The Princess & The Dragon

The Princess & The Dragon

By Sam Eggertson

“A pleasure to meet you… I am Lyra Ramgrin, daughter of Hiriam--”

“I know who your father was, Princess. Did he tell you who I am?”

She had known it could talk. Her father had explained that much. But she’d expected a booming voice. Instead, it spoke at a conversational tone that nonetheless resonated through its massive body and filled the room. It had crisp pronunciation, as if savoring every word that passed through its scaled lips. She even detected a slight Paradisi affectation, which was currently fashionable in court. She latched onto that detail. The spiraling morass of terror in her mind was recursive but this new piece of information to puzzle over gave her a focus. She imagined she was addressing a particularly intimidating courtier and she need to make a good impression. She gulped and made a courtesy. The broad rune carved axe, clutched in her hands made this awkward. She wasn’t wearing a skirt either, but she’d started the motion and had to finish it.

Lyra had not meant to find herself trading pleasantries with a dragon. She had intended to creep into its lair with a hired group of sell-swords and do some old-fashioned dragon slaying. She had played it all out in her head many times, in her room or at the table over dinner. It had never seemed easy, but not impossible. Now that she was standing transfixed, staring into the iridescent eyes; each one large enough that she lost herself in it entirely, stomach plummeting, legs refusing to obey her, she saw that for what it was -- idle fantasy.

Hunched down, the dragon was the size of a house. It had been still in its patience, waiting for her. She had been still, in her fear. Her training had fled her. The axe she held, magicked so it was sharp enough to cut stone and steel like a fish through water, it felt too heavy. Leaving her with nothing but improvisation to fall back on.

“I see things are comfortable enough that we can speak plainly with each other.” Lyra affected a coolness that she really didn’t feel.

“Well, Princess will you regale me with how you came to find yourself in my humble home? It’s been a long time since I’ve had such a distinguished visitor.”

Its voice filled the cavernous stone chamber. It was dark; what dim light there was, only made the shadows longer. The tunnels that had led her here had been broad, full of majestic statues of stoic dwarves, intricate carvings, and arched corridors of immense size. These pathways to an underground kingdom had been built to last by craftsmen who poured their attention and skill into every wall and tunnel. A fortress that now housed the creature that had almost certainly murdered the builders.

“Do you like what I’ve done with the place?” the dragon continued in a polite tone. The room Lyra was standing in had been a communal dining hall. Stone tables still remained, waiting for diners who would never again sit to their meal. Something moved beside her, and she strictly forbade herself to jump in fright. An iron brazier had been lit and a small scaly creature stared back at her. It yipped as it moved off and more braziers lit the darkness. She hadn’t even known these child-sized reptilian creatures were in the room. Her attention had been on the dragon, who, now fully lit, seemed even more impossibly over-sized for the room.

“It’s impressive. Forgive me for my rudeness, you are Ulvanion the Generous?”

“It is a safe assumption. There are no other dragons here but me. But why are you here?”

It was a fair question. Her plan had been unravelling from the moment she and the band of mercenary adventurers had gone underground. The grotesquely large vermin that surged out from the small side tunnels had been the first taste of what was in store. Ingenious traps followed, masterfully disguised pits, statues that breathed fire and stone doors that rolled closed at a misstep. She had been separated from them while they argued about treasure distribution. By torchlight she’d crept on slowly. Gradually the aching fear became dulled by exhaustion. She had taken tunnels at random, stopping only to smell the air and listen for the skittering of giant spiders or moss-covered rats the size of large dogs.

Her father had set this in motion as he spoke to her and her brother while dying in his bed, her mother gone two years past and it seemed the man could not go without her. Lyra felt like she’d barely begun wading through the grief of losing her mom when her father had taken ill. It hadn’t seemed real until she saw him lying in bed, unable to rise. He looked so small. His broad shoulders, bent and sunken in. But he could still speak, and he still had his sharp mind. Losing him would be a blow to the country, one which it might not survive.

