The forest goes on and on. In the morning Charles thought it rather beautiful but long after leaving Elsie, he begins to tire of the endless trees, the shafts of afternoon sun breaking through them. He longs to leave the sheltering trees and to feel the sun full on his face.

He is tired of the road.

There is something terrible waiting at the end of it. My wish should be to stay in the Great Forest forever, no matter how much I miss a view without trees.

He tries not to think of Elsie, as it is unlikely he will ever see her again, but she is far more pleasant to think of than the dragon. He wonders how large her family is and how they live. The forest can certainly provide all their needs – there are many sorts of plants and of course plenty of wood to build a home, and to make fires. And there are plenty of animals, too. Squirrels and rabbits and deer and badgers and beavers. The tributaries of Chatterer have fish. Birds are plentiful.

From the way Elsie shot her bow, she would have no trouble getting food for her family.

The sunlight is beginning to slant its way through the trees off to his right when Charles is aware of something different. At first he cannot think of what it is.

"Whoa," he pulls on the reins, and Ernest stops. Charles looks around and sees nothing different. Then he realizes what has changed.

The Great Forest has gone silent.

There are no more squirrels fighting on tree branches or the rustle of leaves as rabbits scurry home. Looking up, Charles cannot see any birds. There is not one sound of a bird anywhere. The silence is unnatural.

The hair on the back of his neck stands up.

Animals would stay well away from the dragon.

Though he sees no end to the trees in front of him, he dismounts Ernest. Slinging his bow and quiver over his shoulder, he removes his sword and shield from the bundle. His sword is in a plain scabbard. Charles had left the gilded one in Robert's keeping. His shield, with his family emblem of a castle and dog, has several notches in it and badly needs polishing. He brushes it off, thinking of Downton, before putting it on his back.

If I die, it doesn't matter if it's clean or not. If I live, it can always be done later.

Half pulling his sword from the scabbard, he grips the hilt, thinking of the family he's got left: his mother; Robert; Cora; Mary and Edith; and his sister Rosamund. She is married and lives far to the south in Grantham. Her words are usually sharp but in her last letter to him she revealed a rare softness.

I want to honor them. Avenge Father.

Wearing his sword at his side, he takes Ernest's bridle and leads him forward along the road. "I'll not ride you to the dragon," he murmurs, patting his four legged friend. "I don't want you to see it. More to the point, I don't want it to see you. But I would like to have your company for a little while longer."

Walking through the silent forest, Charles can hear himself breathing. It gives him little comfort. The farther he goes, the closer he gets to his quest, the more frightened he feels. He does begin to hear a quiet bubbling of water off to his left, yet another one of Chatterer's streams. It cheers him a little.

Not long after first hearing the stream, he sees a man standing on the left side of the road. The man wears chain mail and carries a sword. When he sees Charles, he turns and yells into the trees behind him.

"Nat! Come!"

Unsheathing his sword, he steps into the road, blocking Charles's way.

"Who are you, and why are you this far north in Dalrida?"

The man's voice is firm and he holds his sword like one who knows how to use it, Charles thinks. He has a beard that needs trimming, and on closer inspection, looks like he has been sleeping on the ground for days.

"My name is Charles. I seek to kill the dragon," Charles says, looking him in the eye. He puts a hand on his own sword hilt. "Who are you?"

The man doesn't move. "I am Hugh, Marquess of Flintshire." His eyes are sunken in his face. "Servant of Queen Elspeth, and charged by her Grace to stay close to the dragon to mark its progress, and to warn anyone going near it. If you seek to kill the creature, then I must tell you that your quest is likely to fail."

"Likely," Charles says, "But not doomed." He is not sure he believes his own words.

Hugh stares at him a moment, then lowers his sword. "We shall see."

Another man, clad in a simple tunic and carrying a string of flopping fish, bursts from the bushes behind Hugh. "You called, milord?" He stops, seeing Charles. "Oh."

"Another one, Nat," Hugh says.

"Then the dragon'll have two good meals today," Nat stares at Charles grimly. His brown beard is wilder than Hugh's. "I'd turn back if I were you, stranger. It already killed a knight earlier, along with the horse he was riding-"

"-which was a great pity. That horse was worth twice the fool who rode him," Hugh says, a glint of anger in his eyes. "I hate to see an animal harmed because of a man's arrogance-"

"And the dragon would be happy to have another morsel to play with," Nat goes on. "It ate the man and horse quickly, from what we can tell. It'll be wanting something more interesting. Or it'll start burning the Forest again."

