Skullgorn
He was tired of the kneeling position since he was thrown into prison. His golden shackles had magic in them that no being could break. His wings were clipped downward with the same chains that restricted him to move significantly.
He could so much wince as one of the available movements he could make, including the screaming. His armor was stripped from him, the fine sheet of a cloth that made his shirt had served little to protect him from grazing himself from the rough points of the chain that wound up his body.
It was an interrogation room, not the actual prison cell. In front of him was a transparent glass, probably unbreakable, offering the view of the Capital beyond the patches of heavy forestation.