ULF
The first strike came at dawn.
A Black supply column—forty wagons of grain and fodder—winding through a valley three days from King's Landing. I'd watched them for an hour from the clouds, tracking their route, identifying the guards, choosing my angle.
Silverwing dove.
The acceleration pressed me against the saddle. Wind tore at my face. The ground rushed up—green fields, brown road, tiny figures starting to scatter as they spotted the silver shape plummeting toward them.
"Dracarys."
Silver fire erupted.
The lead wagons exploded into flame. Horses screamed. Men ran. The column dissolved into chaos in seconds.
I guided Silverwing along the road, breathing fire in controlled bursts—wagons burning, supplies destroyed, but I pulled up before reaching the rear where I could see terrified teamsters fleeing into the fields.
Supplies burn. Soldiers die if they fight. Teamsters run.
The distinction mattered. Or I needed to believe it did.
We climbed back into the clouds. Left the smoking ruin below.
By midday, I'd hit three more columns.
The pattern established itself over the following days.
Morning: fly Silverwing to target supply lines and forward positions. Strike, withdraw, repeat.
Afternoon: return to the staging camp, switch to Vermithor, fly new missions against different sectors.
Evening: rest while the dragons recovered, plan the next day's operations.
Night: try not to think about my son growing up without me.
The two-dragon advantage was exactly what I'd promised the council. Where a normal rider could fly perhaps four hours before exhaustion—dragon and rider both—I could fly eight. Where a single dragon would be in one place, I could seem to be in two.
The psychological impact spread through the Black forces like wildfire.
"The Dragonslayer has twin dragons," soldiers whispered. "He's everywhere at once. He never stops."
They thought I was superhuman.
I was just desperate enough to push myself beyond normal limits.
The tenth day brought a different kind of engagement.
A Black forward camp—two thousand soldiers, knights, siege equipment. They'd dug in near a ford, blocking our scouts and threatening supply routes to the east.
A supply raid wouldn't dislodge them. They needed more direct attention.
I landed Silverwing a mile from their position. Dismounted.
"Wait here. Rest. I'll signal when I need you."
She rumbled understanding. Settled onto her haunches to conserve energy.
I moved toward the camp on foot.
The approach took an hour.
Kami-e kept me invisible in plain sight—shifting positions, blending with shadows, becoming just another piece of landscape. By the time I reached their perimeter, the sentries had looked straight at me three times without seeing.
The command tent. Blue pennants. That's where the officers are.
I circled. Counted guards. Identified weaknesses.
Then I moved.
Soru carried me through the gap between sentries. Shigan silenced the first man before he could shout. A quick drag of his body into shadow. Keep moving.
The tent flaps parted.
Inside: three officers around a map table. One knight in full armor. A scribe in the corner.
They looked up.
I was already moving.
The knight died first—Shigan through the eye slit of his helm before he could draw. The first officer fell to a blade across the throat. The second managed to shout once before my elbow crushed his windpipe.
The third grabbed a sword. Raised it.
Rankyaku.
The air blade took his arm off at the shoulder.
The scribe stood frozen.
"Run," I said. "Tell Rhaenyra what you saw."
He ran.
By the time the camp mobilized, I was already in the air.
Silverwing swept low over the chaos—not burning, not killing, just demonstrating presence. Showing them that their commander was dead, their security was meaningless, their walls were paper against someone who could walk through fire.
The camp broke within the hour.
Two thousand soldiers scattered into the countryside, their morale shattered by a single assault they couldn't understand and couldn't counter.
I flew back to our lines and found Criston Cole waiting.
"The forward camp?"
"Gone. Their commander is dead. Their officers are dead. The survivors are running."
"How?"
"I walked into their tent and killed them."
Cole stared at me.
"You dismounted. Entered their camp. Killed their command structure. Then flew away."
"Yes."
"No dragonrider has ever fought that way."
"No dragonrider has ever needed to."
He studied me for a long moment. This man who'd fought in a hundred battles, seen a hundred different kinds of warrior.
"What are you?"
The question I'd been asked since this war began.
"I'm the Lord Protector of the Realm," I said. "I protect."
He nodded slowly.
"Keep protecting. Whatever methods it requires."
I mounted Silverwing and flew toward the next target.
Two weeks later
The return to King's Landing was brief—resupply, report, reconnect.
I found Helaena in the godswood, sitting beneath the heart tree where we'd walked with her children what felt like years ago. The same place. Different people.
She looked at me with those sad, knowing eyes.
"You're using war to avoid feeling our son's absence."
I couldn't deny it.
"If I stop moving, stop fighting, I'll break. I can't afford to break yet."
"When can you afford it?"
"When the war ends. When Aegon is home. When you and the children are safe."
"And if that never happens? If there's always another war, another threat, another reason to keep moving?"
I sat beside her.
"Then I break later. After I've done everything I can."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
She took my hand.
"You've been gone two weeks. In that time, you've destroyed eleven supply convoys, killed four enemy commanders, and broken the siege of two castles. The reports say you're winning this campaign single-handedly."
"Reports exaggerate."
"Do they?" She met my eyes. "The council is terrified of you. Otto looks at me like I'm harboring a monster. Even Criston Cole—who respects you—keeps his distance."
"Let them be scared. Scared men don't start new problems."
"Scared men become desperate. Desperation makes people dangerous."
She's not wrong. She's never wrong.
"What would you have me do?"
"Come home more often. Let them see you're human. Let them see you're mine, not just a weapon." Her grip tightened. "And let yourself feel. Even if it breaks you. I'll help put you back together."
I looked at the heart tree. The carved face. The sense of ancient watching.
"I dreamed about him last night," I admitted. "Aegon. He was older—maybe five, maybe six. Running through fields. Laughing."
"That's a good dream."
"I didn't want to wake up."
"Then let's make that dream real." She leaned against me. "Finish this war. Bring him home. Give him fields to run through."
"I will."
"Promise me."
"I promise."
The wind moved through the godswood, carrying the smell of leaves and earth and something like hope.
Tomorrow I'd fly back to war. Back to killing. Back to being whatever weapon the realm required.
But tonight, I held what mattered and let myself remember why I fought.
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