Rewriting Targaryen History

Chapter 109: Chapter 109: The White Cloak

With my return to King’s Landing, court began to scurry.

Those who had once thought little of me, or had looked down upon the shape of my heritage, found it harder to speak brazenly when Dravvaxx rested within the Dragonpit. The dragon did not need to be seen for his presence to be felt. The city had watched him descend. The court had heard the stories before I even set foot in the Red Keep. A man could dismiss sellswords, foreign blood, and an inconvenient marriage if he had enough arrogance to feed the lie. A dragon made such arrogance more difficult to wear openly.

Otto’s faction understood that better than most.

They had been given a choice. They could withdraw with some dignity intact and accept that the balance around Rhaenyra had shifted, or they could double down, cling harder to Aegon’s claim, and convince themselves that the answer to a larger threat was louder opposition.

Most chose the second.

They whispered that I was unworthy. They called me dangerous, ambitious, and potentially treacherous. Those words followed me through corridors, gardens, council chambers, and the spaces where courtiers thought pillars made them invisible. I did not care. They could whisper and gossip as much as they liked. It did not change the situation.

I was an established war hero. The Stepstones had made that difficult to deny. I was the father of six dragonriders, all with promising futures and names the realm was learning to remember. Rhaenyra stood stronger than she had in the years before, not because court had grown kinder, but because we had grown harder to isolate. And now I was a dragonrider myself, bonded to one of the largest claimed dragons alive.

Otto Hightower knew this.

He despised it, certainly, but he was not foolish enough to dismiss me as anything less than a danger to his designs. My confrontation with him in court had wounded more than his pride. It had shown the room that he could challenge me and lose. For a man like Otto, that meant one thing.

He would not stop. He would plot better.

His first move was the appointment of a Master of Whisperers, a position long ignored in practice if not in name. There was only one man suitable for the role who had some value to Otto and enough hunger for secrets to make the office more than decoration.

Larys Strong. The Clubfoot.

The apparent Lord of Harrenhal, though that title still sat over too much smoke and too many convenient deaths for my comfort. He had a talent for whispers, rumours, servants, locked doors, and the quiet movement of knowledge from places it should have stayed. Now he found himself elevated to the Small Council.

No one argued the appointment.

That made sense, however bitterly. If I rose in protest against every man Otto placed near power, I would look exactly as he wished me to look: overreaching, fearful, and determined to dominate a council I did not formally sit upon. Rhaenyra understood that as well as I did. We did not like Larys near the king, but dislike was not a strategy.

So I watched him take his place. Larys smiled faintly when he bowed to Viserys, then settled among the councillors with that quiet, patient manner of his. A spider did not need to scurry when men invited it into the corner.

I kept my face calm. Otto had added a man to the council. It would not be the last such move made in that chamber.

Instead of spending my strength on a fight designed for me to lose, I turned my focus back to my children.

Jace had begun, slowly but surely, to be shaped into a true heir. One day, if the gods and men were not too cruel, he would sit upon the cursed Iron Throne. Preparing him for that mattered more than indulging his childhood completely, though I tried not to crush the boy beneath the crown waiting in his future.

When he was not at lessons, he shadowed me. He watched me issue orders to the Unsullied, heard reports from Grey Roach, and stood quietly while I dealt with nobles who smiled too widely.

After one such meeting, he asked, "How do you know when a lord is lying?"

"You do not always know," I said. "That is why you listen for what the lie is trying to protect."

He frowned, thinking it over with the seriousness he brought to everything. "So I should not only listen to the words."

"No. Listen to the timing, the fear, the pride, and what he refuses to mention. Words are often the least loyal part of a man."

Jace nodded slowly. "That sounds difficult."

"It is. That is why fools prefer swords."

He glanced at the training yard below us. "You still make me train with swords."

"Because sometimes fools are numerous and close."

That earned the smallest smile.

Luke was going steadily at his own pace. Ser Erryk had been nothing less than patient with him. He trained him without mockery, taught him to work through fear rather than pretend it did not exist, and had become a trusted figure for my son to confide in.

Luke still carried Driftmark beneath the skin. That night had not vanished because we wished it gone. But he was less haunted by it when Erryk stood nearby, correcting his grip without making every lesson a test of courage.

Rhaena helped too. Whenever she was present, Luke seemed more himself: kind-hearted, curious, and happy in a way that did not need to prove anything.

The twins were more complicated.

Aerion remained boisterous, certain he would one day become the greatest knight in the realm atop the most formidable dragon ever born, if one believed his claims. He practised with fierce enthusiasm, accepted correction poorly for three breaths, then returned twice as determined. Tyraxes had not yet taken him into true flight, which Aerion treated as a temporary injustice inflicted upon history.

