ULF
Silverwing rose into the night sky without a sound.
The silver dragon had done this a hundred times—launching from the Dragonpit's open roof, climbing into darkness, becoming invisible against the stars. I guided her in a wide circle, checking for observers, finding none.
Good. Phase one complete.
We crossed the city walls, descended toward the predetermined landing site—a clearing in the kingswood, far enough from the road to avoid casual discovery. Silverwing settled onto the grass with practiced grace.
"Stay here," I told her. "Guard this spot. I'll be back with Vermithor."
A questioning rumble.
"His wing is healed enough. Barely. But we need to get him out tonight."
She pressed her snout against my chest—concern, affection, worry all mixed together.
"I'll be careful."
Another rumble, clearly skeptical.
"As careful as I can be."
I dismounted and began the long walk back to the city.
The secret passage started in a collapsed warehouse near the Dragon Gate.
I'd mapped it years ago—one of dozens of forgotten tunnels that honeycombed the ground beneath King's Landing. This one led directly under the Dragonpit's outer wall, emerging in a storage chamber that the keepers rarely used.
The tunnel was dark. Cramped. Stank of ancient water and things I didn't want to identify.
Home sweet home.
I moved quickly, using Kami-e to sense obstacles rather than light that might be spotted. The passage twisted, dropped, climbed, then finally opened into the familiar space of the storage room.
Empty. Good.
I emerged, brushed ancient dust from my cloak, and headed for Vermithor's chamber.
That's when I heard it.
At first, I thought it was thunder.
A deep, rolling sound that seemed to come from everywhere at once. The walls vibrated. Dust sifted from the ceiling.
Not thunder. Voices.
Thousands of voices.
I broke into a run.
The Dragonpit's main hall was chaos when I arrived. Dragonkeepers sprinting in every direction, shouting orders that no one followed. Young dragons roaring in confusion from their chambers. And through it all, that sound—growing louder, closer, more terrifying with every heartbeat.
"What's happening?" I grabbed the nearest keeper.
"The mob, my lord! They're at the gates!"
"How many?"
"Thousands! Tens of thousands! The Shepherd—he led them here—"
A crash shook the building. Then another. Then a sound like the world breaking.
The main gates shattered.
They poured through like water through a broken dam.
Men with torches. Women with makeshift spears. Children—gods, children—carrying clubs and knives. Their faces twisted with fear and fury and something that looked almost like ecstasy.
The Shepherd led them.
That disfigured septon, standing on a wagon that his followers had dragged to the gates, one arm raised toward the sky, voice booming over the chaos:
"The demons wait within! Slay them! Slay them all! Show the gods we are worthy of their grace!"
The crowd roared and surged forward.
I ran for Vermithor's chamber.
The Bronze Fury was awake.
He'd heard the mob—of course he had—and was straining against his chains, flames flickering in his throat, ancient instincts screaming warnings about the danger approaching.
"Easy," I said, working the locks. "We need to go. Now."
A rumble. Agreement mixed with pain—his wing still ached from the healing.
The chains fell away.
I climbed onto his back, found the saddle straps, secured myself as quickly as I'd ever done.
"Sōvēs. Now."
Vermithor launched toward the open roof.
We never made it.
A spear caught his healing wing—thrown from the mob below, one lucky strike among thousands of attempts. Not deep, but enough to disrupt his rhythm.
Vermithor bellowed. His ascent faltered.
Below, the mob had reached the dragon chambers.
I watched in horror as they swarmed around Sunfyre—Aegon's golden dragon, still wounded, still recovering, too injured to defend himself. A hundred spears pierced his hide. A hundred torches burned his scales. He screamed—a sound no dragon should make—and then went silent.
They're killing them. All of them.
Another dragon fell. A young one—barely larger than a horse—overwhelmed by sheer numbers before it could even flame its attackers.
Then Syrax.
Rhaenyra's golden queen had been chained here after her capture—wounded, weakened, unable to fly. The mob found her. Dozens died to her flames, but hundreds more replaced them. They cut her throat with a blacksmith's saw while she thrashed against chains she couldn't break.
This is what we've created. This is what the war made.
Vermithor roared fury at the carnage below. Fire erupted from his jaws—not controlled breath, but pure rage. The closest rioters died instantly. Others scattered, screaming, burning.
But more came.
Always more.
"Sōvēs!" I screamed. "Fly! Now!"
Vermithor tried. His injured wing beat frantically, lifting us ten feet, twenty, before the pain forced him to compensate. We listed left. Dropped. His claws scraped stone as he fought for altitude.
The mob threw everything they had—spears, rocks, torches, pieces of broken architecture. Most missed. Enough didn't.
A rock struck my shoulder. A spear grazed Vermithor's haunch. A torch bounced off his scales and fell, burning, into the screaming crowd.
Up. We have to get up.
"Dracarys!"
Fire cleared a path beneath us—seconds of breathing room as the mob fell back from the inferno. Vermithor used that moment. Beat his wings harder. Climbed.
Twenty feet. Thirty. Forty.
The open roof appeared above—freedom, sky, escape.
We burst through.
The city burned beneath us.
Not just the Dragonpit—though that ancient structure was fully ablaze now, wooden supports collapsing, stone walls cracking from the heat. But everywhere. Fires dotted King's Landing like stars fallen to earth.
The riot had spread.
I could see mobs moving through the streets—not heading toward the pit anymore, but spreading outward, breaking into shops, setting homes ablaze, attacking anyone who looked like they might be wealthy or connected to the crown.
The Shepherd didn't just target dragons. He broke the city.
Vermithor flew unsteadily toward the walls. His wing screamed protest with every beat, the new wound adding to the barely-healed damage from before. I could feel him struggling, fighting, refusing to give up despite the agony.
Just a little further. Just get us out.
The walls passed beneath us. Then the fields. Then the treeline.
The clearing appeared ahead—Silverwing waiting, exactly where I'd left her. She rose as we approached, trumpeting concern at Vermithor's labored flight.
We crashed more than landed.
Vermithor's legs buckled on impact. His body slammed into the earth with a force that threw me from the saddle. I rolled, came up on instinct, reached for weapons I was too dazed to actually use.
"Easy. Easy."
Silverwing was there—nuzzling Vermithor, rumbling comfort, checking his wounds with the careful attention of an old friend.
The Bronze Fury lay still except for his heaving chest.
Alive. Both of us. Alive.
I sat in the grass and let myself breathe.
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