ULF
The meeting site was a ruined watchtower three miles from the village.
I'd chosen it carefully—defensible, isolated, far enough from our hiding place that even if things went wrong, the village wouldn't be compromised. Silverwing waited nearby, hidden in a ravine but ready to fly at my signal.
The Green loyalists arrived in small groups over two days.
Knights who'd fled the fall of King's Landing. Minor lords who'd bent the knee to Rhaenyra but secretly remained loyal. Soldiers who'd survived the riots. Even one former Small Council member—Lord Massey, who'd escaped the city disguised as a merchant.
Twelve men total. Not an army. But a core.
"Lord Protector." Sir Gareth, a knight who'd served under Criston Cole, knelt when I approached. "We thought you dead."
"I've been busy dying. It's tiresome work."
That earned a few startled laughs. Good. Men who could laugh in desperate times were men who could fight.
"Rise. All of you. We're not in a court—we're in a ruin, and titles matter less than survival."
They gathered around the broken hearth where I'd spread maps and notes.
"You've come because you believe the Green cause isn't dead. You're right. Queen Helaena lives. Her children live. The rightful king—Jaehaerys III—lives."
Murmurs. Some of them hadn't been certain until that moment.
"Where are they?" Lord Massey asked.
"Hidden. Safe. That's all you need to know." I met his eyes. "The fewer people who know their location, the safer they remain."
"But if we're to fight for them—"
"You'll fight for me. For the Queen's cause. When the time comes to rally around the royal family, you'll know where to go."
Massey didn't like it. None of them did. But they nodded.
"Now. What do we have?"
The intelligence sharing took hours.
Each man brought pieces of the picture. Combined, they painted something almost hopeful.
Rhaenyra's hold on King's Landing was fragile. The smallfolk blamed her for the Dragonpit massacre—irrationally, perhaps, but grief wasn't rational. The lords who'd submitted to her were watching for weakness. Her remaining dragons were spread thin, their riders young and inexperienced.
And Cregan Stark was marching south.
"The Wolf of Winterfell," Sir Gareth said. "They say he's bringing twenty thousand Northmen. Maybe more."
"To support Rhaenyra?" I asked.
"Unclear. He declared for the Blacks early in the war, but he's done nothing since except gather his forces. Some say he's coming to enforce justice—on both sides."
Winter comes from the North, and wolves judge dragons.
"What about Criston Cole?"
The knight who'd brought news of Cole straightened.
"He's alive. Leading maybe three thousand men in the Crownlands—veterans, loyal to the Green cause. They've been raiding Black supply lines, harassing patrols. Waiting for orders."
"You've been in contact?"
"I have. He's desperate for news of Queen Helaena."
"Send him word. The Queen and her children are safe. Await orders." I paused. "And tell him: command me. I serve the true queen."
"Those exact words?"
"Those exact words. He'll understand."
The strategy session lasted until nightfall.
I laid out what I knew, what I suspected, what Helaena's visions suggested without revealing her as the source.
"Rhaenyra is weaker than she appears. Dragonless, unpopular, surrounded by lords who'd betray her in a moment if they thought they could survive it. But we can't defeat her through direct assault—not with a dozen knights and a few thousand scattered soldiers."
"Then what?" Lord Massey asked.
"We wait. We build. We position ourselves to exploit whatever opportunity comes." I traced the map of King's Landing. "When the moment arrives, we strike fast and decisive. Take the city before she can organize defense. Offer reconciliation rather than vengeance—the realm is tired of bloodshed."
"And the remaining Black dragons?"
"I handle them. That's what I'm for."
The men exchanged glances.
"You really command two dragons?" one of the younger knights asked. "That's not just rumor?"
"It's not rumor. Silverwing and Vermithor both answer to me."
"No one's ever—"
"No one's ever done a lot of things. Until someone does them." I rolled up the map. "We meet again in three weeks. Bring more men if you can find them. Build networks, gather intelligence, prepare for action. When I call, I expect you to answer."
They nodded. Some reluctantly, some eagerly, all with the hungry look of men who'd found hope in a hopeless situation.
As they dispersed, one old lord lingered.
Lord Stokeworth—ancient, weathered, a man who'd served three kings before the Dance.
"A question, Lord Protector."
"Ask."
"You command two dragons. You killed Hugh Hammer, one of the most dangerous dragonriders in the war. You survived the God's Eye where princes died." His rheumy eyes studied me. "What are you, truly?"
The question I'd been asked variations of since this war began.
"I'm Helaena's protector. That's all that matters."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have." I met his gaze. "Does it matter what I am, as long as I serve the cause?"
"It matters because men need to believe in something. Right now, they believe in you as much as in the Queen." He paused. "Perhaps more."
They're following me. Not just serving the Green cause—following me personally.
That's dangerous. For them. For me.
"Then help them believe in the Queen. She's the legitimate regent. Her son is the legitimate king. I'm just a tool in their service."
"You're more than a tool, my lord. Whether you accept that or not."
He walked away to join the others.
I stood alone in the ruins, thinking about what it meant when desperate men looked to you for salvation.
I never wanted to lead. I wanted to protect Helaena. Keep her children safe. Survive.
But sometimes leadership isn't chosen. Sometimes it chooses you.
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