"The dragon killed a knight? Today?" Charles asks, taking his hand off his sword hilt. His heart sinks.

Sir Philip…

The man is (or was) an arrogant fool. But there is no comfort in knowing the dragon claimed another life.

"We think he was a knight. He wore a full set of armor and carried a sword. We heard him coming," Hugh points with his sword to the road. "When he rode up, I tried to stop him. To warn him that the dragon watched the road. That anyone wearing armor in front of it will only cause it to attack, but he didn't listen. He galloped right past, yelling that we'd thank him later."

"He nearly rode over you, milord," Nat shakes his head angrily. He hangs the line of fish over a rope between two trees. "About a minute later we heard an almighty roar. The trees shook, and we held our breath. But we didn't hear anything after that. We waited for a long time, then got as close to the edge of the Forest as we dared to see what happened. It was the same old story…the dragon, gnawing on a bone. One of the horse's, I think. An empty suit of armor, blackened and smoking, added to the pile of old armor, and all the other broken weapons of those who've fought it and lost."

"I see." Charles remembers the pile Nat speaks of. The only reason his father's sword (which is now his) wasn't added to it is because he had been with his father the last time the older man had challenged the dragon, and he had managed to save it.

I would have thrown it away, if I could've saved Father from the pox instead.

"Are you still determined to fight the dragon today?" Hugh asks. Charles blinks, and stands up straight.

"I am. I must." He pats Ernest. "If you are willing, I will leave my friend here with you. If I don't come back…please let him go. He can find his own way home."

Hugh and Nat glance at each other. Nat comes forward and pats Ernest. "We will, sir…we have our own horses here. Yours is a fine animal...he'd thank you for not taking him to the dragon, if he could speak."

"Stay here for a little while then, at least," Charles says to Ernest. "If this is farewell, then goodbye. You have been a good friend." Ernest nudges him, his ears drooping, and to clear the lump in his throat, Charles turns back to the marquess. "There's some cheese and a little bread left in my bundle. And a water skin. It's all yours."

"Thank you. We would be glad to eat something other than fish for once, wouldn't we, Nat?"

"We would indeed, thank you," Nat says, his eyes brightening.

"Not many peasants carry shields with them. Are you a knight?" Hugh asks Charles.

Pretending to adjust his bow, Charles looks away. "No. I'm just a man. To the dragon, everyone who faces it looks the same, anyway."

"Very true."

"Since the dragon is watching the road, do you know of another way for me to get to it? I'd like to try and surprise it if I can," Charles says, hoping Hugh doesn't ask him any more questions.

No one else will face the dragon in my stead. I must do it.

The Marquess raises his eyebrows. "We do know a way. More than one. Nat will show you." Hugh holds out his hand, and Charles shakes it. "Good luck to you."

"Thank you." Charles follows Nat through a narrow slit in the bushes. The trees are closer together but there is a path just wide enough for them to walk single file.

"Have you or his Lordship fought the dragon?" Charles asks.

"We've both fought it once, separate times," Nat says. "But the queen ordered that we not fight it anymore. We're just to keep watch on it, that way we can warn others if it decides to go somewhere else. We've already tracked it south four times now."

"Four times," mutters Charles.

It is a wonder there's anything left of Dalrida.

After a short time, Nat stops and crouches down. "I think we'd better crawl from here."

Charles imitates him, holding his bow and quiver so as not to lose any arrows. The ground is warm and soon he's pouring with sweat. His shield digs into his back and his sword keeps hitting his hip. When the path widens, he catches up to Nat and crawls beside him. They crawl for what seems like a long time. Finally, Nat slows down.

"How much further?" Charles whispers. He rubs sweat off the side of his face.

"Not far now."

They keep going. Charles's knees ache. Thinking of Elsie he asks, "Have you led others to the dragon this way?"

"Only a few. Most of those who've ridden past us on the road don't stop to ask if there's another way."

An acrid, burned smell reaches Charles's nose, along with a strong scent of iron. Light pours down in front of him and Nat, breaking through the trees.

Stopping, Nat turns and gestures with his head forward. There, he mouths.

Charles takes a deep breath and lays flat on the ground. He crawls past Nat, his chin hitting the ground. It's no longer covered with dirt, but ash. He resists the urge to cough. Broken stumps and shattered remains of branches are scattered everywhere. Worse is the horrid tangle of sharp thorns that rise several feet above the ground. Charles balls his hands into fists, trying to protect himself, but the thorns tear into his knuckles. They snag his hair and tunic, cutting his skin. He bites his lips to keep from crying out.