"Watch out for me in the future, Father," he told me one morning, wooden practice sword resting on his shoulder. "Dravvaxx will stand no chance against me and Tyraxes once we are in the sky."

I looked down at him. "Perhaps make those claims after you finally take flight."

The remark wounded him deeply. Only for a moment. Then he lifted his chin. "You only say that because you know I will surpass you."

"You already surpass me in confidence, Aerion."

That stopped him more effectively than any rebuke.

His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, searching for a reply grand enough to restore his dignity. Rhaegar, standing nearby, did not help.

"That was not a denial," he said.

Aerion turned on him. "It was fatherly trickery."

"It was an observation."

"You observe too much."

"You boast too much."

I left them to resolve the matter under Ser Arryk’s careful supervision before brotherhood became attempted murder with wooden swords.

As for Rhaegar, his intelligence continued to sharpen. He was methodical in both combat and dragon training, the sort of child who watched three mistakes before making one adjustment that fixed all of them. Maeron, who had returned from Dragonstone after seeing Dravvaxx settled, was confident that within a month or two Rhaegar would take his first true flight with Vhalalor.

"He does not hurry," Maeron told me. "That is a rare blessing in a boy with a dragon."

"Should I be offended on Aerion’s behalf?"

"You may be, but it will not make him less impatient."

"No. It never does."

Viserys and Aemma were still young enough that court politics passed over them like weather over a nursery roof. Their cheer remained stubborn, bright, and occasionally destructive.

Little Aeggel had become a fascination for both of them, which surprised me only because Viserys had a dragon of his own. Oyyaor remained his cup-dragon in all but official naming, solemn and strange, but Aeggel’s colouring made her irresistible to small hands and dangerous questions.

"Father," Viserys asked one afternoon, "can Aeggel meet Dravvaxx? They could become the bestest of friends."

Rhaenyra answered before I could. "Aeggel is still a hatchling, Viserys. You would terrify her if she was forced to meet Dravvaxx."

Viserys looked unconvinced. "He could be gentle."

"He could be still, and she would still be terrified," Rhaenyra said. "A mountain does not need to move to frighten a bird."

Aemma, who had understood very little except that her dragon’s name had been spoken, clapped once. Aeggel sneezed smoke at the rug.

My family was happy, even with court scheming around us. That happiness was not perfect. It never was. But it existed, and that made it worth defending more fiercely than any title.

Otto’s next move came a week later with the retirement of Ser Gerold Westerling from the Kingsguard.

He was old, frail, and not long left for this world. Anyone with eyes could see it. His back had bent with age, his hands trembled slightly when still, and the white cloak he had worn for decades seemed to weigh more heavily each month. It was when he realised this, perhaps more clearly than others wished to say, that honour demanded he retire rather than burden the order he had served faithfully for most of his life.

Lord Commander Westerling was a fine man.

His presence had often been a steady reminder of duty, honour, and principle in a court that treated all three as garments to be worn when useful. He had not been perfect. No man was. But he had served with dignity long enough that even those who wished to profit from his departure could not deny the measure of him.

The throne room was full for his farewell. Viserys sat the Iron Throne with visible effort, but his voice carried warmth when Ser Gerold approached. The old knight knelt slowly. It pained him. He hid most of it.

"Thank you for your decades of service, Ser Gerold," Viserys said. "You have guarded me and my family honourably and dutifully. I can only hope men continue to view you as the standard of what a Kingsguard knight should be."

Ser Gerold bowed his head. "It was my honour to serve, Your Grace. I only regret that I am not able to die in the white cloak."

Viserys shook his head. "Do not regret that. Celebrate instead that you were able to serve it faithfully for so many years. Death is not the only proof of devotion."

That was one of the better things Viserys had said in public.

Ser Gerold removed his cloak with grace and ceremony. The white cloth fell from his shoulders, folded once in his hands, and was laid before the throne. For a moment, the hall felt older than its intrigues. A man had given his life to an order and was leaving it alive, which seemed both mercy and wound. Losing a man of his calibre was a blow.

The question of replacement came quickly, as such questions always did. Honour had barely left the room before power began counting the empty space it left behind.

The Small Council met that afternoon.

I attended with Rhaenyra. Not as a councillor, officially. That distinction had become increasingly ridiculous, but forms mattered until they could be made to matter less. Rhaenyra had every right to be present as heir. I stood behind and slightly beside her, close enough that my silence could not be mistaken for absence.

Otto made his move early.

