“Not one of the [i]old[/i] dragons,” you say, hastily. “Not one as old as stone who bears the world on his back.” Not one like the White and the Red, princes of the earth, vast-coiled. The ancient dragons of Britain are great and terrible, things that signify grand matters. The White and the Red are so dreadful that even you would shudder to think of Merlin darting between them, daring to turn one’s crushing jaws aside.

“We need one of [i]their[/i] dragons,” you continue. “Creatures of greed and vice, concentrated into something that takes and takes because it can. Coin-counter, maiden-thief. A creature for sermons and noble deeds; a creature that could serve as a test. If I surrender myself to one, then whichever knight dares to overcome it... they would have strength enough and virtue enough to overcome Uther.”

Virtue means nothing to the dragons who have lain beneath the green downs since the kindling of the sun. It means everything to the worms of the church. And if you were to become part of that sermon and story, Constance... your presence would change it, even as it changed you.