The young dragonkeeper never had time to react.
A fist slammed into his temple with brutal precision. His eyes rolled white as his helm rang, and he collapsed onto the cold stone, limbs slack, like a marionette whose strings had been cut. For a heartbeat, his chest still rose and fell, shallow and uncertain, before he lay still.
Footsteps sounded behind her.
"Princess," a low voice said, carefully measured, "as you commanded, the guards at the gate have been dealt with."
Helena did not turn.
The man in black armor hesitated, his gauntleted hand tightening at his side before he spoke again. "But if I may speak plainly… how do you mean to claim a dragon without them?"
His gaze drifted toward the fallen men, then toward the bronze doors ahead, looming and impenetrable.
"The danger was grave even with their aid. Without the dragonkeepers…" He swallowed. "It borders on madness."
He was Brayden, one of the Eight Knights of Harrenhal. Baelon himself had raised him from obscurity, trained him, armed him, and set him where he stood. Brayden's loyalty was not a matter of oaths alone. It was bone deep.
That loyalty twisted now into something close to dread.
Helena had already placed herself in peril. Now she had stripped away the last safeguard between herself and dragonfire.
She stopped walking.
Slowly, she turned her head just enough that Brayden could see the pale line of her cheek, the steady set of her mouth.
"You will remain here," she said.
Her voice was level, almost distant, as if she were issuing instructions for a household task rather than stepping toward death.
"If I succeed, I will return riding a dragon."
She paused, the torchlight dancing across her eyes.
"If I fail," she went on, "you will go to the Red Keep and report that I am dead."
Her gaze did not soften. She did not wait for his reply.
She turned away.
Clad in a fitted dragonrider's suit of darkened leather and scale, her silver hair bound tight against her head, Helena walked toward the depths of the lair, the torch held steady in her hand. Her steps did not falter. She might have been entering a corridor she had walked a hundred times before.
Brayden stared after her, jaw clenched.
"…Then I will stay," he said at last, his voice rougher than before. "With your leave, Princess."
He took a step forward.
Duty drowned fear. If fire came, if claws and fangs descended from the dark, then he would stand between them. Or die trying.
Helena halted once more. This time she turned fully, studying him with a gaze too old for her years.
A breath passed.
"Do as you will," she said. "But keep your distance."
Her eyes flicked briefly to his armor, his sword, the scent of steel and sweat and blood.
"The smell of a stranger may disturb the other dragons."
Then she turned again and vanished into the dark.
Her voice echoed faintly against stone, stripped of warmth, stripped of fear.
Brayden followed, though each step felt heavier than the last.
The darkness swallowed her small figure, the torchlight shrinking to a trembling star against the cavern walls. Brayden felt a chill creep beneath his armor, prickling along his spine and raising gooseflesh on his arms.
It was not cowardice.
It was the sight itself.
In utter silence, a child walked alone into a dragon's den. Her face was empty, her bearing composed, as though fear itself had no claim on her soul.
The entrance to the lair loomed ahead, vast and ancient. The gates were wrought entirely of bronze, layered thick enough to withstand dragonflame, their surface etched with old Valyrian glyphs worn smooth by time and smoke.
Once inside, Brayden gestured quietly to his men. They spread out without a word, securing the perimeter as trained. The unconscious dragonkeepers were bound and moved aside, treated carefully, just as Helena had ordered.
No cruelty. No unnecessary blood.
Beyond the gates stretched a massive circular hall, its ceiling lost in shadow. The stone floor was bare and scarred, wide enough for dozens of mounted knights to ride abreast. Every sound echoed, magnified, as if the lair itself were listening.
This was the receiving ground.
When a member of House Targaryen wished to fly, they would wait here while the dragonkeepers brought the chosen beast forward from the depths. Only once the rider had mounted the saddle would the dragon stir, crawling out into the open before unfurling its wings and taking to the sky.
But today, the hall stood empty.
The steps spiraled downward, each one worn smooth by centuries of claws and boots.
As they descended, Helena spoke again, her voice carrying softly through the cavern.