Gaunt was a small kingdom and young, having only been established ninety-eight years ago. It had been founded by Lyra’s great-great grandfather, Siegfried Ramgrin, who had banded a group of families together to drive out the barbarians and savages who waged constant war in the valley. After a bloody five years of struggle Siegfried drove the last barbarian into the mountains. This was the brief history of Gaunt that every child knew. They could walk down streets and through fields chattering of the heroic battles that had won them. Or so Lyra had thought until her father had revealed more.

Siegfried had indeed founded the Kingdom of Gaunt, but he had had a silent partner. While exploring, her great-great grandfather had stumbled upon Ulvanion the dragon and instead of being devoured by the beast, had secured a loan from it. Enough to buy the loyalty necessary to win the wars that needed to be waged. Gaunt had enjoyed a birth time of peace until Siegfried’s son, Theodoric, was sent to renew the pact with the dragon. Ulvanion had been patient, and now it wanted a return on its investment. Gaunt was only rich in goats, swamps, and beautiful rolling hills, but Theodoric did what he could. He recognized that without the dragon’s gold, armaments from its hoard and other sundry help, the kingdom would be nothing more than a fantasy. So, he set about, in earnest, to pay back the dragon. Taxes were raised and a system to collect them was created. Before this, taxes had been little more than community leaders gathering up what people could spare to pay for needful projects, it was patchwork at best and no accountability at either end. Within the year there were tax collectors. By the next year, the tax collectors needed bodyguards. The payments began.

Lyra could see the string of mistakes and misjudgements that had lead men like Siegfried, Theodoric, and her grandfather Aelfstan to where she was now. They were honest men who had been agriculturists first and administrators second, toiling to keep their kingdom secure and expanding, with more land to be tilled. Gaunt was always dealing with the mountain tribes and raiders on the southern badlands. Both groups had swelled in numbers from the diaspora of barbarians ejected from Gaunt during Siegfried’s reign. There never seemed to be room to breath for the rulers of Gaunt. If the winters were too harsh, they could barely afford supplies to avert starvation. If the winters were mild, then they could expect four months of the plundering of the farther-flung settlements. So, they had borrowed from Ulvanion.

Which had brought them here, to her dying father, and the story of the debt he was about to pass to them. Lyra watched how her brother was receiving the news. He looked uncomfortable.

Though he was the eldest and the heir, her brother Baldric struggled in court. Give him a hare to shoot or a hind to hunt and he was in his element. Well-liked by his friends, he made just as many enemies with his temper. Lyra had never had the luxury of being allowed to shout and rage at obstinate but important nobles. That was considered unladylike and last time she had checked she had the wrong parts to act otherwise. Her parents had also paid for an expensive Paradisi education. This had included an education in ‘le jeu merveilleux,’ a fancy name for intrigue and manipulation.

Your average Gauntish citizen had little concern beyond getting off their crops, minding their goats and turning their harvest of sour prickle pears into a surprisingly tangy wine. In the pursuit of ‘taking care’ of these people, the crown’s duties had changed little in the ninety-eight years that the kingdom had existed. They kept them safe or at least tried to, or at least didn’t meddle so much they made things worse. Lyra had hoped an education in ‘gentle manipulation’ as the Paradisi termed it, might give her some niche skills.

She recounted a sanitized version of her story, one that she hoped would let her keep breathing a little longer. Her version left out haggling with adventurers and all talk of dragon slaying.

“Hiriam is passing then. It seems only yesterday he and his brother were standing right where you are. Such a pity your lives are so short, you can’t appreciate the little jokes the gods leave for us.” Ulvanion had listened politely, his unnerving gaze never wandering.

“My pardon, I don’t believe my father ever had a brother.”

“You remember that day better than I do then?” There was undercurrent in its tone that chilled her. She had been talking for long enough that she’d managed to steady her nerves. Now the hammer beat of her heart began again.

“I apologize, I must have left my manners in one of your tunnels.”

“It’s fine, you’re doing much better than your father did. At this point he’d already urinated on my floor and was making distressing noises.”

She could barely remember her father looking young. The image of him, younger than she was now, feeling the same terror as she, was unsettling.

