When I was younger, my aunt used to say I had the temperament of a dragon. Not the noble kind from children's tales.
The old kind. The ones the scholars neither tell you about nor romanticize.
At the very base of the nature, Dragons are collectors. They fixate. They choose a thing—gold, jewels, kingdoms. Once chosen, it becomes theirs in a way the world cannot dispute. They do not share. They do not forget. They do not forgive theft.
They hoard with malevolent devotion. They sleep atop what they covet. They count it. They guard it.
And if what catches their eyes is something that can flee from them, they either cage it or devour it.
My aunt would laugh when she said it. As though it were my most charming quality.
I doubt Guinevere thinks the same way.
