ULF
Six weeks.
That's how long it took for Vermithor's wing to truly heal—the membrane regrown, the bone knitted, the strength returned enough for sustained flight.
I'd checked it every day. Watched the progress. Measured the tension in the healing tissue. Learned more about dragon anatomy than any maester ever compiled, simply through observation and necessity.
Now it was time for the test.
The Bronze Fury sensed what was coming. He'd been restless for days—pacing along the beach, flexing his wings, rumbling at the sky with naked longing. Six weeks of being grounded had been torture for a creature born to fly.
"Easy," I said, approaching with the careful confidence that dragons respected. "Today we try. But slowly. Carefully."
A questioning rumble.
"Yes. Flying. But if the wing isn't ready, we land immediately. I won't let you hurt yourself permanently because you're impatient."
Another rumble. Something like agreement.
I climbed onto his back. Found the saddle position I'd used dozens of times before. Settled my weight.
"Sōvēs. Slowly."
Vermithor spread his wings.
The healed membrane stretched—visibly thinner than before, scarred where the worst damage had been, but intact. He tested the motion, beating twice against the air without leaving the ground.
"Good. Again."
Another beat. Stronger.
"Now. Launch."
He pushed off.
The first wingbeats were tentative—each one bringing a small grunt of discomfort as the healing tissue worked muscles that had been dormant for weeks. We rose slowly, ten feet, twenty, thirty.
"Circle. Gentle."
He banked. The turn was awkward—compensating for the weakness on his injured side—but he held it.
The village passed beneath us. I could see people looking up, fishermen and children and Helaena on the beach, watching the Bronze Fury reclaim the sky.
"How does it feel?"
A rumble. Complex. Pain mixed with determination mixed with joy.
"One more circuit. Then we land."
We completed the circle. Descended slowly. Landed with only a slight stumble.
Vermithor roared triumph.
The sound echoed across the water, bounced off the cliffs, sent seabirds scattering in every direction. Six weeks of frustration and pain and forced patience, released in a single, thunderous declaration.
He's back. Not at full strength, but functional. Flight-capable.
We're dangerous again.
Silverwing had watched the test flight with obvious concern.
She approached Vermithor as he settled onto the sand, making the soft rumbling sounds that dragons used to communicate. Her snout pressed against his injured wing—checking, assessing, making sure he hadn't hurt himself.
The Bronze Fury tolerated the inspection with surprising patience.
They've bonded. Really bonded. Not just sharing a rider—actually caring about each other.
The thought was strange. Dragons were solitary creatures by nature, barely tolerating each other except during mating. But these two had spent six weeks in close proximity, sharing a beach, sharing a rider, sharing the experience of exile.
Something had changed.
Silverwing finished her inspection. Made an approving sound. Then pressed her massive body against Vermithor's side—comfort, support, companionship.
She's happy he's healed. She missed having a flying partner.
I dismounted and walked to where they lay together.
"You two have become friends."
Silverwing's amber eye fixed on me. A rumble that sounded almost amused.
"I know. Dragons don't have friends. Except apparently, you do."
Another rumble. This one from Vermithor.
"Fine. Have it your way."
I sat on the sand between them—two massive dragons forming a protective barrier on either side. Their warmth radiated through my clothes. Their breathing created a rhythm like ocean waves.
This is what we have. Two dragons. A hidden village. A family that can't acknowledge itself fully.
But it's more than most have. More than I ever expected.
The next day, I flew them both.
Vermithor first—a longer flight this time, testing his endurance. We flew for an hour, circling the coastline, climbing to altitude, diving and recovering. His wing held. The pain diminished with use.
Then Silverwing. Another hour. Different patterns, different maneuvers, testing the coordination we'd built over months of partnership.
Finally, both together.
I launched Vermithor, flew him to a holding position over the sea. Landed on the beach. Switched to Silverwing. Launched her. Flew to where Vermithor waited.
The two dragons flew in formation—Bronze Fury and Silver Queen, ancient and powerful and once again under my command.
No rider in history has done this. Commanded two dragons simultaneously. Switched between them mid-mission.
And now I can do it again.
The tactical implications cascaded through my mind. Strike one target on Vermithor, switch to Silverwing for pursuit. Defend from two directions at once. Double my effective combat time by alternating rest periods.
Rhaenyra has more dragons total. But none of her riders can do what I can.
That's an advantage worth having.
Helaena joined me on the beach at sunset.
The dragons rested nearby—fed, content, recovering from the day's exertions. Their scales caught the dying light, turning bronze and silver into shimmering jewels.
"You have your power back," she observed.
"I do."
"What will you do with it?"
I'd been asking myself the same question all day.
"Nothing. Yet."
"That's not like you."
"No. But it's necessary." I looked at her—this woman who'd been queen, mother, prophet, and partner through everything. "Power unused is power preserved. Every time I fly, every time I fight, I risk losing what we've built here. The dragons. The children. You."
"You could strike at Rhaenyra. Burn her army. Kill her dragons while they're scattered."
"I could. And then what? She'd know where we are. She'd send everything she has to finish us. We'd win the battle and lose everything else."
Helaena considered this.
"So we keep waiting."
"We keep waiting. Building. Healing." I took her hand. "The moment will come. I'll know it when I see it."
"How will you know?"
"Because Rhaenyra will make a mistake. She's been fighting a war for over a year—she doesn't know how to rule a peace. The smallfolk who burned the Dragonpit don't suddenly love her because she declared herself queen. The lords who bent the knee are looking for the first sign of weakness."
"And when they find it?"
"We'll be ready."
Silverwing rumbled behind us—agreement, maybe. Or just the sound of a dragon at peace.
Helaena leaned against my shoulder.
"I hate waiting."
"You've mentioned that."
"I'll keep mentioning it until I don't have to wait anymore."
I smiled despite everything.
"Fair enough."
The sun finished setting. Darkness crept across the water. The dragons' scales faded from brilliance to shadow.
But they were still there. Still ours. Still dangerous.
When the moment came, we'd be ready.
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