In the depths of a mountain, coiled on a pile of gold, lay a dragon. It was an ancient being. When the kingdom outside was in its infancy, it was old. It could remember the great forest containing nothing but saplings, sprouting from the ash of its fury. Only the mountain it lay within was older, and even that not by much.
The scent of armies on the march reached down through caves, wound through tunnels, and found its way to the nostrils of the dragon. An inhalation caused one eye to twitch. Ponderous thoughts stirred deep within the reptilian brain.
Fresh meat, close at hand.
Well supplied, possessing riches for the hoard.
Armed, and therefore dangerous.
Concentration shifted from the outside world to immediate surroundings. It would not be long before the main entrance was blocked with the detritus of mankind – ornate weapons, gilded armour, piles of jewels, endless heaps of gold and silver. A content belly pressed against scales, full of caravan guards from last week. Muscles and tendons protested the thought of exertion, especially against roused opposition.
With a languid flick of the tail, the dragon curled tighter around the marble statue forming the centre of this pile. The risk was too great. Let men kill each other and feast on their own flesh. It would be easy enough to procure another meal once hunger pangs truly set in.