"Your Grace," he said, hands folded before him, "might I recommend Ser Curtis Crakehall to fill the position of Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. He is loyal, he is the teacher of your sons, and he is a skilled warrior of proven discipline."

His supporters nodded with predictable solemnity.

Tyland Lannister approved with the polished caution of a man who rarely placed his neck where another’s axe might fall. Jasper Wylde gave a rougher nod. Larys Strong sat quietly, half in shadow, expression mild. Even Grand Maester Orwyle, newly appointed and eager to seem reasonable to the side that had helped elevate him, murmured agreement in careful tones.

Alicent spoke as well. "Ser Curtis would make a capable Lord Commander," she said. "I trust him with the lives of our children, and with yours, Your Grace. He has been disciplined, dutiful, and consistent in his service."

Her words were elegant. They were also expected. Rhaenyra did not let them settle. "Discipline without judgement is not enough for Lord Commander," she said. "Nor is obedience without conscience."

Alicent’s eyes moved to her.

Rhaenyra continued, calm but hard. "Ser Curtis tried to take my son’s eye at Driftmark. He did not hesitate. He attacked my husband’s soldiers to reach Lucerys and would have maimed a child had he not been stopped. If that is the model of command we wish placed above the Kingsguard, then we should at least admit what kind of obedience we are rewarding."

The room shifted uncomfortably. Driftmark had never truly left the court. It lived beneath too many conversations, too many glances toward Aemond’s missing eye, too many careful silences around Luke. The Greens could praise Ser Curtis all they liked, but they could not wash that night from him.

Viserys looked troubled. His gaze moved toward Ser Curtis, who stood along the wall in white armour, face controlled. The king remembered. Perhaps not all of it clearly, perhaps not with the sharpness we carried, but enough.

"There is merit in what Rhaenyra says," Viserys said slowly. "A man so easily moved to harm my grandson should not be raised without question. The fact Ser Curtis remains in the guard is due in no small part to the endorsement of my wife and my Hand."

Otto inclined his head. "Your Grace, Ser Curtis acted in a moment of grave disorder. A prince had been maimed. Passions were high, and he obeyed a command given in defence of royal blood."

Rhaenyra’s voice cut cleanly through the defence. "A Kingsguard knight is sworn to protect royal blood, not choose which royal child deserves protection based on who gives the loudest order."

Alicent’s face tightened. I stepped forward then.

"Your Grace, Ser Curtis Crakehall would be a fair candidate if Driftmark had not happened. There is no need to pretend otherwise. He is a skilled warrior, respected by many, and has served capably in several duties. But Lord Commander is not merely the strongest sword in a white cloak. He must be the judgement of the order when kings are weak, queens are frightened, princes are angry, and children are caught between adult failures."

The words landed heavily, but not wildly. I did not shout. I did not need to. Otto looked at me as if he could already see where I meant to go and disliked every step.

I continued. "A man who obeys a cruel command too quickly may be useful to a faction. He is not the man who should guide the Kingsguard."

Tyland frowned. "Then whom would you suggest, my prince?"

"Ser Lorent Marbrand."

The name entered the room like a drawn blade placed on a table. Not dramatic. Impossible to ignore. Rhaenyra nodded once beside me, as planned but not performed. We had discussed this. Not at length. The strength of the argument lay in its reasonableness.

I went on. "Ser Lorent is respected by those who have served beside him. He is patient, learned enough to understand the duties of command, and not so hungry for advancement that he mistakes favour for honour. He has shown no cruelty toward the children of either side of this family, which should not be a remarkable qualification, yet here we are."

A few eyes dropped.

Rhaenyra took the next line before Otto could answer. "A Lord Commander must be trusted by the whole royal house, Father. Not only by the queen’s apartments, not only by mine, and not only by whichever faction currently speaks loudest. Ser Lorent has not made himself a weapon in our quarrels. That is precisely why he is suited."

Otto’s voice cooled. "Princess, neutrality can also be weakness."

"Not when the office requires it," Rhaenyra replied. "The Kingsguard do not exist to strengthen court factions. They exist to defend the royal family and the king’s peace."

Jasper Wylde cleared his throat. "Ser Curtis has trained Prince Aemond well. The boy is improved under him."

"No one disputes that," I said. "But skill in training one prince does not erase willingness to maim another."

Alicent looked at me then. "You speak as though that night belongs only to your pain."

"No," I said. "It belongs to all of us, which is why we should not reward the worst lesson taken from it."