“Oh yes, perhaps you aren’t of his seed? You have more of Haydon in you. He was clear eyed, with bloody intent, a shame.” The dragon craned forward, and she was swallowed up by a single yellow eye. It was all she could do to stand her ground. Its nostrils flared and dry air rushed around her, crawling across the bare flesh on her neck. It was smelling her.

“Yes, wouldn’t that be salacious? Hiriam horned by his younger brother. You have his eyes, so dark that I can’t see myself in them. And you’ve kept your fear on a leash thus far. You might even find the courage to raise that axe against me.” The dragon sat up and its head raised so it loomed above her. She remembered the axe, still clutched in her hand.

It was this close! That was your best chance. You should have been ready. But she hadn’t been, and the dragon had toyed with her.

“I would never dream of harming our kingdom’s generous benefactor.”

“Oh, that sent chills down my scales. How well you lie, Princess.”

“Then it is you who have forgotten your manners, a lady of Gaunt never lies!”

Lyra felt a warmth spread through her face and down her body as the hammer beat of her heart worked at its frantic pace. Somewhere in her rabbit brain the iron tones of her teacher Mademoiselle Vipère broke through. “To win the game ma chère, you must be fearless.”

The moment stretched on as she starred into the dragon’s inscrutable face. Then it began to make a reverberating rasp that echoed around her. It was laughing.

“Of course, my manners.”

“Yes, well, I see the stories of the hospitality of dragons aren’t worth the paper they’re written on. I’ve come a long way to discuss important matters and I haven’t even been offered a seat.” Her feet did hurt. She’d never worn her steel greaves for this long and the hours of marching through the tunnel had brutalized her toes. Her back hurt too. The breastplate she’d chosen was as light as a steel plate could be, but there was nothing comfortable about wearing armour for as long as she had.

Ulvanion led her to a wing of the dwarven hall. Whatever its original purpose it was now enclosed by bookshelves and an oaken desk, complete with an oil lamp and a stack of papers. It was arranged like a doll house owned by one who’d never sat at a desk to read or enjoyed an evening of wine and talk. Beside the desk was a grand mahogany chair with green velvet coverings that looked like it hadn’t been used a day after its creation. She collapsed into it without decorum or shame.

From where she sat, she could see the wall was covered in paintings. They ran all the way to the high ceiling and were all the same style--large canvas with a landscape or single subject that dominated the frame. One caught her eye because she knew it. Lukig Radilbass’ ‘Shadow over the Royal Road’ had been a hotly discussed piece of news in the art world for a few seasons. It had sold for an outrageous price and had elevated the obscure gnome painter to a household name. Flanking it to either side were two other paintings, rent down the middle, as if by massive claws. The only hint at what might have been the subject, was a pair of draconic wings that remained at the edge of the portrait. The placard with the artist’s name and title had been ripped off, scarring the stone behind it.

It was apparent to her that the artwork was the true focus of the room. They stood at odds with the existing dwarven stonework. The paintings were fresh and light, made by a people who counted their lifetime in decades and not centuries. They were important to the dragon thus important to her. As if sensing her thoughts Ulvanion stretched over a bookshelf to stare at Radilbass’ work.

“Is it not magnificent? The artist captured the subtlety of that moment. There is only the barest hint of the fate that awaits the caravan train.”

“I heard that Master Radilbass saw it from the nearby hill. He’d gotten lost and was trying to make his way back when he saw his parents and sixty other souls burned in an instant by a dragon.”

“There were seventy-three.”

“Then you must be better informed then I.”

“I counted. But I am well informed on many subjects Princess Lyra. I know you took a healthy amount of coin from the ailing treasury and used it to hire a group of adventurers to hunt a ‘dangerous beast’.” Lyra flinched under the mildly delivered accusation but kept her eyes on the paintings. “I would not expect to see those hirelings again. I keep a dangerous pit full of shiny baubles and fish the remains of adventurers out at least once every few months. Even among your short-lived kind I’ve seldom met a subgroup so enamored with dying for the sake of paltry treasure.” Ulvanion kept their tone polite and let the implications fill the silence.

