HELAENA
The body on the bed wasn't her husband.
It was a thing of melted flesh and shattered bone. Bandages covered most of him—white linen stained red and yellow where fluids seeped through. His face, what remained of it, was a ruin of burns and scars.
Grand Maester Orwyle had done what he could. Milk of the poppy for the pain. Salves for the burns. Splints for the broken bones.
"He may recover consciousness," Orwyle had said. "Or he may not. The injuries are... extensive."
He was never kind to me. Never loved me. Never saw me as anything more than a duty.
But he was her children's father. Their protection. Their legitimacy.
She sat by his bedside anyway.
The door opened.
Ulf.
His face was drawn. Exhausted. Still wearing the bloodstained leathers from battle.
"I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"I could have tried to save him. When he fell. But Aemond was outnumbered. I made a choice."
She looked at Aegon's ruined form. Then back at Ulf.
"You made the right choice."
"Did I?"
"Aemond would have died without support. Then we'd have lost two dragons, two riders, and the battle." She stood. Crossed to him. "You saved the realm's best general. My husband chose to fight drunk and unprepared. That's not your fault."
"It feels like my fault."
"Feelings lie." She took his hands. "I dreamed this. Saw him burning. Saw the golden scales breaking. I couldn't stop it. Neither could you."
He pulled her close. She let him.
"The children?"
"Frightened. They know something's wrong."
"I should see them."
"You should rest first. Clean up. You smell like death."
A ghost of a smile crossed his face.
"You keep saying that."
"You keep coming back covered in it."
AEMOND
The throne felt natural.
Not the Iron Throne—that remained Aegon's, however briefly. But the regent's seat in the small council chamber. The position of power.
Aemond had spent three days restructuring.
Lord Jasper Wylde replaced the Master of Laws—Aegon's drinking companion, useless. Ser Tyland Lannister stayed at the treasury—competent, careful. Grand Maester Orwyle remained for expertise.
And the new advisors. Men chosen for skill, not connection.
"The war effort suffers from inefficiency," Aemond told the assembled council. "My brother's reign prioritized... personal pleasures over military necessity. That ends now."
No one objected. No one dared.
"Food distribution will be centralized. Corrupt merchants will be executed. Dragon patrols will burn any Black forces that approach within fifty miles of the city."
"The smallfolk are already suffering, my prince." Otto's voice carried warning. "Too much ruthlessness—"
"Too little ruthlessness is why we're losing. The Blacks control more territory, more dragons, more allies. We cannot win by being gentle." Aemond stood. "I will not be my brother. I will be effective."
The council dispersed.
One figure remained.
"You wanted to see me, my prince?"
Ulf the White. The queen's protector. The tactical thinker who'd let Aegon fall.
"You made a choice at Rook's Rest."
"I made the choice that won the battle."
"Yes." Aemond studied him. "You let my brother crash to support me. Tactically sound. I approve."
"I'm glad you approve."
"Don't mistake approval for trust." Aemond walked closer. "You're useful. Your skills, your dragon, your connection to Helaena—all useful. But I know what you are."
"What am I?"
"A man who serves himself first. Your loyalty is to her, not the crown. Not to me."
"Is that a problem?"
"Only if her interests and mine diverge." Aemond smiled. Cold. Controlled. "Keep her happy. Keep her children safe. Stay useful. We'll have no conflicts."
"And if we do have conflicts?"
"Then one of us will die." Simple. Direct. "I suspect it would be you, but I'd rather not find out."
He walked away.
Ulf remained in the council chamber, face unreadable.
THE NURSERY
Jaehaerys was trying not to cry.
Ulf could see the effort—the tight jaw, the blinking eyes, the determination to be brave. Six years old and already learning to hide his fear.
"Is Father going to die?"
The question cut through pretense.
"I don't know." Ulf knelt to meet the boy's eyes. "He's very hurt. The maesters are doing everything they can."
"Mother says he might not wake up."
"Your mother speaks truth. She always does."
"What happens if he dies?"
Aemond becomes king. Your mother becomes the dowager queen. Your position becomes precarious.
"Nothing changes for you. You're still the heir. Your sisters are still princesses. And I'll still protect all of you."
"Promise?"
"I've never broken a promise to you."
Jaehaerys nodded slowly. Processing.
Jaehaera sat in the corner, watching. Those violet eyes too old for her four years.
"You're scared too," she said. Not accusation—observation.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because the world is changing. And I don't know what it's becoming."
She considered this.
"Mother says you always know what to do."
"Your mother has too much faith in me."
"Maybe." Jaehaera returned to her book. "Or maybe you just need to figure it out."
Four years old. And she's already smarter than half the small council.
Maelor toddled over. Grabbed Ulf's leg.
"Uff. Sad?"
"A little."
"Hug?"
The toddler's arms went around his knee. Small. Warm. Trusting.
Ulf picked him up. Held him close.
These children. Whatever else happens, I protect these children.
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