That quieted even her. Otto tried a different path. "Ser Lorent Marbrand may be acceptable to the princess and her husband, but one must ask whether this is truly about the good of the Kingsguard or about placing a man more favourable to their interests in command of the king’s sworn shields."

There it was. I almost admired the neatness. Rhaenyra answered before I could. "By that logic, Lord Hand, your recommendation of Ser Curtis is no less political."

Otto’s eyes flicked to her. She held his gaze. "You cannot call our judgement factional while pretending yours descended from the Seven untouched by interest."

Viserys gave a tired but unmistakable sound of agreement.

I added, "The difference is simple. Ser Lorent’s objection is that he is not yours. Ser Curtis’s objection is that he once tried to take my son’s eye."

The council room went still. It was not a polite line. It was a true one.

Larys Strong watched me with mild interest, fingers resting lightly on the head of his cane. I wondered how quickly he would turn this exchange into whispers. Then I remembered he had likely begun before the meeting started.

Otto did not flinch, but his jaw tightened. "The prince speaks with the confidence of a man who now believes every appointment in the Red Keep must pass through his approval."

"No," I said. "I speak as a father whose son was nearly maimed by the man you wish to place over the Kingsguard. I speak as the husband of the heir, whose children will be guarded by that order. I speak as a servant of the crown who understands that the Lord Commander must be trusted beyond one faction’s convenience."

Rhaenyra’s voice softened, which somehow made it stronger. "Father, Ser Gerold’s strength was not only his sword. It was that men believed he served the cloak before personal preference. Ser Lorent is the closest choice to that principle. Ser Curtis may remain in the guard if you wish it, but raising him now would tell every child in this family that Driftmark has been forgiven by promotion."

Viserys looked down at his hands. The room waited. This was where Otto usually won: in pauses, in a tired king’s desire for the path of least resistance, in the slow pressure of appearing practical while others seemed emotional.

But Rhaenyra had not sounded emotional. She had sounded measured. So had I.

Viserys lifted his head. "Ser Lorent Marbrand will be Lord Commander."

Otto’s face did not change quickly enough for most to notice. Alicent inhaled softly, then looked away.

Viserys continued. "Ser Curtis has served, and I do not strip him of his cloak today. But the Lord Commander must be a man trusted to guard all of my house. Rhaenyra is right. Othorion is right. Ser Lorent will take command."

The matter was settled. Not peacefully. Never that. But settled.

Otto bowed. "As Your Grace commands."

Again, the words obeyed where the man did not.

Ser Lorent was summoned before the council dispersed. He entered with the measured caution of a knight who knew the room had been fighting over his name before he arrived. He was not young, though far from old, with the composed bearing of a man who had learned that readiness did not require theatrical stiffness.

Viserys spoke the appointment himself.

Ser Lorent knelt. "Your Grace," he said, voice steady, "I will serve the cloak, the crown, and the whole royal house to the best of my ability."

"The whole royal house," Viserys repeated, and there was meaning in it.

Ser Lorent bowed his head. "Yes, Your Grace. Without favour between those I am sworn to protect."

Rhaenyra watched him carefully. So did Alicent. So did Otto, though for a very different reason.

When the meeting ended, councillors broke into smaller currents of conversation. Tyland spoke quietly with Jasper. Orwyle gathered parchments he had not needed. Larys remained seated a few moments longer than necessary, as if enjoying the shape of the room after conflict.

Otto approached me before leaving. "My prince," he said.

"Lord Hand."

"A dragon and a Lord Commander in the same fortnight. Your return has been productive."

"Yours as well. A Master of Whisperers is no small addition."

His eyes sharpened very slightly. There was the point, set neatly between us. He had added Larys to the council. I had helped place Ser Lorent over the Kingsguard. Neither move was openly war. Both belonged to the same board.

Otto gave a thin smile. "I am pleased we both take the safety of the realm seriously."

"As am I."

Rhaenyra joined me before the exchange could grow sharper. Otto bowed to her, and she returned the courtesy with all the warmth of polished stone.

After he left, she looked toward the door. "He will not forgive that."

"No, I would never assume that he would."

"Good."

I glanced at her. She gave me a small, fierce smile. "Some things do not deserve forgiveness."

We walked from the council chamber together.

Outside, the Red Keep carried on as if the world had not shifted by the width of a white cloak. Servants moved, guards stood, ravens flew, and somewhere beneath the city’s noise, Dravvaxx slept in the Dragonpit as a reminder that power did not always announce itself twice.

Otto had gained a whisperer. Now we had gained the man who commanded the white cloaks around the king, the heir, and our children.

It was not victory enough to rest upon. But it was victory.

And in King’s Landing, that was never a small thing.