After having heard her father’s story, and now, spoken to the creature for some time and taken in the décor, Lyra felt she had at least a working understanding of Ulvanion. It had her, her family and everyone in the valley firmly under its claws. Any question she asked was an excuse for it to show off how knowledgeable and erudite it was. But she couldn’t ask too many. The game between the words was one of reciprocation. If she could not keep the creature at least amused, then the game would be over, and she would lose. But playing not to lose was just losing slowly.

“I needed an audience with you, and I heard the way here was dangerous. You certainly take your privacy seriously.”

“It screens guests who aren’t serious about meeting me.”

“You’ve left me little choice. The crown and all of Gaunt is in an untenable position. I am here to negotiate an agreeable re-structuring of our deal.”

“The deal is agreeable to me already. But go ahead, negotiate.” Its rasping laugh grated against her skin.

So, she tried. She laid out the points she could scrabble together and thought they might hold water. Displaying her knowledge of mercantilism, she talked of the fashionable pottery and furs that Gaunt had begun to manufacture. How that could grow if they had a reprieve from the debt. How they could expand their army and build towers and forts to warn of the raiders, saving crops and lives. As she talked it all stretched out in her minds eye.

The beautiful sunrises of Gaunt framed by the snow-capped mountain ranges, like an ocean of purple and orange light weaving through pillars of sheer grey mottled granite. And if you went to tip of Patience Hill you could look to the west and see the Rhymirean Ocean stretch out like a dappled mirror. She remembered watching sunsets there, the water danced with the fading light. She’d sat and watched with her mother, then later her husband. Those were her moments that she clung to. They were her cornerstones, a reminder of the fleeting beauty that waltz through her waking moments. Her mother and husband were both gone now. Some days Gaunt did not seem beautiful. She looked out and it was a stinking marsh, growing wild as it fed on the bones of people she loved, buried in a land soaked in blood. In truth the land was both. It was beautiful and terrible, and she was deeply in love with it. But she could not seem a sentimental romantic in her bargaining. Nevertheless, as her throat ran dry with the dust, she drew deep from the wellspring of her own heart. She was a Ramgrin, her ancestors had moved stone and earth to make a kingdom. She would move this dragon.

“I have been places and learned things none of my family ever had the opportunity to. As queen, and with a reprieve from our debt, I can bring culture and prosperity to this land.”

Ulvanion was quiet. As the silence dragged on, she felt the anxiety that had been temporarily lifted, thread its hooks back into her. “Well, what do you think?”

“I think I was wrong about you.”

“Really?”

“Yes. You’re the least amusing of your lineage. I wish you’d just tried your hand at the axe from the beginning and spared me your prattle.” Ulvanion fixed her with a baleful eye, and she felt the force of it pressing her down.

“If I’ve offended…

“You’re every word is an offense. How could it be otherwise? Imagine if a talking rat burrowed into your home and then began squeaking out demands. Your family has always had the audacity to feel entitled to what is mine. At least your forebearers provided me some entertainment.” Venom dripped with every word. A gout of flame puffed out of its nostrils as its voice rose, the force of sound battering against Lyra.

“You are nothing and have nothing. Your brother has a stronger claim to the throne. Your kingdom only grows more wretched and destitute now that the port of Kresock has been taken by pirates. Enemies encircle you, tightening the coils around. Let me kill you here and spare you watching barbarians drink from the skulls of people you should have protected. Just as they did with your mate. You are barren of womb, widowed of husband, fighting to preside over the rotting corpse of this ‘kingdom.’”

“My family have ruled with tireless determination and benevolence.” Lyra felt anger rise within her, cutting through her fear. This creature had taken advantage of them. They were pastoral farmers not bookkeepers. It was clear that Ulvanion the ‘Generous’ charged interest however it pleased. How were they to demand an accurate sum from a creature that could incinerate them on a whim? They were living off the goodwill of a monster.

It only intensified its rasping laughter.

