HELAENA
The burns covered his arms like angry maps.
Helaena traced their edges with careful fingers, avoiding the worst of the blistering. The salve Grand Maester Orwyle had prepared smelled of honey and something sharper—willowbark, perhaps.
"Hold still."
"I am holding still."
"You're twitching."
"That's involuntary."
She applied another layer of the mixture. Ulf's jaw tightened, but he didn't pull away.
They were in her chambers—scandalous, if anyone discovered it. A queen alone with her guard, the door barred, his tunic removed to expose the damage.
But scandal seemed small compared to the man who'd walked into dragonfire for her.
"You're a fool," she said.
"I know."
"The maesters said you could have died. The dragonkeepers said no one approaches Silverwing that directly. Not even when Queen Alysanne lived."
"Silverwing needs to understand I'm not afraid."
"You should be afraid."
"Fear doesn't help."
She finished with the bandages. Tied them carefully, adjusting the tension until they lay flat.
"There. Try not to catch fire again for at least a week."
He laughed. The sound surprised her—genuine amusement breaking through his usual control.
"I'll add it to my schedule. No immolation until Thursday."
She found herself smiling. Then leaning forward. Then pressing her lips to his forehead.
He went still beneath her touch.
"In my dreams," she whispered against his skin, "I see you wreathed in silver wings. Flying above the flames. Safe."
"And before the wings?"
"Fire. Always fire first. The path to the dragon is burned."
He took her hands. Held them against his chest.
"Then I'll walk through the fire. However many times it takes."
"Why?"
"Because the dreams show me flying. Which means I survive."
Always so certain. Always so steady. Even when the world burns around him.
She pulled back. Retrieved his tunic. Watched him dress with the careful movements of a man pretending his body didn't scream.
"Rest today. Tomorrow you can play hero again."
"I never play."
"I know. That's what frightens me."
ULF
Five days of forced rest.
Orwyle had threatened to have me confined if I didn't comply. Helaena had threatened something worse—disappointment.
So I rested. Let my body heal. Let the new skin grow pink and tender over the burns.
But resting didn't mean idle.
I spent the days reviewing maps. Analyzing patrol patterns. Checking my network's reports for any sign of new threats from Daemon's agents.
The original assassins are dead. But Daemon doesn't give up easily. He'll send more.
My informants had identified two possibilities. A former sell-sword who'd been asking questions about the Red Keep's layout. A servant who'd suddenly come into coin she couldn't explain.
Neither felt right. Too obvious. Too easy to track.
Daemon's clever. He won't use amateurs again.
I marked both names for continued surveillance, then turned to other matters.
DAY SIX
Silverwing's chamber smelled like old fire and ancient beast.
I didn't approach this time. Just sat at the chamber's edge, back against the wall, watching.
She watched back.
Those amber eyes—intelligent, appraising. She remembered what I'd done at Rook's Rest. Remembered the fire she'd breathed to test me. Remembered that I'd survived.
"I'm not here to claim you," I said quietly. "Not yet."
A rumble. Neither threat nor welcome.
"I'm here because I need you to understand something."
I shifted position. Let my body relax, projecting calm I didn't entirely feel.
"There's a woman. A queen. She sees things—futures, possibilities. Dreams that come true." I paused. "She's shown me things too. A war that will devour everything. Dragons killing dragons. Children dying. A realm drowning in blood."
Silverwing's head tilted slightly. Listening?
"I can stop some of it. I've already stopped some of it. But not alone. Not without..." I gestured at her massive form. "Not without you."
Silence. The dragon's breath came slow and steady—furnace-heat in each exhale.
"I'm not asking you to serve me. I'm asking you to help me protect what matters."
Another rumble. Different tone this time.
I stood. Bowed slightly—acknowledgment, not submission.
"Think about it. I'll come back tomorrow."
I walked away. Slowly. Steadily.
She didn't flame me.
Progress.
DAY EIGHT
The sheep cost me three gold dragons.
Worth it, if this worked.
I dragged the carcass into Silverwing's chamber, muscles straining against the dead weight. The dragonkeepers had stared when I'd made the request—bastards didn't typically bring tribute to dragons.
"Consider it a gift," I'd told them. "Payment for her patience."
Now I placed the offering on the chamber floor. Backed away.
Silverwing lifted her head. Sniffed.
Her neck extended, bringing her massive jaws close to the sheep. Close to me.
I held my ground.
A single eye studied me—ancient, knowing, utterly inhuman. Whatever calculations drove dragon minds, she was performing them now.
Then she ate.
One bite. Two. The sheep disappeared in moments, bones cracking, flesh tearing.
When she finished, she looked at me again.
Well?
I smiled. Just slightly.
"Tomorrow. Same time. I'll bring another."
I left before she could respond. Behind me, the dragonkeepers whispered.
Let them talk. Let the stories spread.
The dragon accepted offerings from the bastard. The dragon tolerated his presence. The dragon might—just might—be bonding.
Stories had power. Even true ones.
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