ULF
The fishing boat arrived at dawn.
I watched it approach from the beach, Silverwing stirring beside me at the unfamiliar sail pattern. Not a local vessel—too large, too well-maintained, the kind of ship that traveled between ports rather than just hunting the daily catch.
Network contact. Has to be.
The boat dropped anchor in the shallows. A man jumped into the knee-deep water and waded toward shore—middle-aged, weathered face, the look of someone who'd spent decades learning to be unremarkable.
Marsh. One of my oldest contacts. I'd thought him dead in the fall of King's Landing.
"Lord Protector." He stopped ten feet away, eyeing Silverwing with the careful respect of someone who understood exactly what a dragon could do. "You're a hard man to find."
"That's the point." I moved toward him, away from the dragon. "What news?"
"The worst kind." He pulled a leather pouch from his belt. "Rhaenyra Targaryen entered King's Landing three days ago. She sits the Iron Throne. She's declared herself Queen of the Seven Kingdoms."
Expected. But hearing it confirmed still landed like a blow.
"What about the Greens? Cole? Any survivors?"
"Criston Cole retreated south with maybe three thousand men. He's regrouping somewhere in the Stormlands—your network doesn't have exact locations yet." Marsh spat into the sand. "The rest scattered. Dead, fled, or bent the knee. Otto Hightower's head is currently decorating a spike on the Red Keep's walls."
Otto. The scheming bastard who never quite trusted me. Dead now, like so many others.
"What's she doing about the riots? The Shepherd's followers?"
"Pardons for the smallfolk. 'They were misled by religious fervor,' or some such horseshit. She can't execute thousands—doesn't have the men or the stomach for it." Marsh's expression darkened. "But she's not pardoning everyone."
He handed me the leather pouch.
Inside: a rolled parchment, sealed with black wax. I broke it open.
The words were formal. Official. Damning.
By decree of Queen Rhaenyra, First of Her Name, the following persons are declared traitors to the realm: Helaena Targaryen, falsely styled Queen Regent; Jaehaerys Targaryen, falsely styled King; Jaehaera Targaryen; Maelor Targaryen. Bounty of ten thousand gold dragons for their capture alive, five thousand for proof of death.
"Ten thousand gold dragons," I said flatly. "She values them highly."
"She values eliminating rival claimants. The boy Jaehaerys is the biggest threat—legitimate Green heir, old enough to remember, young enough to be a symbol for decades." Marsh lowered his voice. "There's something else. Rhaenyra's people are searching the countryside. They know you escaped with the royal family. They're looking specifically for you."
"For me?"
"The Dragonslayer. The man who commands two dragons. The man who killed Hugh Hammer and survived God's Eye." He met my eyes. "You're as big a target as the children. Maybe bigger."
Of course I am. I'm the weapon that could still hurt her.
"Any bounty on my head?"
"Fifteen thousand gold dragons. Dead or alive."
I almost laughed.
"More than a queen and three princes combined. I'm flattered."
"You should be worried. That kind of gold brings every sellsword and desperate lord within a thousand miles."
"Let them come. Dragons are hard to kill, and I'm harder."
Marsh didn't look convinced.
"There's one more thing. The village—this place—it's not on any map. But Rhaenyra's spymaster, Mysaria, she's thorough. The White Worm doesn't give up easily."
Mysaria. The woman who sent the poisoners. The woman I've been hunting since Blood and Cheese.
"Has she found anything?"
"Not yet. But she's looking. And she's patient."
I processed this. Calculated. Decided.
"You need to leave. Don't come back for at least a month—longer if you can manage it. The fewer boats visiting this village, the less attention we attract."
"And if I have urgent news?"
"Send a messenger to the cove three miles north. My guards check it daily."
Marsh nodded. Started back toward his boat.
"Lord Protector." He paused, ankle-deep in water. "For what it's worth—I'm glad you survived. You were the only lord who ever paid fair wages and meant it."
"I'm not a lord."
"You are to us."
He waded out to his boat and sailed away.
I stood on the beach, holding the warrant for my death, watching the horizon until his ship disappeared.
Helaena found me in Corwen's house, the warrant spread across the rough wooden table.
She read it in silence. Her face showed nothing—the mask of a queen who'd learned to hide her emotions in a court full of vipers.
When she finished, she set the paper down with careful precision.
"Ten thousand gold dragons. At least she values us."
"This isn't funny."
"No. It's not." She sat across from me. "What do we do?"
"Nothing. Yet."
"Nothing?"
"Rhaenyra holds King's Landing, but that doesn't mean she's won. She's trying to rule a city that just tore itself apart, with an army that's been fighting for months, and an economy that's been destroyed by war." I traced the warrant's seal—black wax, a three-headed dragon. "She's going to make mistakes. Every new ruler does."
"And when she makes them?"
"We'll be ready."
Helaena was quiet for a moment. Then: "Can we win? Can we take back the throne for Jaehaerys?"
The question I'd been dreading.
"Honestly?"
"I wouldn't want anything else."
"Not now. Maybe not ever." The words hurt to say. "We have two dragons, but she has more. We have a few dozen loyal fighters, but she has an army. We have a fishing village, but she has the capital."
"Then why are we still fighting?"
"Because we're still alive. Because your children are still alive. Because survival is its own victory." I reached across the table, took her hand. "The Targaryens ruled for a hundred years because they were patient. They didn't conquer Westeros in a day—they did it over generations. If Jaehaerys can't reclaim the throne, maybe his children can. Or their children."
"I don't want to think in generations. I want to see my son on his father's throne."
"So do I. But wanting and getting are different things."
She pulled her hand back. Rose from the table. Walked to the window that looked out toward the village square, where her three public children played with fishing nets and local boys.
"I hate this," she said quietly. "I hate hiding. I hate being hunted. I hate that my children have to pretend to be common refugees while the woman who started this war sits on the throne I was supposed to guard."
"I know."
"I want to burn something. I want to fly Silverwing to King's Landing and burn Rhaenyra's precious throne until there's nothing left but ash and memory."
"That won't help."
"It would help me feel better."
Despite everything, I smiled.
"There she is. The dragon queen I fell in love with."
She turned to look at me.
"I'm serious, Ulf. I want revenge."
"And you'll have it. Eventually. When the time is right." I crossed to her. "But not today. Not tomorrow. Not until we've built something strong enough to survive what comes after."
"How long?"
"I don't know."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only honest one I have."
She leaned against me. Let me hold her.
"I hate waiting."
"I know. So do I."
Outside, Jaehaerys laughed at something—the pure, uncomplicated sound of a child enjoying himself. His sisters joined in. For one moment, they weren't hunted royals. They were just children.
"At least they can still laugh," Helaena whispered.
"That's why we wait. Why we build. Why we survive." I kissed her forehead. "So they can keep laughing."
She held me tighter.
We stood at the window, watching our children play, while the warrant for our deaths lay forgotten on the table.
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