“Your family, benevolent? I elevated Siegfried to king because it was funny. He was the basest creature I’d ever met. A thieving, conniving, brute who took the dwarves’ gold to help reclaim their kingdom. Then turned around and betrayed them to me for a pittance. Then what a gratifying time followed. Half a decade of slaughtering all the non-humans in the valley, raping the women, and spiking their whelps. It then gave me an endless supply of theatre, watching the survivors of those your kin tried to exterminate, burning, and pillaging into the valley in retribution, decade after decade. Why would I ever want to help you put an end to that?”

“That can’t be true!”

“Not true? Because some drunk goat farmer made a song about ‘Siegfried the Liberator’ that rhymed well enough for all your knuckle-dragging ilk to remember it? What of your grandfather, Princess? What of Aelfstan’s so called peaceful reign?”

“My father told me everything. That’s why I am here, these affairs cannot continue as they have!”

******

Hiriam had told her of the fraught middle years of their kingdom. The dragon had been ever generous giving out loans and began to offer services beyond gold. The dragon would keep the kingdom safe from the constant ravages of the mountain tribes, plains raiders and even the Novsburgian freebooters that reaved across the canal. They took the offer.

It was like night and day, or so her father said. Years of peace and safety. But the cost was staggering. Paying a dragon to keep their borders was not cheap. They could have paid for all her schooling in Brecilia five times over and still had some left over. But compared with the price of the lives saved, homes left standing, and not having to count how many children made it back at the end of the day, seemed worth it. So, their debt grew. It grew to the point that they could barely meet the yearly tithes. But Ulvanion was ‘generous.’ Instead of gold, the dragon accepted goods. When those could not be spared it accepted livestock. But when those ran low, there was a problem.

In Aelfstan’s reign a string of bad harvests hit the kingdom. Locusts plagued the fields. Then there was a flux that ran through the goats. Then the next year a rot took root in the vegetables. But it was the wildfire the year after that had rebellion on everyone’s lips. Aelfstan had already been giving away a third of what the Kingdom produced. He couldn’t afford the dragon’s protection any longer and the raiding had resumed. That’s when the dragon had made an offer. To take people instead.

“I barely suggested it and he was like a dog in heat with the idea.”

Lyra remembered sitting bolt upright at her father’s bedside.

“He said no, right? Grandpapa saw that the monster had been stringing him along and put a stop to it?” Lyra hadn’t meant to raise her voice but her brother, Baldric, had shushed her, glancing around the King’s bedroom-turned-sick chamber.

“It was not that simple, dear. Aelfstan was faced with a terrible decision. The people were starving; he had no money to buy food for them and half the noble families were openly against him. At any moment they could have come and ripped me and your grandmother from our beds and had us strung up.” Her father spoke as if this was moral parable that she was failing to grasp.

“He could have told them about Ulvanion!”

“To what end? He needed the dragon’s gold still.” She could see Baldric nodding along to this as if it was the most reasonable thing in the world.

“But…”

“Enough! I don’t have much time left. While I have the strength you must listen. A good ruler takes care of his subjects. The Ramgrins have made the best…” Whatever her father had been about to say was broken by a body racking cough. While it lasted, she watched him hug himself like a small child.

The dragon watched her face. “Aelfstan sat where you sit now, droning on and on about the plight of his people. Then he whined about a rebellion. As if I was responsible for his weakness and incompetence. As if he was entitled more of my gold for nothing.”

Lyra clamped down her response. With a sinking feeling she realized too late a mistake she’d made. Well, she’d made a lot of mistakes. But there was a strategy to trying to out talk an adversary. And surprisingly it involved doing as little talking as possible. She’d been scared and the sound of her own voice had been soothing. She again heard Mademoiselle Vipère’s disappointed sigh as if she was in the room, “Fearless.” She hadn’t been, she had talked and talked, letting Ulvanion get the measure of her. Giving it plenty of her words to throw back in her face. All she could do was try and turn it about now. “What did he do?”

