ULF
The morning brought another sermon.
I went myself this time—hooded cloak, common clothes, blending into the crowd that gathered in the square near the Dragonpit. Thousands of faces, more than I'd expected, pressed together with the fever-bright expressions of people who'd found something to believe in.
The Shepherd stood on a makeshift platform. Up close, his disfigurement was worse than reports suggested—not just missing an arm, but scarred across half his face, one eye socket empty and sunken. Whatever had wounded him had been catastrophic.
Dragonfire, probably. Hence the hatred.
"Brothers! Sisters!" His voice carried without effort—the trained projection of a man who'd spent years preaching. "For too long we have cowered beneath the shadow of wings! For too long we have accepted that some men can fly while others crawl! For too long we have let demons rule us!"
The crowd roared.
"Look!" He pointed toward the Dragonpit, visible above the rooftops. "That pit holds more evil than all the hells combined! Seventeen dragons! Seventeen abominations that eat our grain, burn our homes, and decide which of us lives or dies!"
Seventeen. He knows the exact count. Someone's been feeding him information.
"The Seven made men to be masters of the earth! Not servants to beasts! Not slaves to monsters! The Targaryens have perverted the natural order—married brother to sister, ruled by terror, and kept those demons as pets while we starve!"
More cheering. People pressing forward, desperate to get closer to the speaker.
"But I tell you—I have seen the truth! I have walked through fire and emerged with the wisdom of the Smith himself! Those dragons CAN be killed! They are not gods! They are FLESH, and flesh can BURN!"
The crowd's energy shifted. Anticipation. Hunger.
He's not just preaching anymore. He's preparing them.
"When the time comes—and it will come SOON—we will march on that pit! We will tear down those gates! We will show the world that MEN are masters, not monsters!"
I'd heard enough.
Pushing through the crowd, I made my way back toward the Red Keep with the Shepherd's words echoing in my ears.
He's planning an assault. Not hypothetically—specifically. He knows the layout, knows the count, knows when to strike.
This is organized. This is deliberate.
And no one on the council will believe me until it's too late.
The Small Council session was frustrating beyond words.
I laid out everything—the attendance numbers, the Shepherd's specific references to the Dragonpit, Helaena's prophetic warning.
Otto listened with barely concealed impatience.
"Queen Helaena's dreams, while spiritually significant, are hardly the basis for military action."
"Her dreams predicted Blood and Cheese. Predicted God's Eye. Predicted every crisis that's nearly destroyed us."
"Coincidence and vague interpretation. The woman speaks in riddles—"
"She spoke clearly this time." I kept my voice level despite the anger building in my chest. "The Dragonpit burns. The Shepherd leads them there. Every dragon dies."
"And you propose what, exactly?" Otto spread his hands. "Arresting a popular religious figure? Martyring him would inflame the situation tenfold."
"Move the dragons out of the city. At minimum, move Silverwing and Vermithor to somewhere defensible."
"And announce to the realm that we're afraid of a few thousand ragged peasants? The political implications—"
"The political implications of losing every dragon are worse."
Criston Cole spoke up. "The Lord Protector has a point. A mob that size, properly motivated, could pose genuine danger. Perhaps we disperse them with the Gold Cloaks before they build more momentum."
"Absolutely not." Helaena's voice cut through the argument. All eyes turned to her. "Spilling blood in the streets will ignite what we're trying to prevent. Those people are angry and afraid—attack them, and they become an army."
"Then what do you propose, Your Grace?"
"Let the Lord Protector move his dragons. Quietly. Without announcement." She met my eyes. "The pit can be sealed afterward, guarded against entry. The Shepherd loses his target, his momentum fades, and we avoid both martyrdom and massacre."
Otto frowned. "Moving two of our largest dragons without anyone noticing—"
"At night," I said. "Under cover of darkness. Silverwing flies out normally. Vermithor follows slowly—his wing is healed enough for short flights. We roost them outside the city until the tension passes."
"And if the mob notices anyway? Attacks while you're vulnerable?"
"Then I handle it."
Silence around the table.
"Very well." Otto's tone suggested he was humoring a madman. "Move your dragons, Lord Protector. But if this causes more problems than it solves—"
"It won't."
I hoped I was telling the truth.
The extraction would happen at midnight.
I spent the remaining hours at the Dragonpit, coordinating with the dragonkeepers, checking Vermithor's wing one final time.
The Bronze Fury was restless. He could sense my tension, my fear, the gathering storm outside these walls.
"Soon," I told him. "We're leaving soon. Somewhere safer."
A questioning rumble.
"I don't know where yet. Somewhere outside the city. Somewhere away from the angry people who want to hurt you."
He pressed his massive snout against my palm.
Trust. Despite everything—despite Hugh's cruelty, despite the war, despite his wounds—he trusts me.
"I won't let them hurt you," I said. "I won't let them hurt Silverwing. Whatever it takes."
Silverwing waited in her own chamber—calm, patient, understanding in ways that defied explanation. When I visited her, she nuzzled my shoulder like a horse might, but with the weight and warmth of something far more ancient.
"You'll fly first," I told her. "Draw attention away from Vermithor. Circle wide, then head for the coastline. I'll catch up."
A soft rumble. Agreement.
They understand. They always understand more than they should.
The sun set. The city quieted—or tried to. I could hear distant voices from the direction of the Shepherd's usual gathering spot. More preaching. More anger. More fuel for the fire that was coming.
Helaena found me in the dragon yard as midnight approached.
She'd dressed practically for once—riding clothes rather than court attire, hair braided back, a cloak against the night chill. She looked like she was ready to flee at a moment's notice.
Maybe she is.
"The children are with Alicent," she said. "If anything goes wrong tonight, she'll keep them safe."
"Nothing's going to go wrong."
"You don't believe that."
"I believe I'll make sure nothing goes wrong."
She kissed me. Hard. Desperate.
"If the city erupts while you're moving them, you'll be trapped between mob and dragons."
"Then I'll have to fly faster than rioters can run."
"Don't joke."
"I'm not joking." I touched her face. "I've survived assassins, dragonriders, armies, and my own stupidity. A mob doesn't scare me."
"It should." Her eyes were wet. "Those people—they're not soldiers. They're desperate and afraid and angry. That's more dangerous than any army."
"I know. That's why I'm doing this now, before they're ready."
From somewhere in the city, a distant roar—thousands of voices raised together. The Shepherd's congregation, gathering for their nightly sermon.
Closer than usual. They're moving toward the pit.
"Go," I told Helaena. "Get back to the Keep. Whatever happens, stay with the children."
"I want to help—"
"You help by being safe. By being there when I get back."
She held me for one more moment. Then released me.
"Come back to me."
"Always."
She walked away into the darkness.
I turned toward the Dragonpit, where my dragons waited, and began the most dangerous extraction of my life.
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