ULF
Dawn came bloody.
Red light spilled through the throne room's high windows, painting the Iron Throne in colors that looked like warning. Fitting, considering what was about to happen.
I stood three paces behind Helaena. Close enough to reach her in a heartbeat. Far enough to seem proper.
She wore a gown of green and gold—Hightower colors wrapped around Targaryen silver hair. Someone had placed a delicate circlet on her head while I was positioning guards outside. The metal looked heavy on her. Wrong.
She's not meant for this.
The throne room filled steadily. Lords and ladies, summoned in the middle of the night, still bleary-eyed and confused. Some had clearly dressed in haste—a mismatched doublet here, a crooked cloak there.
Otto stood near the Iron Throne, directing the chaos like an orchestra conductor. Every movement precise. Every word calculated.
"Lord Stokeworth, you'll stand to the left. Lady Rosby, behind Lord Darklyn."
The man had been waiting for this moment for twenty years. Probably had the seating arrangements memorized.
Aegon slouched on the Iron Throne itself. The Conqueror's crown sat crooked on his head, and his eyes were bloodshot from whatever wine he'd consumed between the small council chamber and now. His coronation robes—cloth-of-gold with rubies sewn into the fabric—hung awkwardly on his frame.
He looked like a child playing dress-up in his father's clothes.
Because that's exactly what he is.
A herald's voice cut through the murmurs. "His Grace, King Aegon, Second of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm!"
The words echoed off stone walls. Some lords knelt immediately. Others hesitated, exchanging glances before bending their knees.
Otto noticed every delay. A servant behind him scratched names into a ledger.
Lists. Otto loves his lists.
"Lord Merryweather!" A name was called.
A portly man shuffled forward, knelt before the throne, spoke the oath of fealty. His voice shook slightly.
"Lord Celtigar!"
Another man. Same oath. Same trembling voice.
The procession continued. Lords knelt, swore loyalty, received Aegon's distracted nod, then retreated to their assigned positions. Some looked relieved. Others looked ill.
Three lords refused. The first was Lord Staunton—an elderly man with iron-gray hair who simply said, "I swore to Rhaenyra. My oath stands." Guards escorted him away. Nobody resisted.
The second was a young knight whose name I didn't catch. He spat at Aegon's feet before being dragged out by Criston Cole's men.
The third vomited on the steps of the throne, muttered something about "betrayal of the true queen," and collapsed. The maesters carried him off.
Three refusals out of forty-something lords. Not bad odds for a coup.
Then the herald called: "Her Grace, Queen Helaena!"
The room shifted. Every eye turned to Helaena.
She stepped forward. Each movement mechanical. Her face completely blank—that particular emptiness I'd learned to recognize. Not calm. Absent. She'd retreated somewhere inside herself, leaving only a shell to perform the necessary motions.
Lords knelt to her. "Your Grace." "Long may you reign." "The Seven bless you."
She acknowledged none of them. Just stood there, hands clasped, staring at nothing.
Aegon noticed. Leaned forward on the throne, sneering.
"My wife needs her own guard, I see." He gestured toward me. "What's the matter, Helaena? Afraid your own husband might harm you?"
The throne room went quiet.
I didn't respond. Didn't move. Just kept my eyes on the back of Helaena's head.
"She's smart," Aemond said from his position near the steps. His single eye gleamed with something between amusement and approval. "Every queen needs loyal men."
Aegon snorted. "Loyal to her, not to me. What kind of king has a wife whose guards won't protect him?"
"The living kind," Alicent murmured. Her voice barely carried, but I heard it.
Otto stepped forward, breaking the moment. "The procession continues. Lord Rosby!"
HELAENA
The butterflies are screaming.
I didn't know butterflies could scream until this morning. But they screamed in my dreams—thousands of them, their wings on fire, spiraling down into darkness.
The crown weighs more than father's coffin.
Someone was talking. Lords, ladies, names I should know. Mother had drilled them into me since childhood. But the words slid off my mind like water off glass.
Ulf is behind me. Three paces. Close enough.
I focused on that. On the steady presence at my back. On the knowledge that if anything happened—if someone drew a blade, if Aegon reached for me, if the walls collapsed—Ulf would be there.
The others didn't understand him. They saw a bastard guard. A minor piece in Otto's game.
I saw the man who held me when the visions came. Who didn't flinch when I told him brother would kill brother. Who trained until his hands bled and his body broke, just to be strong enough to protect my children.
My children.
They were in the nursery. Surrounded by guards Ulf had personally selected. Three escape routes mapped. Contingencies planned.
He thought I didn't notice. But I noticed everything. It was exhausting, noticing everything, but I couldn't stop.
"Your Grace?"
Someone was speaking to me.
I blinked. An older lord knelt before me, waiting.
"Yes," I said. My voice sounded distant. Detached. "Rise."
He rose. Retreated.
Another lord took his place.
How many more? How many more people will kneel and lie and pretend this isn't a disaster?
The butterflies screamed louder.
ULF
The Dragonpit smelled like old fire and fresh fear.
Twenty thousand people had gathered outside its massive walls. Smallfolk packed into every available space—rooftops, walls, scaffolding that looked ready to collapse. Gold cloaks maintained order, barely.
Inside the pit itself, the royal party assembled on a raised platform. Carved seats for the royal family. Standing positions for the guards.