“Oh, he pretended at being shocked. Made half hearted speeches about the responsibility of his station.” Ulvanion paced about, a puff of sulphurous air blew from its nostrils, and she did her best not to gag from the stench. “He talked himself into it in the end. I threw him a bone; I offered to only eat the ‘bad ones.’ He sat at that very desk there, sweating, crying, and writing out all the names for me to take. It was just so convenient that all were of his enemies, rivals and owners of land he coveted.”

“Was that satisfying? Seeing him compromise his values?” Lyra tried to keep her voice steady, she forced an almost playful tone. As if they were discussing some interesting bit of weather.

“It was at first. Though the sport grew tiresome after a time. I had to misread a few names here and there to make him remember I wasn’t doing him a service.” Ulvanion replied in a thoughtful tone, as if he hadn’t considered the question before.

“How can the people of Gaunt pay tribute to you if you eat them? Wouldn’t it make you richer in the long run to let them live and work?”

“I enjoy that form of tribute.”

“How can you be satisfied with this arrangement?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you’re clearly a cultured dragon. You have these paintings, books, I saw well crafted sculptures, and casks of fine Shimmerayn wine. What keeps you here? We have none of those fine things to give you.” Lyra watched the dragon’s eyes dilate and it look up to the roof of the vast cavern. Its eyes strayed to the torn paintings in such a slight way that someone untrained might have missed it.

“I enjoy my privacy. I can bring those things from elsewhere. Nothing is beyond my reach if I desire it.” Ulvanion did look at her. Instead, each sentence dragged out as if unrelated to the last.

“If you desire it. But if you stay here, how can you know what you want? These sculptures for example, rough bronze with overstated features was in vogue when my father was a child.” Ulvanion whirled on her. She felt the heat as fire puffed out and over her head. It held her in its gaze for what felt like a long time. Then its rasping laugh returned.

“Now you seek to bait me, interesting. Do you think I’d just fly off and leave the considerable debt you owe me, untended to?”

“I would never have thought it. I dreamt something far more interesting. What’s thirty years to you? To such a powerful and long lived being as yourself, it couldn’t seem significant?”

“Get to your point. You are not an angler, and I am not a fish. I’ve eaten more important people for trying my patience less.” The dragon had moved closer, its neck craning over the bookshelf till it fell. The sound made her start and she flinched.

“I only meant to suggest that… If Gaunt was given time, free of the payments to you, we might produce artists, singers, actors, and goods. You’d have amusement and diversion right at hand.”

With the dragon so close she could now appreciate its scales. They were a marvel, they looked so strong, each like a plate of steel, which flexed without leaving any gaps. She saw no weakness there. But there was something in the room or in the beasts’ words that she could find. If she was clever enough. If she could put those pieces together.

Though Ulvanion was using its vast pool of information to hurt her, somewhere beneath the raw sadness she felt a morbid satisfaction. She knew the truth, about the country’s genocidal founding and about her grandfather’s abominable deal. If she could escape this chamber, she might be able to treat the symptoms now that she knew the disease.

“Dragon, forgive a blunt question but what makes you so eager to avoid a deal with me? You cut a deal with Siegfrid and Aelfstan when neither was in a strong position. It strikes me that you like to win these deals and enjoy watching your work from afar. Why not send me off with some false hope, so you can dash it later?” Lyra took care to take her time with this question. She wanted the dragon to know was not an idle one. Ulvanion reared back and surveyed her. It turned and spoke in a hissing language she could not understand. One of its yipping reptilian servants rushed off and returned, staggered under the massive goblet it was carrying. Another two were rolling a barrel of wine over to the dragon’s feet.

“Because you ask questions like that. It’s a simple relationship between my kind and lesser races. You either serve me or try futilely to slay me. I have contempt for but tolerate the former and give brief but grudging respect for the latter. But you simply don’t know your place; you think to use flattering questions to negotiate with me? I invented, then perfected flattery. I’ve undone emperors and viziers with my ancient cunning. My plots and designs span centuries. You would not negotiate terms with a goat, would you?” Ulvanion hissed at his servant’s clumsy attempts to fill his wine goblet as they spilled as much as they filled.