"Do you know why Maegor the First decreed that Targaryens must mount their dragons inside the Pit before flying?"
Brayden glanced toward her, surprised by the question. He shook his head, his hand resting uneasily on the pommel of his sword. "I do not, Your Highness."
Helena continued walking, her torch held steady, its light glinting off the damp stone.
"Dragons are creatures of the sky," she said. "Freedom is their nature. A dragonpit denies that freedom. Chains violate it."
Brayden frowned, listening closely.
"The Dragonmonts built by Baelon are far better," she went on. "That is where dragons belong. Open air. Height. Space to breathe."
Since coming to Harrenhal, Helena's understanding had shifted. What she once accepted as necessary now felt profoundly wrong.
"I used to believe pits were unavoidable," she said quietly. "But Baelon proved otherwise. The pits themselves are a mistake."
Her steps never slowed.
"Maegor's fear was not unfounded," she said. "He feared dragons running loose above King's Landing. He feared the Red Keep reduced to ash."
She glanced back at Brayden, her pale eyes sharp.
"But those who cannot control their own dragons have no right to call themselves dragonriders."
Brayden felt a strange tightness in his chest.
"Dragons and humans should rise together," Helena said. "Not one bound and broken so the other may rule through terror."
She paused at a bend in the stairs.
"A true dragon knight remains a dragon knight even after dismounting."
They passed through the great circular hall and descended still deeper, the air growing warmer, thicker, heavy with the scent of ash and old smoke.
Brayden studied her in silence. The words were not those of a child. They carried the weight of centuries, of loss and understanding far beyond her years.
At last, Helena stopped.
She lifted her torch and pointed toward a cavern opening to the left. "That cave."
Her gaze hardened. "That is my target."
She turned to him, holding out her hand.
"Wait here. Do not follow."
Brayden hesitated, then placed the heavy iron key into her palm. His fingers lingered a fraction too long.
"The scent of an unfamiliar man will irritate the dragon," Helena added, already turning away.
She did not look back.
Brayden remained where he stood, fists clenched at his sides, listening to the faint echo of her footsteps fade into the depths.
He bowed his head and prayed.
Minutes passed.
Deep within the cavern, Helena finally saw her.
A pale blue dragon lay coiled in sleep, vast and still, her scales catching the torchlight like frost-kissed silver. Faint markings traced along her hide, shimmering softly with each slow breath.
"Dreamfyre," Helena whispered.
She lifted her chin, standing straight despite the overwhelming presence before her.
Dreamfyre was old. Immense. To Helena, she seemed less a living creature than a mountain shaped into flesh and scale.
The dragon did not stir.
Perhaps, somewhere deep within her instincts, she sensed no threat from the small human standing near her chains.
Helena frowned. She planted her foot and stamped once against the stone, the sharp sound echoing.
Still nothing.
Carefully, deliberately, she raised the massive iron key and stepped closer to the chains binding the dragon.
"Being chained like this must be unbearable," she murmured, her voice softening. "I will free you."
Thick iron restraints bound Dreamfyre's tail, her hind legs, her wings, even her neck and head. The Dragonkeepers had allowed only the barest movement. Enough to eat. Enough to sleep.
Freedom, reduced to inches.
Helena knelt beside the nearest shackle, her small hands steady as she fitted the key into the lock.
Click.
The restraint on Dreamfyre's left foreclaw sprang open.
Helena exhaled slowly. "Next," she whispered.
She shifted her weight and turned-
-and froze.
Dreamfyre's eyes were open.
Vast, luminous, ancient eyes fixed upon her.
A human child stood at her side.
The dragon tilted her great head, studying the small figure with quiet intensity. Something stirred in her instincts. Something faintly familiar, though long buried beneath years of confinement.
Dreamfyre was gentle by nature, but even the calmest dragon could be driven to rage by chains.
And yet.
She felt no hostility.
So she watched... Silentlu.
As the little girl reached once more for the key and continued to free her.
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A/N: If you think you know what comes next… you don't. The answers are already waiting ahead.
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