ULF
The garrison had surrendered.
Thirty men. Knights and soldiers who'd thrown down their swords, raised their hands, begged for quarter.
Hugh burned them anyway.
Vermithor's fire swept across the courtyard, catching men mid-plea. Their screams lasted seconds—long enough to haunt, short enough to be efficient.
When the flames stopped, Hugh laughed.
"That's how you deal with traitors!"
Those were prisoners. Those were men who'd yielded.
I guided Silverwing between Vermithor and the inner keep. Where the women and children huddled.
"Move, White."
"No."
Hugh dismounted. His face was flushed—victory, bloodlust, something worse.
"They're Black sympathizers. All of them."
"They're farmers' wives. Children. They don't choose which dragon burns their homes."
"They chose when they opened their gates to Daemon's forces."
"They opened their gates because they didn't want to die." I dismounted. Hand on my blade. "Same reason they surrendered to us."
"And now they're going to die anyway." Hugh stepped forward. "Get out of my way."
Steel sang as I drew.
"Try it."
We stood five feet apart. His hand went to his own sword.
"You'd fight me? Over peasants?"
"I'd fight you over the difference between war and murder."
"There is no difference." He drew. "Not anymore."
He's going to attack. He's actually going to—
"Enough."
Aemond's voice cracked like a whip.
The prince regent landed Vhagar with ground-shaking force. Dismounted with cold efficiency.
"Save it for the Blacks." His single eye moved between us. "I need you both alive for now."
"He's protecting traitors—"
"He's protecting assets." Aemond gestured at the huddled women. "Dead peasants tell no tales. Living ones spread fear." He smiled without warmth. "Fear is more useful than corpses. We've discussed this."
Hugh's grip tightened on his sword.
For a moment, I thought he'd attack Aemond instead.
Then he sheathed his blade.
"Fine. For now." He glared at me. "But this isn't over, White."
"No. It isn't."
He stalked back to Vermithor.
Aemond watched him go.
"You're making an enemy."
"I already have one."
"You have several. Don't add to the list unnecessarily." He turned toward Vhagar. "We fly north. Scouts report Daemon's heading toward God's Eye."
Of course he is. He burned it into the ground—his challenge, his chosen battlefield.
"It's a trap."
"Obviously. We spring it anyway." Aemond mounted his dragon. "Three to one. Whatever trap he's planned, it won't be enough."
You don't know Daemon. You don't know what he's capable of.
But arguing would accomplish nothing.
I returned to Silverwing. Checked her harness. Prepared for another day of hunting.
THAT NIGHT
My network still had contacts here.
A serving girl at an inn we'd commandeered. A stable boy who'd delivered horses to Daemon's forces. A refugee who'd watched Caraxes from a distance and lived to tell it.
The picture emerged slowly. Daemon wasn't fleeing. Wasn't even evading.
He was circling.
Each day, his path curved closer to God's Eye. Each night, his forces consolidated around Harrenhal. He was gathering, preparing, setting pieces on a board only he could see.
"He's baiting us." I showed the map to Aemond. "Look at his movements. He could have attacked three times by now. He's choosing not to."
"He's choosing to die on his terms." Aemond barely glanced at the markings. "Noble, in a twisted way."
"Or he has something planned we haven't anticipated."
"Such as?"
I don't know. That's the problem.
"I don't know. But Daemon's survived fifty years of warfare. He didn't do that by being predictable."
"He survived by being ruthless and lucky. His luck has run out." Aemond rolled up the map. "God's Eye tomorrow. We end this."
He walked away.
I stood alone in the command tent, staring at the space where the map had been.
Three dragons. One target. Simple mathematics.
But war was never simple.
SILVERWING
She found me in the field.
I'd walked away from camp—needed space, needed air, needed to think without Hugh's glares and Aemond's cold confidence.
Silverwing landed beside me. Her massive head lowered until those amber eyes were level with mine.
A questioning rumble.
"I'm considering running."
Another rumble. No judgment.
"Flying back to King's Landing. Taking Helaena and the children. Disappearing before this battle kills me."
She huffed warm breath across my face.
"I know. I know it wouldn't work." I touched her snout. "If I flee, Aemond names me traitor. Helaena becomes a hostage. The child—our child—becomes leverage."
Trapped. By the very thing I'm fighting for.
"I didn't expect fatherhood." The words came out strange. Honest. "Didn't expect to have something worth running toward."
Silverwing pressed closer. Comfort, as much as a dragon could offer.
"I'll fight tomorrow. I'll survive if I can. And then I'll go home."
A rumble. Agreement.
"Thank you. For everything."
She curled around me—massive coils of ancient muscle and warm scales. Protecting me from the cold. From the dark.
I slept against my dragon's side and dreamed of silver hair and dark eyes and a child I'd never met.
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