Finally, the sisters arrived at the mountain. It looked like a jagged wound in the sky, the edges sharp against the clouds, smoke leaking from it like blood.
They stepped inside. The mountain was hollow despite its size, almost a giant cave. It reminded the sisters of a shell whose animal had been torn out and eaten.
In the center of the giant room lay the dragon. She was enormous, like a castle parapet that had fallen onto its side and gone to sleep. Her silver scales glittered even in the darkness. Every time she snored, fire leaked from her nostrils and cast an orange tint on her body and the walls.
Her hoard littered the cave. Coins of every metal and shape formed a mattress, rusted armor and dented barding formed her pillow. Cups and vases and furniture lined the walls, and gems and jewels and crystals piled in the corners. Some pieces looked fresh from the smith, others looked like they were from before the invention of the forge.
Her eyes snapped open, and she rose, slowly, ponderously. Coins flaked off her body, the pile of armor and barding crinkled and shifted. Her only adornment was a silver necklace, bigger than a dozen ponies, set with emeralds and onyx the size of house windows. The green and black matched her eyes.
“A slumber broken best have good cause, whelps, ” she bellowed. “I, Tiamat, dragon mother, hate such gall.”