“If a goat could talk and it made minding the flock easier, sure, why not?” Lyra brushed off her travelling cloak, letting the dust of field and road swirl in the dry cave air. She walked over and snapped her fingers at the creatures. Then she had them hold the barrel while she opened the spigot, and the sweet burgundy filled the goblet to the brim. She heard Ulvanion making a noise she thought might be more laughter or even more snorts of annoyance. She looked up in time to see the dragon convulse and whip its head to the side. A stream of liquid fire exploded from its nostrils. She froze in surprise, the three servants yipped and hopped away. Ulvanion let out three more blasts of fire. The room was silent after except for a labored wheezing that she realized was coming for the dragon. It turned to her, its enormous eyes rimmed with red and squinted.

“You came through the Grunding Brackenwoods!” It wheezed out in an accusatory voice. Lyra almost burst out laughing there. She put her hands up in a sign of peace. It shouldn’t have been that funny, but she had hours and days of tension in her body that was coming out like steam from a kettle. The dragon was glaring at her and rubbing its eyes as she wiped tears from her own.

“I am sorry, but… you’re allergic to Ragthistle aren’t you?”

“I am! And now you’ve brought it in and gotten it everywhere! You are a pest of the highest order.”

“It’s just funny because, I thought you and I had nothing in common, but I can’t stand the stuff either.”

“Yet you’re covered in it and cut through a field of it!” Ulvanion’s voice had gone nasal, and its deep reverberating quality had become peevish as it accused her again.

“My lord, my dragonship, Ragthistle is an incredibly common allergy in Gaunt. I go to an apothecary, and they make up a potion for it. Throughout the kingdom we make it a habit of clearing the stuff in well travelled areas. Grunding Brackenwoods is left untouched by royal pain of death because you use it as a game preserve. How can you enjoy hunting beasts when you’re allergic to the field?” She tried to resist pressing her luck, but it was hard.

“Very carefully.” Ulvanion sounded almost sullen.

“I have with me, just such a potion. I would be more than happy to pour it in your wine, if we’re allergic it stands to reason the same remedy could help us both.”

“You’d poison me!”

“I can’t strike a deal with you if you sneeze on me and burn me to a crisp.” She kept her tone light and playful. But I will poison you scum-sucking lizard. Not today, but I will.

She talked as she poured the ‘Red-eyed Relief’ in Ulvanion’s wine—and took a sip. The dragon watched her with suspicion. She was pushed away by its claw, and it stooped over the goblet, snuffling through congested nostrils. It dipped a claw and tasted. Then another racking sneeze came, and it incinerated one of the landscape portraits. It looked surveying the damage and she could almost see its shoulders slump. Then it downed the wine with guzzling abandon. She kept chattering away.

“…And I can have farmers out there two days from now clearing out the Ragthistle. And those animals you’ve collected, half of them have the mange or some other ailment. I can have them quarantined and treated before autumn. And regular shipments of tincture for a generous patron like yourself is of course no problem. But why stop there? Once we’ve taken back the port of Kresock, I’ll see about importing some more challenging beasts for you. Perhaps a herd of Dire Stags or a few cunning Frost Foxes.” She could barely repress a grin. She hadn’t won, there were so many hurdles in front of her. But it was her first piece of leverage.

“Enough! You’ve demonstrated you can provide one, singular, miniscule service to me. We are not partners and your familiar tone reeks of desperation.”

“But I can be useful. What do you get by killing me and seeing my brother crowned? More of the same as the kingdom continues falling apart. Aren’t you bored of that by now?” Lyra felt she had to press hard.

“Let’s talk about brothers for a moment, shall we, Princess? You don’t know of your uncle Haydon because the two brothers, your uncle and your father, came here, like you, to kill me. And Hiriam, on being told that only one brother would be allowed to leave our interview, knocked Hayden flat and all but served him on a platter to me. The moment a clutch hatches, they are born rivals. Only the strongest or the most cunning survives.”

