeling so small, like she’s shedding all of the overinflated importance placed on her from birth, like all the responsibilities and expectations and the entire kingdom resting on her shoulders have fell away and given her a chance to breathe.
“It is beautiful, yes?” He says, and she knows he can’t see her, but she nods anyway, unwilling and unable to tear her eyes from the stars. She knows when he turns to look at her, because he rumbles agian, taking in his tiny burden, her hand raised to the sky like she could steal one right out of the sky. “You can not reach them, little jaybird,” he says, but she doesn’t lower her hand, and despite his words, flies even higher. “I have tried.”
At that, she looks at him, wonders just how far away the stars must be if even he cannot reach them. “Oh.” She says, and he rumbles in agreement. It should be cold, this high, but it isn’t. “Thank you-“ she says, and claps her hand over her mouth. “Oh no!”
The dragon stops so fast its almost comical, half-turning in the air and looking at her with wide, concerned eyes. “What is wrong?” He asks, “Did you forget something? Do you wish to return?”
She shakes her head, closes her eyes and takes a breath, like her grandmother taught her to fight away the chilly feeling in her chest. “No, no, I have been terribly rude, I’m sorry.” She says, “I forgot to ask your name!”
The dragon laughs as he rights himself, continues flying towards their destination, wherever that may be. “Then I must also be rude, because I have not asked yours either, little Bluebell. You may call me Tony.” He continues, a smile in his voice.
“Then you can call me Ella.” She says, and she’s smiling just as hard. “Thank you, Sir Tony.” She says, after floundering for a proper title, something less simple, grander than simply “Tony.”
The dragon’s — Tony’s — wings falter in surprise, and he turns to look at her. She wonders if she perhaps made a mistake. “I am not a knight, little Ella.” He tells her, but he doesn't seem angry, or upset, or really anything aside from confused.
She sits up as straight as she can, puts on her best princess face. “Well, you are an awful lot more knight-like than any knight I have ever known.” She says, wrinkling her nose at the memories, men in unwashed full plate, smelling of sweat and blood and drink, starts ticking off her fingers. “You rescue princesses from towers, you are kind, and brave, and honourable, and I daresay you would not need sword or armour to fight, if you had to.” Tony shifts, at that, and if she thought that something as big as a small mountain could be self-conscious, that is what she would think he was, and smiles. “My knight in shining scale.”
Tony huffs. “I did always want to be a knight.” He admits, and she leans forward to hear him better, no matter that his voice could be heard across the kingdoms if he wishes. “I thought the idea most noble, when I was but a yearling, smaller than you, even.”
She can’t imagine him that small, like she can't imagine the castle as a handful of tents against the sea. It seems wrong, for something so large, so stable, so ancient, to have been small, once upon a time, but at the same time, it gives her hope.
Maybe, one day, she can be important too, important because of how she’s grown, not because of who has made her. “I thought the stories far more entertaining that the reality, I must admit.” He continues, “But all the same, It was a nice wish.” He says, and he sounds wistful. Like if he had been human, he would’ve been a knight, one of the good ones. One of the ones they wrote stories about.
And she remembers the sword she has packed away beside her, a solid, reassuring weight at her side. She scrambles to get it out, and it feels silly, suddenly, a rose thorn next to the dragon’s claws, but she is not wielding it to hurt. Not now, not as long as she is able. She scoots forwards, as far as she can reach in the saddle, and rests the flat of the blade on his left shoulder.
“I,” She starts, projecting her voice the way her mother taught her, weary and bitter and wanting to be heard, puts as much kindness into it as her grandmother did, “Princess Isabella Fawkes, first of her name, granddaughter of Queen Mariana Hart.” She moves the sword to the other shoulder and swallows down a lump in her throat. It all suddenly seems far more serious than she had set out to make it, than she had thought it would be, but she is riding away from home on a dragon’s back, granting one of his wishes using her grandmother’s name. “I hereby knight you, Sir Tony.”
The air is still for a moment, not even his wings moving to stir it, and he turns. “Thank you, little princess.” He says, and she can nearly feel his gratefulness. “I hope I will stay deserving of being your knight.”
“I am sure you will.” She says, and he rumbles a laugh, like he doesn't quite believe her but is happy all the same.
He starts flying again, speeding west, and she settles in for a long journey. She is about to fall asleep when the dragon speaks again. “Thank you.” He says, “Sleep well, little lady.” He tells her, and she drifts off above her kingdom, under the starry sky, on the way to her new home.
Despite what everyone seems to think, Tony Stark’s shifted form is terrifying.
It’s not until Afghanistan that anyone even knows which parent he took after. The late Howard Stark himself was a proud thunderbird, a wingspan capable of covering a city block in darkness. Everyone assumed that a shifter such as Howard Stark would take on a spouse equivalent to his grandeur.
No one suspected he would pick one greater than himself.
Maria Stark was certainly angelic in appearance and mannerism, so she certainly must be one. A second tier is still amazing.
Oh, how they were wrong. Maria Stark never shared her shifted form with the public, and it was rude to ask, if it wasn’t already blatantly obvious, then it should be left well enough alone.
Howard Stark announces his wife’s pregnancy in the year 1969. America is thrilled. Another Stark will follow the family business and keep the country’s people safe! A proud thunderbird, keen on watching over his own.
Obadiah Stane sneers at the news, another damn top tier in the way of claiming Stark Industries. He drinks three humans dry in his fit of rage, having his assistant, who isn’t paid near enough, get rid of the evidence.
The day Anthony Edward Stark is born, a thunderstorm rages all day. That has to be a good sign right?
No one knows for sure which parent Tony Stark took after. He never shifted, there were never obvious displays in mannerism or appearance. Some brave, drunk souls in college attempted startling him while he passed to get to his dorm. No twitch or bat of an eye, no shift of feathers or glowing eyes, just a raised brow and a “really?” before he went about his business.
Tony Stark was clearly upset he took after his second tier mother and not his top tier father. That must be it.
Tony Stark is an angel, not a thunderbird.
Wrong. Again.
After years of assuming Maria Stark was an angel, decades really, the world learned that Tony Stark really did take after a top tier, who just happened to be his mother.
A month after Tony Stark disappeared in Afghanistan after a weapon’s demonstration, a fire erupts in the rocky hills surrounded by desert. An inferno that stretches for miles in an instant. A shadow passing over the wreckage and ruin, flying to the east toward where it knows something that belongs to it frets and worries, still searching.
Tony Stark was taught from an early age to contain his emotions, construct a mask if he must, conceal what lies beneath. Even a small slip could end in a revert to basic instinct. His mother was taught the same.
Because Tony Stark isn’t a thunderbird. Or an angel.
Author: Brynhildr
Rating: gen
Word Count: 2-5k
Genre(s): drama
Film-specific: post-avengers
Tropes: au, dragon!tony, fantasy, phil coulson
Summary: Tony's normal... except for the scales. And wings. And the ability to breathe fire. Because he's a dragon. Yeah... maybe that's something he should mention to his team.
Warnings:None for this chapter but there will be violence in later chapters
Summary:Steve always wanted to fight in the Great Drago War against the Hydra or Dragon kind. He was taught that Dragons were their enemy and the only way to save his people is to fight. And he wants to fight on the front lines along with his friends but he has accepted that his role is behind the lines. Then Steve gets his chance and well it does not go as planned. Now Steve is faced with a truth that rocks his world and falls in love with someone he once thought was his enemy.