He kneels in order to see above the thorns.

And immediately he ducks back down, cutting his chin.

It's bigger than I remembered.

Its hideous wings flutter slightly over its huge body, the red veins visible. The dragon pushes its dark green snout, large as a goat, into a pile of bones next to it. In doing so, it turns its head, and Charles sees a gash and an empty hole where its left eye used to be.

Continuing to push through the bones, it gets to its feet, its massive claws pawing through the pile.

Despite his pain, Charles sits down. He knows he only has one shot before he's seen. He slings his quiver back over his shoulder, drawing an arrow.

God help me.

He notches the arrow against his bow and he stands up. A soft wind brushes through his curls. Nat has done well, and led him to be downwind of the dragon. His knees crack but he ignores it. His vision is focused on the red dot – the dragon's right eye –

Move again…turn your head…turn...TURN…

It does. He aims, lets out a breath, and shoots the arrow in the same motion.

Not waiting to see if he's hit the mark, he pelts around the dragon, moving faster than he's ever done in his life. Every step is both a step and a half jump to keep himself from snagging on thorns, and his heart is in his throat, waiting, waiting…

A piercing roar breaks out on his right.

Charles cannot understand its speech, but its meaning seems clear.

It smells me. Remembers me. Wearing other clothes hasn't fooled it-

Get around it get around it GET AROUND IT

He reaches the dragon's side as it's turning around. Charles moves with it, keeping himself as close to it as he can. He flings out his hands – they hit smooth scales and bounce off- there's nothing for him to grab hold of- he tries again- the dragon's side cascades in- it's taking a deep breath to either breathe its poisonous breath out, or fire at him-

Then one of his flailing hands grabs a spike rising from the dragon's back. He clutches it with all his might, and feels himself rising off the ground.

The beast below him jerks one way, then the other, and the sky seems to swivel from above him to one side. The earth turns over. The dragon bucks and spreads its wings, taking flight, twisting in the air. Its howling is deafening.

His own shouts are drowned out. More than once the dragon nearly throws him off, but he keeps himself on its back, by grabbing one of its spikes, and constantly moving to find a better handhold. It is painstaking work, like climbing one of the mountains near Downton.

Only I have never had to climb a mountain that had lifted from the earth! Or was trying to throw me off!

The dragon twirls in midair. Charles's bow and arrow slips from his shoulder and falls to the earth. The rest of his arrows fly away. Following them, the dragon plunges down at a speed that makes Charles feels as though his belly is trying to escape through his mouth.

When the dragon and its unwelcome rider hit the earth, the collision jars Charles's whole body. He feels how fragile he is, and for a few moments is even glad to feel the dragon scales around him: they're something solid, anyway.

Then the huge body beneath Charles seems to disappear. He's sliding off it, and he clings desperately to a spike, aware of what it's trying to do, and he knows he has to avoid being crushed-

He lets go only a few feet from the ground and rolls (as best one can roll) through horrendous thorns. The dragon slams itself with all its might upon its back. The ground shudders. The dragon gives out an ear-splitting shriek. Charles smiles a little at the thought that his enemy only succeeded in hurting itself.

He hurls himself at it again, grabbing another spike as it gets up. This time he manages to climb higher. He pushes his boots against two of the spikes, jumping higher, and flings his arms around the dragon's neck. It roars and roars and shakes itself like a dog just out of the bath. It is even worse than the dizzying ride in the sky. No tree he's ever climbed in a high wind, no spooked horse, has ever flung Charles about like this. He feels like a tiny ship cast into the sea in a storm. Once, the dragon raises its head, its snout pointed at the sky, and Charles finds himself dangling from its neck, the thorn-entangled ground a frightening drop below. Anger surges through him.

"You're not throwing me off!" He bellows at it. "Today you're MINE!"

The dragon pitches itself forward on all fours so suddenly that he almost flips over its snout. Just in time, he grabs one of the spikes on its forehead. Now he's lying on his back with his arms above his head, and the dragon opening and shutting its hideous snout between his legs.

He never knows how he does it, but he flips over, and seats himself right there on the dragon's snout, facing it. Drawing his sword, he sees the red eye smoldering at him. His arrow is embedded in between it and its dead companion, lodged in an ugly wound with a purple scab.

Where the sapphire used to be.

There's no time to think. Charles leans forward and stabs the dragon's eye. Hot blood bubbles out of it, and the dragon lets out a scream Charles is certain can be heard in Grantham. His head rings. Wrenching his sword out of the dragon's eye, he feels himself slipping, but this time he cannot stop himself from falling.

