ULF
The war didn't wait for grief.
Two weeks after the birth, intelligence arrived that made the personal crisis seem almost trivial. I read the reports in the council chamber, surrounded by lords who didn't know what I'd lost and wouldn't have cared if they did.
"Rhaenyra's forces are moving," I announced. "Three armies. Converging on King's Landing."
The chamber went silent.
"How many?" Otto asked.
"Fifteen thousand from the Riverlands. Ten thousand from the Vale. Another eight thousand from scattered Crownland supporters." I spread the maps across the table. "Thirty-three thousand total, give or take."
"And our forces?"
"Twenty thousand. Maybe twenty-two if we call in the Reach lords who haven't committed yet." I traced the enemy's approach routes. "We're outnumbered, surrounded, and without the dragon advantage we had before."
"Without?" Criston Cole leaned forward. "You command two dragons."
"And they have Syrax, Moondancer, and at least two others I haven't identified. Rhaenyra herself may ride to battle." I met his eyes. "One rider with two dragons is powerful. It's not invincible."
"Then what do you propose?"
The question hung in the air. Everyone watching. Everyone waiting for the Lord Protector—the Dragonslayer—to produce another miracle.
What I propose is to burn them all and go home to my son.
But that's not an option.
"We use my advantage differently." I began moving markers on the map. "Not as a decisive weapon. As a harassment force. I strike their supply lines, their command structures, their morale—never committing fully, never giving them a target they can concentrate against."
"Hit and run tactics?" Otto's voice carried skepticism. "That's not how dragons have been used in war."
"No. Which is why they won't expect it." I pointed to the supply routes. "An army of thirty thousand needs constant resupply. Food. Fodder. Weapons. Medical supplies. Cut those lines and they starve. Burn their supply wagons and they can't fight."
"And if they force a decisive engagement?"
"Then I combine with Cole's ground forces for defense. Two dragons overhead while our men hold the walls." I looked around the table. "But I won't burn cities. Won't massacre civilians. Won't become what they say I am."
"You set conditions now?" Otto's tone sharpened.
"I set conditions because I can." I held his gaze. "You need me. The realm needs me. And I'm telling you how I'll fight."
Silence stretched.
Criston Cole broke it.
"The Lord Protector's tactics are sound. Unconventional, but sound." He moved to stand beside me at the map. "I can coordinate ground operations to exploit whatever chaos his strikes create. Force the Blacks to spread thin, respond to multiple threats, never consolidate."
Otto looked between us. Two military men in agreement against his political calculations.
"Very well," he said finally. "Prosecute the campaign as you see fit. But the council expects results."
"The council will have them."
That evening, Helaena found me in the dragon yard.
I was preparing Silverwing's harness—checking straps, adjusting fittings, the methodical work I did before every major campaign. The familiar routine helped keep my mind focused on what came next rather than what I'd lost.
"You leave tomorrow."
"Dawn." I didn't look up. "The sooner I'm in the field, the sooner this ends."
"And then?"
"And then I come back. We bring Aegon home. We figure out what comes next."
She moved closer. Touched my arm.
"You're using war to avoid feeling his absence."
The words hit harder than any blade.
"Maybe."
"Not maybe. I see it in you." Her voice was soft, not accusing. "If you stop moving, stop fighting, you'll break. You'll feel everything you've been holding back."
"I can't afford to break yet." I finally met her eyes. "Not with thirty thousand enemies marching toward us. Not with you and the children in danger. Not until I've made us safe."
"Will we ever be safe?"
"I don't know. But I'll keep trying until we are."
She leaned against me. Her body was still recovering—I could feel how much weight she'd lost, how fragile she'd become. But her spirit was steel.
"The council today," she said. "You were impressive."
"I said what needed saying."
"You set conditions. Made demands. The lords who used to dismiss you as a bastard guard—they listen now. They fear you."
"Good. Fear keeps them honest."
"Does it?" She pulled back. Looked at me searchingly. "Or does it just make them dangerous in different ways?"
She's not wrong. Men who fear often become men who plot.
"I'll deal with plotters when they emerge. For now, the war comes first."
"It always does."
"It has to. At least until it's over."
She kissed me. Soft. Sad.
"Come back to me. Come back to us."
"I always do."
The night before departure, we lay together in darkness.
No words at first. Just breathing. Just presence. The comfort of touch when everything else was chaos.
"I think about him constantly," Helaena whispered. "Every moment. Is he eating? Is he warm? Does Dalla hold him the way I would?"
"Harwin sends reports. He's healthy. Growing. The village is secure."
"Reports aren't the same as holding him."
"I know."
"When this war ends," she said, and her voice carried steel beneath the softness, "we bring him home. I don't care who knows. I don't care what they say."
"When this war ends. I promise."
She pressed closer against me.
"Don't die tomorrow. Or the next day. Or any day until you've kept that promise."
"I'll try."
"Try harder."
A laugh escaped me—unexpected, genuine.
"You keep saying that."
"You keep needing to hear it."
We held each other until dawn touched the windows.
Then I rose, dressed, and went to war.
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