Lyra shouldn’t have been surprised or hurt by anything the dragon could throw at her. But she was. The other revelations had been long enough in the past that they didn’t seem fully real. But her father?

As Ulvanion enjoyed her discomfort, she felt a numbness spread within her. And she had an idle thought. About the painting on the wall, the ones it had torn up. And why was Ulvanion in Gaunt? Why did it remain so hidden away and secretive? She sensed rather than knew the answer. She could still win the game.

Be fearless.

“Which were you then? Strong or cunning?” Lyra returned the dragon’s burning stare.

“This is over. I have a final offer for you, take it and leave with your life. I will give you ten years of clemency on the kingdom’s debt if you bring me your brother Baldric. But you have to watch.” The dragon had leaned in close. She wished she hadn’t left the axe by the chair.

“That’s really a great offer and I don’t want you to be mad but, let me counter…” Lyra trailed off as Ulvanion snapped alert, its puffy, red-rimmed eyes dilating. She turned to follow its gaze as the first arrow ripped through the dragon’s wing.

“Princess! We’re here to save you!” Her adventurers had arrived.

The dragon moved with an alacrity that seemed impossible for its size. Like a cat after a mouse, it sprang across the room to meet the shouting invaders. War cries, screams, roars, and the muttering of spells being slung, filled the air.

Queen Lyra Ramgrin summoned all the strength she had. Plus, some she had to acquire. The power to make right the atrocities that her family had perpetrated, the power to bring justice for the people Aelfstan had sold to the dragon. The power to honor the memory of an uncle who had died here, alone and abandoned.

“Stop fighting you idiots!” Her voice boomed through the hall as she felt her own body vibrate with the force of it. She rounded the bookshelf to see both adventurers and dragon frozen in a tableau, looking back at her.

“You! As your employer and Queen of Gaunt, I command that you exit this chamber at once.” She stared at the motley but formidable group of sell-swords she’d enlisted.

“But, your highness, the dragon is…”

“Currently engaged with me in negotiations. Now do not make me repeat myself.”

They backed uneasily towards the chamber entrance. One of them was bleeding and needed to be helped from the room. The dragon’s forearm had been gouged and an arrow was wedged in the scales of its cheek. She doubted the adventurers would have won but Ulvanion didn’t strike her as a creature that enjoyed a fair fight.

“Ulvanion, this is my counter. If you don’t like it, I can send them back in. They might not win, but I think it’s going to be unpleasant for you to find that out. I also think there’s a reason why you’re in hiding. I think it has to do with those paintings you tore up. They were of dragons, well known, infamous and terrible dragons. Maybe relatives of yours?” Lyra paused there and stared at her host intently. “I am right, aren’t I? That’s why you’re playing out your drama of betrayal over and over. You had some falling out and now you’re hiding here, working through your issues, using us as props. This isn’t healthy and you need to find a constructive outlet. I am not letting you eat my brother or anyone else for that matter. That’s over with.”

Lyra let the silence hang as the dragon broke it with another of its echoing laughs.

“Just when I was beginning to like you, Princess. If you’re not going to feed me your brother, why should I work with a screeching harpy and not your affably dumb sibling?”

“We don’t have to like each other. I think you’re a monster for the things you’ve done to my people. But our hands are just as stained and we’re just as culpable. Even if you kill me, those adventurers will talk. And your family will find you. And that’s not good for either of us. I don’t want more dragons in my backyard. And you certainly don’t want that kind of reunion. Back me, I’ll keep your secret and we can work together. Worst case, you get to sit back and enjoy watching me fail.”

Lyra felt like Mademoiselle Vipère would be proud of her. The dragon was an old player and wouldn’t let her rest on her laurels. She would have to deal with her dragon problem sooner rather than later. But those were later problems.

“Things can be better for you, or at least more amusing. Or much, much worse,” Lyra took a deep breath and realized that she was no longer feigning fearlessness. “What do you say?”

Ulvanion plucked the arrow out of its face and inclined its head at her and dripping with sarcasm but something else as well.

“It seems all I can say is, long live the Queen.”