Fortunately, as the dragon is on all fours, the drop is not so bad. The thorns, however, are, and Charles feels one tear into his leg, and another rip into his back, near his left shoulder. He screams in pain. Even as he does so he sees the dragon turning his way, its snout opening, flames visible far back in its throat-

"No!" he gasps. The dragon roars, blasting him with fire-

-or it would have, had he not gotten his shield off his back and put it in front of him. Dragon flame sizzles against his shield, and Charles yells, feeling the heat of it blister his arm.

Hobbling on his bad leg, his shoulder not wanting to support his shield arm, he forces himself to move. It doesn't matter much where he goes; the blinded dragon is now breathing fire in every direction. The thorns are ablaze. Everything hurts, and he gets violently sick, all the while beating out sparks on his tunic to keep himself from being burned alive. He smothers flaming cinders in his hair with his shield.

Exhausted, Charles stumbles, falling onto his knees onto a burning hot pile. His boot slips on something that isn't thorns. Vaguely he sees what's beneath him: husks of armor, broken spears, blackened chain mail. The remnants of weapons of those who have fought the dragon before.

I'm sorry, Father. I tried. I tried to avenge you and King Stefan. But I cannot do this. It's too hard.

I will see you soon.

Robert will be king.

I will never see Mary or Mama again…

The dragon sniffs, turning its hideous head towards Charles. It comes closer to him. So close he can see its blood oozing from its right eye. An evil grin lights up its face, as if it can see Charles looking up at it, utterly defeated.

It stands at its full height, towering over him. The flames burn closer to the pile of old weapons. Heat rises through metal, searing Charles's boots, forcing him to stand, hopping from one foot to the other. At least he will die on his feet.

"I believe you can defeat the dragon, Charlie."

Elsie's voice is so clear his heart leaps and he looks around, sure she is there. She is not. But in the surrounding flames he finds what is left of his courage.

We only just met today. And yet your faith in me hasn't wavered, even when mine has.

He raises his shield, the pain in his shoulder be damned, and points his sword at the dragon's face. It is breathing in, its chest expanding, ready to blast him with fire.

"You foul monster!" He roars, his voice cracking. "Your reign of fear and dread is over!"

With the last of his strength, he hurls his sword like a spear at the dragon. His aim is true, and his sword rips through fragile skin and pierces the dragon's heart.

With a scream louder than before, the dragon curls its claws towards its wound, as though it would claw out the sword like a scab. It gives one last ear-splitting shriek, and its flames die in its throat. It falls backwards, shaking the ground, engulfing the flames beneath it.

The dragon lies still, surrounded by flaming thorns. A puff of white smoke from its open snout drifts away and dissipates in the wind. There is a long silence. Even the crackling flames burning through the thorns is quieter than before.

Charles wipes his mouth on his tunic sleeve. The ringing in his ears subsides until he can hear the whisper of the breeze. He edges closer and closer to the dragon, warily.

Holding his breath, he grabs his sword and pulls it out of the dragon. His sword drips with dragon's blood, purple to the hilt. He stabs around the heart of the creature to cut it out. The dragon heart is as large as one of the doors leading into Downton's great hall. It takes a long time for Charles to get it out, but he finally does.

Only when this is done is he certain.

It's dead. I killed it.

I did not do it alone. Others did their part and made mine easier... I just finished it.

It's DEAD.

There is a strange thumping as he turns from pushing the hideous heart onto the last of the burning thorns with his shield. His own heart leaps into his mouth. The dragon's tail flops up and down. Then he remembers.

"The sapphire," he mutters. Going around the dead carcass, he stomps onto the tail to keep it still, and brings his sword down. He expects to take more than one attempt to sever the dragon's tail, but to his astonishment it feels like slicing through soft butter. The tail springs from the dragon's body, coiling away like some snake trying to hide in tall grass. Charles jumps on it. He jams his sword beneath one side of the sapphire, and it comes out easily. It's the size of a loaf of bread and ten times as heavy. He sets it down on his bloody, blackened shield.

All at once his legs give out. But even as he rolls onto his back on the pile of broken weapons, he starts laughing. He can't stop. He laughs until he cries.

He is bloody, bruised and burned…but he is alive.

Smoke from the flames is drifting away; the fire has gone out. The clouds above him blush orange and pink in the light of the setting sun. The first star of the evening appears.

He has never seen a sky look more beautiful.

I am ALIVE.

Tiredness is overtaking his pain when a thought crosses his mind, and his smile fades.

"I'm getting married in two weeks," he says to the sky.