There was a Tower that still stood, on the very edge of a cliff. There were no roads that led to it, no trails, no way to climb the forbidding rock wall it was perched on, but it was not empty.
On warm days, when the air was so still and languid it could be spooned into bowls, they could hear the voices of a castle drift down into the valley. The clink of glasses and clatter of hooves on flagstones, the high pitched laughter of the young, and the clack of wooden practise swords wielded by the enthusiastic, if unskilled.
Life was strange in the valley in the shadow of the Tower that still stood. It was about to become stranger still.
The Dragon came. She was gold and green, with enormous black wings that cast a shadow on the valley as she flew over it. Bound for the Tower that still stood, for the castle that once was. As she approached it she slowed, as if the still air had indeed turned to soup and fought the beating of her wings. It was a battle hard fought, but at last she alighted on the roof of the Tower that still stood. She spread her wings and roared silently, calling on powers ancient, wise and in many cases rather grumpy. They were reluctant to help, but the Dragon would have none of it. Slowly, as if it were rising from the depths of the squishiest bog, a castle arose around the Tower that still stood. The cliff became less fierce and more a hill. A road appeared grudgingly, unwilling to serve again after such a long holiday. And a wind began to blow. To all in the valley, it said, unmistakably and with great feeling, "Bugger off".
