Once upon a time, a dragon fell in love.

Now, this was a very unusual occurrence, as dragons hardly ever love anything except themselves (and perhaps gold).

But what made this particular instance so unusual, was that this dragon didn't fall in love with another dragon, as would have been accepted by the dragon community.

No, this dragon fell in love with a dwarf.

Well, she was half-dwarf really. She was also half-skinchanger, meaning that she could change from a stout, brown-haired dwarf into a magnificent, orange dragon at will.

The half-skinchanger was named Ryla, a name that had been given to her by her Dwarven mother.

Ryla loved the dragon, and the dragon loved her. They would fly together in the night skies, the dragon's red body and Ryla's orange body brushing past clouds and floating amongst stars.

But as you may or may not know, few good things last.

There was a Dwarven kingdom called Erebor, built deep within a mountain. Ryla was taken captive by the king's army and locked up in an iron cell. The dwarves tortured her, and made her change back and forth between her two forms, laughing and pointing at the frightened skinchanger as if the pain she was undergoing was an entertaining show.

The dragon, as you can imagine, was devastated, and pained, and angry. Very angry. All he knew was that he needed to get Ryla out of there, and that the dwarves needed to be stopped. So, on one sunny afternoon, he tore through the lands, ripping and burning his way through the cities that lay in his path.

One of these cities was called Dale. When the dragon's angry, scorching fire blazed across their homes and shops, burning their families and neighbors to ash, their screams alerted the dwarven guards of Erebor to the coming danger.

"Dragon!" a young, dark-haired dwarven prince yelled, his warning causing great chaos to erupt inside the mountain. Dwarves scuttled about, frantically trying to grab as many valuables and pieces of gold as they could before running out the back door of the mountain.

But few were lucky enough to make it out alive.

The dragon's fire was blazing, his claws razor-sharp, his fury great. He barged through the iron doors to the mountain without much of a struggle, his anger and desperation fueling him forward, towards Erebor, towards the mountains of gold, towards the king, towards Ryla.

Ryla. She was what truly made the dragon do what he did on that horrible, unforgettable day. She was the reason why he knocked the dwarven guards aside, why his fiery breath consumed the lives of so many. She was the reason why he stole the kingdom of Erebor, snatching the Arkenstone from the greedy hands of King Thror, and sending the dwarves scurrying from their home like mice from a great, hungry cat.

But the dragon didn't stop to count his gold or to gaze upon the beautiful, shifting colors of the Arkenstone. Instead, once all of the dwarves were gone, he searched the great halls of Erebor, looking for Ryla.

When he found her, she was weak, her body stuck halfway between that of a dragon and a human.

"Ryla," the dragon breathed, placing his huge wing over her shuddering, broken body.

Ryla only looked up at him, her bright amber eyes shining with tears. "I am pregnant," she rasped, and even though her voice was pained, the dragon could see the happiness in her face. "You're going to be a father."

The dragon was saddened to see his love in such despair, in such pain, but he knew that the health of the baby growing inside of her was too important to ignore. So, he cared for his wounded Ryla, rocking her distorted form back and forth as she slept fitfully, or tending to her ruined wings. All the while, he cursed the wretched dwarves who had done this to her, who had destroyed her.

It is sometimes said that as one life ends, another begins. And although Ryla died from the strain of birthing such a unique baby, her new child was healthy and safe. The dragon grieved for his Ryla, caressing her scarred face tenderly with his claws.

But there was a baby to care for, and the dragon knew that she would be subject to the same scrutiny, the same danger, that her mother had been. So he closed off all possible entrance to the old dwarven kingdom, and made sure that no one could make it in or out of Erebor. No one, not even his newborn daughter.

His daughter was different, different from the human girls the dragon had seen. She had inherited her mother's shinchanging abilities and many of her Dwarven traits, and was able to turn from an auburn-haired, amber-eyed, dwarf-sized girl into a magnificent, sunset-colored dragon at will. The dragon thought his daughter was a beautiful, kind, and special being, and made sure to raise her to the best of his ability.

There was, of course, talk of the mountain, and the evil dragon that had taken it. Some even theorized that one day, the dwarves of Erebor would return and reclaim their homeland, that they would kill the dragon and take back their riches.

But that was a fool's tale, surely.

Surely?