HUGH HAMMER
The bastard was cleaning his blade when Hugh found him.
Sitting on a broken wall. Methodical strokes with an oiled cloth. Blood that wasn't his own flaking away with each pass.
"You let her escape."
The White didn't look up. Just kept cleaning.
"She was wounded. Fleeing. The battle was won."
"The battle was won when that bitch was dead. Not before." Hugh stepped closer. Felt the heat of rage building in his chest. "The Red Queen should be meat for the crows right now."
"The Red Queen will die from those wounds before she reaches Dragonstone." Still that infuriating calm. "And if she doesn't, she'll be a burden on Black resources for months. Healers. Food. Attention."
"That's coward's logic."
Now the bastard looked up. Those strange eyes—too knowing, too cold.
"That's tactical logic. You wouldn't understand it."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you think with your blood, not your brain. You burn villages for practice. You break formation to satisfy your rage. You're not a weapon—you're wildfire. Useful, but uncontrollable."
Hugh's fist connected before he finished thinking about it.
The bastard moved. Faster than Hugh expected. The punch grazed his jaw instead of breaking it.
"Don't." A warning in that voice. Something dangerous beneath the calm.
"Or what? You'll tell Aemond? Run to your precious queen?"
"Or I'll hurt you in ways that don't show." The bastard stood. "I've killed men in alleys you've never heard of. I've broken bones that healers couldn't identify. Don't make me demonstrate."
They stood face to face. Equal height. Unequal rage.
"This isn't over," Hugh growled.
"It never is."
Hugh spat and walked away.
I'll remember this, bastard. I'll remember everything.
AEMOND
The prince regent found the White near the command tent.
"Walk with me."
Not a request.
They moved through the camp—past wounded soldiers, past burial details, past the organized chaos of post-battle recovery.
"Cole reports you drove Meleys seaward rather than finishing her."
"I did."
"Mercy or tactics?"
The bastard considered the question. Aemond could see him calculating what answer would serve best.
"Tactics."
"Explain."
"A dead Rhaenys becomes a martyr. The Queen Who Never Was, killed defending her allies. The Blacks would use it for recruitment, for motivation, for propaganda." He paused. "A defeated, wounded Rhaenys? That's proof of our strength and her weakness. Every Black lord sees her limping home and wonders if they're backing the losing side."
Aemond turned the logic over. Examined it for flaws.
"Strategic. I approve."
"Thank you, my prince."
"But don't make a habit of disobeying implied orders." His single eye fixed on the bastard. "The next time I want an enemy dead, I'll be explicit. And I'll expect obedience."
"Understood."
"Good." Aemond resumed walking. "Hugh wants you punished. Says you're soft. A traitor."
"Hugh wanted to burn the world the moment he mounted Vermithor."
"True." A rare smile crossed Aemond's face. "He's useful, but unstable. Keep an eye on him. Report anything... concerning."
"You want me to spy on a fellow dragonrider?"
"I want you to protect Green interests. Sometimes that means watching our own."
The bastard didn't respond. But he nodded once.
Good. Another piece under control.
ULF
I walked the battlefield alone.
Sunset painted the carnage in shades of orange and red. Appropriate colors for what lay around me.
Bodies. Hundreds of them. Green banners, Black banners—all the same in death. Charred beyond recognition, some of them. Just shapes that had once been men.
How many of these died from Vermithor's fire? From Vhagar's? From ours?
Aerial warfare didn't discriminate. Dragons burned what they burned. The soldiers below were just... collateral.
A hand grabbed my ankle.
A man—barely recognizable as such. Burned across half his body. Green tabard melted into flesh.
"The dragons..." His voice was wet. Broken. "They didn't care... which side..."
"No." I knelt beside him. "They didn't."
"My boy... in King's Landing... tell him..."
His grip loosened. His eyes fixed.
I closed them. Searched his body for identification.
A letter in his belt pouch. Addressed to "Willem" in careful handwriting. A child's name, probably. Or a brother's.
I pocketed it.
Another promise to keep. Another debt to carry.
The battlefield stretched on. More bodies. More stories. More letters that would never be delivered.
This is what I signed up for. This is what war looks like.
I walked until dark. Counted what I could. Mourned what I couldn't.
When I finally returned to camp, I found my journal and wrote:
First battle. First kills. Hundreds dead. I chose tactics over vengeance. I hope I chose right. I hope Helaena can still love what I'm becoming.
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