ULF
The village elder was an old man named Corwen.
I'd never met him directly—all my dealings with this place had been through intermediaries—but he knew who I was. Or at least, he knew that someone wealthy and powerful had been sending gold and protection for months.
He stood in his doorway, wrapped in a rough blanket against the night chill, staring at me with the mixture of fear and calculation that comes from a lifetime of surviving by your wits.
"You're the benefactor."
"I am."
"There are dragons on my beach."
"There are."
"And people. A woman. Children."
"Yes."
He processed this. Behind him, I could hear movement—his family waking, curious and frightened by the commotion.
"What do you want?"
"Sanctuary. For myself and the people I brought. No questions asked. No names shared. Complete discretion." I held his gaze. "You've taken my gold for months. Now I need something in return."
Corwen chewed his lip.
"The dragons—"
"Will stay on the beach. They won't harm anyone unless threatened."
"The people?"
"Are refugees. That's all you need to know."
"How long?"
"As long as necessary."
Silence stretched between us. In the distance, I could hear other villagers emerging from their homes, drawn by the impossible sight of two dragons on their fishing beach.
"I'll need more gold," Corwen said finally. "Feeding extra mouths, housing them, keeping secrets—it costs."
"You'll have it. Everything I promised and more."
"Then you have your sanctuary." He stepped aside. "My house is largest. Take it. We'll find other arrangements."
"I wouldn't—"
"You would. And you'll need the space." His expression softened slightly. "Those children looked terrified. They need walls and warmth, not a blanket on the sand."
He's a good man. Practical, but good.
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. This village has never hidden from the world before. Let's see if we can learn."
Moving the family to Corwen's house took an hour.
The children were half-asleep by then—carried on the shoulders of fishermen who'd never expected to help royal refugees but did so without complaint. Helaena walked between them, her face a mask of exhaustion and determination.
The house was rough—two rooms, packed-earth floor, furniture built for function rather than comfort. But it was warm. Private. Safe.
"This will do," Helaena said softly. "This will more than do."
We settled the children first—Jaehaerys, Jaehaera, and Maelor piled together on a single bed, finding comfort in each other's warmth. Within minutes, all three were asleep.
Resilient. Children are always more resilient than we expect.
Helaena sat by the bed, watching them breathe.
"We should establish a cover story," I said quietly. "Before too many people ask questions."
"What story?"
"You're a noblewoman. Minor house—something unimportant enough that no one would know if it was real. Your husband died in the riots. You fled with your children. I'm—" I hesitated. "A family friend. A protector."
"The truth, essentially. Just incomplete."
"The best lies always are."
She nodded without looking away from her sleeping children.
"And the dragons?"
"Mine. War refugees, like us. The villagers will learn to accept them."
"Will they?"
"They'll have to."
The wet nurse came at dawn.
I'd arranged for Dalla to live on the far side of the village—close enough for Harwin's guards to protect her, far enough to avoid direct connection to my other operations. She had no idea who I really was, no idea whose child she nursed alongside her own daughter.
But I knew she'd come. The arrival of dragons would bring everyone out to see.
She appeared with both babies bundled against her chest—her own daughter and "her nephew," the orphan she'd been paid to raise.
My son. Aegon. Three months old now.
I watched from the doorway as she approached with the other curious villagers, craning to see the dragons on the beach.
Helaena stepped out beside me.
Her body went rigid.
"Is that—"
"Yes."
"He's so close. He's right there."
"I know."
"I could just—if I could just hold him for a moment—"
"Too risky. Too many eyes."
She made a sound—halfway between a laugh and a sob.
"Too risky. My son is fifty feet away and I can't touch him because it's too risky."
"Helaena—"
"I know. I know why. I know the reasons." Her voice cracked. "But knowing doesn't make it easier."
She turned and went back inside before anyone could see her break.
The days that followed were an exercise in careful performance.
I established myself as the village's new authority—not by force, but by necessity. The dragons needed space. The refugees needed food. The villagers needed assurance that their world hadn't completely ended.
I provided all three.
Gold flowed from the reserves I'd cached months ago. Guards maintained order without being oppressive. The dragons stayed on the beach, fed with fish and the occasional sheep, becoming gradually less terrifying to people who'd never seen such creatures.
And through it all, I watched Helaena break slowly.
She couldn't acknowledge Aegon. Couldn't claim him. Couldn't even spend time with him without drawing suspicion.
But she couldn't stay away either.
I arranged what I could. The wet nurse was told that the noblewoman "found comfort in children"—that seeing babies helped her cope with her grief. Dalla accepted this without question. Nobles were strange; everyone knew that.
So Helaena held her son. Fed him. Sang to him. Memorized every feature of his three-month-old face.
Then she gave him back.
Every time. Every day.
And every night, she cried in my arms until exhaustion finally claimed her.
"This can't continue," she whispered one evening. "I can't keep giving him back. I can't keep pretending he's not mine."
"I know."
"How long? How long until it's safe?"
"I don't know."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
She turned away from me. Curled into herself.
"I used to dream about holding him. All those months after he was born, I dreamed about finally getting to hold my son. And now I do, every day, and it hurts more than the dreams ever did."
I had no words for that.
I just held her until dawn came and the performance began again.
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