George was standing on the rooftop.
He liked looking down from high places. He had always been like this since he was young. It was not a metaphor, he simply enjoyed the feeling of being high up in the air physiologically.
Most human beings instinctively dislike high places. This was determined by their race. They feared the sky, for the sky would kill them.
George was a dragon.
The sky was his territory.
However, even so, he couldn't spread his wings and soar freely over Worton like the Guardian Dragons, each with a collar around their necks.
But he considered the chains that entangled him as an honor.
His own kind could only crouch in the sewers, bowing their heads under King Arthur's reputation. But he chose to fold his wings in.
Because the waving of his massive dragon wings wouldn't allow him to feel the same arrogance as his peers, as if standing higher than time and everything else.
