Disclaimer: I do not own the story of Saint George and the Dragon. I wasn't even born when it was written, and it's not like there were copyrights back then, but you get the point. This take on the story, however, is mine.

Chapter One

In this world, people like things that are easy. The easiest solution is always picked; the easiest road is always taken. What people don't seem to realize is that what's easy for them might not necessarily be easy for someone else. It's always been like that; it always will be.

So when the dragon came, people looked for the easy way out. At first, the dragon just demanded a sheep. One sheep. Out of a whole flock. That was easy, so the people did the dragon's bidding and no one dared oppose him. The next morning for breakfast, he demanded another sheep. It went on like this for only a week, actually. People have twisted the tale until somehow our kingdom managed to fend off the dragon for a whole month.

We could have—at least, we could have if the king hadn't held a royal banquet and invited everyone of importance from every other kingdom. The main course, as you could probably guess, was mutton. So we were left with only about seven sheep, which fed the dragon for a week. When the week was up, the people finally began to worry about what to do if the dragon came back asking for more sheep.

The fat king, looking sweaty and red and uncomfortable, wiped his brow and yelled from the balcony of his castle, "People of Myritone! I don't normally ask for your advice—as if you had any good advice—but my advisor says I should so that if something goes wrong with the dragon, the blame will be on you instead of me."

At this, the people cheered, and I had to stifle a snort. I got several stares which clearly meant that everyone thought I was being disrespectful, so I took a deep breath and looked as solemn as possible.

Then the "advice" began.

"Throw garlic at him!" one housewife suggested.

"Pray for mercy!" someone cried.

"Throw garlic at him, then dump hot butter on him!" someone else yelled.

"Give him a maiden to eat!" cried the slightly tottery town ne'er-do-well.

It was so ludicrous that I laughed out loud. I could tell that he'd spent a little too much time in the pub. I looked around expectantly, waiting for people to burst out laughing or to comment on how insane the idea was. But no one did. The crowd began to whisper excitedly.

Finally, the self-elected chairperson suggested, "Give the princess to the dragon!"

The king looked horrified. I wasn't surprised. Princess Rosalia was gorgeous; the king's pride and joy. He doted upon his spoiled, selfish daughter, giving her everything she wanted. He even had it decreed that the Princess was the most beautiful girl in the land and anyone caught saying otherwise would have his tongue cut out.

"The Princess?" he spluttered. "My daughter?" He turned hastily to his chief adviser, whispering furiously. Then he took a deep breath, looking rather smug, and said, "My good people, Princess Rosalia is destined to become your next queen. To waste sixteen years of training would be . . . despicable. So, good people, I suggest that we give one of the common girls—yes, one of your daughters—the honor . . . no, the privilege . . . of sacrificing herself to save our kingdom."

Everyone cheered except me. Some of the girls were even excitedly jumping up and down, yelling, "Pick me, pick me!" The king looked around for a moment. His gaze settled on me and I suddenly felt sick.

"You . . . what is your name?" he asked oh-so-kindly from his balcony above.

"Lyda," I replied.

"Yes, yes, Lena," he said absently. I couldn't resist correcting him.

"It's Lyda. Lee-duh. Lyda." He waved his hand as if shooing off a fly, then turned back to his adviser, hurriedly whispering again.

"My good people," he called. "Our problem is solved. Linda has volunteered to save our village from the dragon by dressing as the princess and sacrificing herself, thereby bringing eternal honor and glory to herself and her family!" Everyone clapped and I nearly choked.

"Wait a minute!" I cried. "Hey, stop, I didn't . . ." But it was too late. Already, the guards were hauling me away and I tried to dig my feet into the cobblestone path. Needless to say, it didn't work very well.