I stood behind Helaena again. Same distance. Same vigilance.
The pit's floor—scorched black from centuries of dragonfire—stretched out before us. Ancient chains hung from the walls. The air tasted like ash.
Then Sunfyre emerged.
Aegon's dragon crawled from the shadows, and the crowd's murmur became a roar. Golden scales caught the morning light, blazing like a second sun. Wings unfurled—massive, elegant, terrible.
Beautiful. And deadly.
The dragon raised its head and screamed.
Not a roar. A scream. The sound pierced my skull, echoed off the pit's walls, and crashed over the crowd like a physical wave.
People screamed back. Some in fear. Some in worship. The distinction didn't matter.
Otto raised his hands. The crowd gradually quieted.
"People of King's Landing!" His voice carried through the pit, amplified by its acoustics. "Your king stands before you! Aegon, Second of His Name, rightful heir to the Iron Throne!"
Coins flew into the crowd. Hired criers led the cheering. "Long live King Aegon! Long live the King!"
The mob took up the chant. Genuine enthusiasm mixed with calculated performance, impossible to separate.
Aegon stood on the platform's edge, bathed in Sunfyre's golden glow. For a moment, he almost looked regal.
Then Sunfyre roared again, and Aegon flinched.
I filed that away. The king fears his own dragon. Interesting.
Helaena stood motionless beside him. The crowd cheered for her too, but she didn't acknowledge them. Just stared at Sunfyre with an expression I couldn't read.
What does she see? A dragon, or something from her visions?
I moved slightly closer. Her shoulder brushed my arm.
She didn't look at me, but I felt her tension ease. Just fractionally. Just enough.
The ceremony lasted three hours. By the end, my legs ached, my throat was dry, and I'd memorized every exit route from the Dragonpit.
Four primary exits. Two service tunnels. One dragon-sized gate that opens onto the southern plaza. Crowds too thick for fast movement. If something happens here, we're trapped.
Nothing happened.
The crowd dispersed. The royal party retreated to the Keep.
And then Otto summoned the household guards.
ULF
The throne room again. Emptier now, most lords having fled to their quarters or the nearest wine cask.
Otto stood before the Iron Throne—Aegon having retreated somewhere, thank the gods—with a ledger in his hands.
"The realm requires certainty," he announced. "Every member of the household will swear loyalty to King Aegon. Those who refuse will be relieved of their positions."
Guards lined up. Names were called. Oaths were spoken.
"Ser Marcus of Rosby!"
A young knight stepped forward, knelt, swore. His name was marked in the ledger.
"Ser Wendel Stone!"
Another knight. Another oath.
The line moved forward. My turn approached.
"Ulf."
Just my name. No title. No house. Because I had neither.
I stepped forward. The throne room went quiet. Otto's eyes narrowed slightly—he knew I'd been waiting for this moment. Calculating.
I knelt before the empty throne.
"I swear loyalty to Queen Helaena and her children." My voice carried clearly. "My oath goes to them. None other."
Silence.
Otto's face darkened. His quill hovered over the ledger.
"You refuse to swear to the king?"
"I swear to the queen. Through her, to the crown."
"That's not the same thing."
"It's what I offer."
Tension stretched. Guards shifted. Criston Cole's hand moved toward his sword.
Then—laughter. Aegon's voice, slurred from somewhere behind the throne. He'd apparently never left, just hidden himself from view.
"Let him swear to my wife." The king emerged, wine cup in hand. "I don't care. One less guard I have to worry about. He's hers."
Otto hesitated. Looked at Alicent, who gave the slightest nod.
The quill scratched against parchment.
"Marked as Queen Helaena's sworn man," Otto said flatly. "Rise."
I rose.
As the next name was called, I retreated to my position behind Helaena. She didn't turn, but her hand found mine behind the folds of her gown.
A brief squeeze. Gratitude. Relief.
Then she released me, and we were strangers again.
ULF
The court dispersed. Lords retreated. Servants scurried.
I was heading toward the nursery—checking on the children had become reflex—when footsteps fell in beside me.
Criston Cole. Lord Commander now, and Hand of the King. Two titles that would have been impressive if they weren't being used to prop up a drunk.
"That was bold." His voice was neutral. Professional. "Swearing to the queen instead of the king."
"It was honest."
"Honesty can be dangerous."
"So can everything else."
He studied me for a long moment. We kept walking, boots echoing on stone.
"You fought at Driftmark," he said. "I've heard the stories. Killed twenty men in the harbor raid."
"Fourteen."
"The stories say twenty."
"Stories lie."
The ghost of a smile crossed his face. "They do."
We reached a junction. The corridor split—left toward the nursery, right toward the Lord Commander's quarters.
Criston stopped. Faced me directly.
"The queen will need protection in what's coming," he said. "Real protection. The kind that doesn't flinch."
"I don't flinch."
"I've noticed." His eye held something—respect, maybe. Or recognition. One killer seeing another. "See that you keep her safe. The realm is about to burn, and she's one of the few things worth saving."
"Agreed."
He nodded once. Turned right. Disappeared into the shadows.
I turned left.
The nursery waited. Helaena waited. The children waited.
And somewhere on Dragonstone, Rhaenyra was learning that her father was dead and her throne had been stolen.
The Dance had begun.
I wasn't ready.
But I was here. And sometimes, that had to be enough.
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