ULF
Three days of healing. Three days of watching Vermithor's wing slowly begin to mend under the keepers' care. Three days of reports from the front that told me everything I'd feared.
The Black advance had slowed—my campaign had accomplished that much—but it hadn't stopped. Without aerial harassment, their supply lines reformed. Their armies consolidated. They'd be at the walls within a month.
And I wasn't in any condition to stop them.
The cracked ribs had been bound. The cuts had been stitched. But the deeper exhaustion—the bone-deep weariness of weeks of constant combat—couldn't be healed in three days.
You're not twenty anymore. Whatever age this body is, it feels ancient.
I was staring at tactical maps when Harwin's replacement brought the first troubling report.
"There's a preacher in Flea Bottom," the scout said. "Calls himself the Shepherd. Been drawing crowds for the past week."
"Preachers always draw crowds after disasters. People need comfort."
"This one isn't offering comfort, my lord." The scout's expression was troubled. "He's offering enemies. Specifically, dragons."
The Shepherd's sermons had started small.
A disfigured septon—missing an arm, face scarred, eyes burning with zealot fire—standing on a barrel in the poorest district of King's Landing. His message was simple: the war was divine punishment for Targaryen sins, and dragons were abominations that needed to be destroyed.
Two weeks ago, a hundred people had listened.
Now thousands came to hear him speak.
I sent informants to monitor his gatherings. Their reports painted an increasingly alarming picture.
"The Targaryens have ruled by dragonfire for a hundred years! They've burned our crops, destroyed our homes, murdered our children—and for what? To decide which inbred monster sits on a metal chair!"
The crowds roared approval.
"The Seven created men to walk the earth, not fly upon it! Dragons are demons given flesh—tools of the Stranger, weapons of hell itself! Every time one takes to the sky, it defies the gods!"
More cheering. More converts.
"The Dragonpit sits in our city like a tumor! How many dragons roost there while our children starve? How many of those beasts could we feed with the meat that goes to their hellish appetites?"
I read the transcripts in my chambers, stomach tightening with each line.
This wasn't just religious fervor. This was targeted incitement. The Shepherd wasn't preaching against the war or the Targaryens in general—he was specifically calling for action against the Dragonpit.
Against Silverwing. Against Vermithor.
Against everything I'd built.
Otto dismissed my concerns.
"Religious fanatics rise during every crisis," he said, not looking up from his correspondence. "They rant, they rage, they eventually disperse. The Gold Cloaks can manage a few troublemakers."
"A few troublemakers is thousands, Lord Hand. Growing daily."
"Let them grow. Better they shout at empty air than organize actual rebellion."
"They're not shouting at empty air. They're shouting about dragons. About the Dragonpit specifically."
Otto finally looked up. His expression was patient—the look of a man explaining something obvious to a slow child.
"The Dragonpit has stood for a century. It's defended by the finest keepers in the world and houses the most dangerous creatures in existence. No mob, however large, poses a threat to dragons."
"With respect, Lord Hand, you've never seen what a desperate mob can do."
"And you have?"
Flea Bottom. The bread riots of three years ago. Men crushed against walls, children trampled, the Guard losing control completely for six terrifying hours.
"I have."
"Then you know they burn themselves out. This Shepherd will be forgotten in a month."
"Or he'll lead those thousands against the Dragonpit while both my dragons are wounded and grounded."
Otto waved a dismissive hand.
"Vermithor is healing. Silverwing is uninjured. Even grounded, a dragon is the most dangerous creature in the world. Your concerns are noted, Lord Protector, but I see no cause for alarm."
I left the council chamber with the sick certainty that Otto was wrong.
And the even sicker certainty that I couldn't prove it until disaster struck.
Helaena's dreams confirmed my fears.
She woke screaming at midnight—thrashing against blankets, her voice raw with terror.
"The Shepherd leads lambs to slaughter! But the lambs become wolves, and the wolves devour dragons! The pit burns! The pit burns!"
I caught her arms. Held her still.
"Helaena. Wake up."
Her eyes snapped open. Still unfocused. Still seeing something beyond this room.
"Fire in the stones. Screaming in the chains. They break the eggs. They break everything."
"Who breaks the eggs?"
"The people. The angry ones. The Shepherd shows them the way."
Slowly, her breathing calmed. Her eyes focused on my face.
"I saw it," she whispered. "Clear as I've ever seen anything. The Dragonpit burning. Dragons dying. Men with torches and spears, climbing over walls, breaking through doors. They kill them all."
"When?"
"I don't know. Soon. Days? Weeks?" Tears streamed down her face. "The Shepherd leads them there. Shows them the weak points. And they kill every dragon in the pit."
I held her while she shook.
The pit burns. Every dragon.
Silverwing. Vermithor. Sunfyre. The young ones. The eggs.
All of them.
"We need to move them," I said. "Get them out of the pit before this happens."
"Can Vermithor fly?"
"Not well. His wing is still healing. But if we go slow—"
"Slow might not be enough." She clutched my arms. "The dream felt close. Like it's already beginning."
I thought of the Shepherd's latest sermon. The growing crowds. The anger in those faces.
Thousands of people who've lost everything, looking for someone to blame.
And he's giving them dragons.
"I'll arrange it tomorrow," I said. "Night extraction. Get them out of the city before anyone knows they're gone."
"What about the eggs? The young dragons?"
"I can't carry them all. But Silverwing and Vermithor are the priority." I kissed her forehead. "They're the weapons we need to win this war. Everything else is secondary."
"Even the eggs?"
"Even the eggs."
She was quiet for a moment.
"Our son," she said finally. "Is he safe? Have you heard from Harwin?"
"Report came yesterday. He's healthy. Growing. Dalla says he laughs when he sees the ocean."
"The ocean." A ghost of a smile crossed her face. "I've never seen the ocean."
"When this is over, I'll take you there. Both of you. The three of us together."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
She pressed against me.
"Don't die tomorrow. Moving wounded dragons with mobs in the streets—anything could go wrong."
"I know. That's why I'm going at night. Fewer witnesses. Fewer chances for trouble."
"And if trouble finds you anyway?"
"Then I'll handle it the way I always do."
She didn't ask what that meant.
She already knew.
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