Rewriting Targaryen History

Chapter 16: Chapter 16: The Realm’s Delight

Rhaenyra Targaryen joined the gathering as if the garden had been waiting for her.

Perhaps, in a way, it had. Conversations shifted around her arrival, not stopping completely, but changing shape. Lords and ladies turned just enough to watch without appearing too eager. Servants moved with greater care. Musicians softened their playing as she passed. Even the sunlight seemed to suit her, catching in her silver-gold hair and making her appear almost unreal against the red stone and green leaves of the royal garden.

I bowed as she approached. It was the only thing I could do. "Princess," I said.

Her eyes remained on me with open interest. "Captain Galeris."

Her voice was exactly as I remembered and not at all as memory had prepared me for. There was youth in it, certainly, but also confidence, sharpness, and the faint amusement of someone accustomed to being underestimated and entertained by it. She looked at my armour first, then my sword, then my face. Not rudely, but thoroughly.

"You are the man everyone has been whispering about," she said.

"That is unfortunate."

The corner of her mouth lifted. "Is it?"

"For me, yes."

Daemon laughed softly into his wine cup.

Viserys looked amused already, as if the exchange had pleased him before it had properly begun. Alicent stood nearby with her hands folded, her face composed, though I noticed how carefully she watched Rhaenyra’s approach. Otto Hightower had moved to speak with another lord, but he remained close enough that I did not doubt he could hear more than he pretended.

Rhaenyra stepped closer, untroubled by any of it. "You killed the Crabfeeder," she said.

"So I have been told several times today."

"That does not sound like denial."

"It is not."

"Then why do you look as though you wish people would stop mentioning it?"

Because one hundred and twenty men had died since I chose the Stepstones. Because I could still feel the weight of the Crabfeeder’s severed head when I lifted it on World Breaker. Because every cheer turned the worst moment of my life into a tale people could enjoy with wine in hand.

I could not say any of that. Not here. Not yet. So I gave her something easier. "Newly found popularity is less pleasant than some men pretend," I said.

Rhaenyra’s smile sharpened. "You are already beginning to hate it."

"I would not say hate."

"You would prefer not to say it."

"That is different."

Daemon looked openly delighted now. "Careful, Captain. The princess has a talent for finding soft spots in armour."

Rhaenyra glanced at him. "Then perhaps the captain should have worn better armour."

"This armour survived Bloodstone," I said.

"And yet not court?"

"Court strikes differently."

Viserys chuckled at that, warm and easy, the sound drawing a few polite smiles from those close enough to hear. "A wise observation, Captain. Many men have learned that too late."

"Have you, Father?" Rhaenyra asked.

Viserys gave her a fond look. "I sit the Iron Throne. I learn it daily."

For a moment, the conversation held together lightly. Daemon smiled. Viserys seemed pleased. Rhaenyra looked amused by me, which was both flattering and deeply dangerous. I had expected her to be proud.

I had expected intelligence, curiosity, confidence. I had not expected how difficult it would be to look at her and keep the weight of future knowledge from showing on my face. She was alive. That fact kept striking me.

Not a name in a history. Not a portrait. Not an actress wearing the shape of a doomed princess. She was standing before me, young and breathing, with no idea how much blood the world would one day spill around her claim.

Rhaenyra’s eyes narrowed slightly. "You look at me strangely, Captain."

The words nearly stopped my heart. Daemon clearly was aware. His smile did not fade, but his attention sharpened like a hound catching a scent.

I bowed my head slightly. "Forgive me, Princess. I have spent months among soldiers and pirates. I fear court manners have not yet returned to me."

"Returned?" she asked. "Were you often at court in Essos?"

"Never at one like this."

"That is not an answer."

"No," I admitted. "It is not."

Viserys laughed again, seemingly delighted by the exchange. "He will learn quickly, I think."

"Or flee back to his sellswords by nightfall," Daemon said.

"That would be wise," I replied.

Rhaenyra’s smile deepened. "Then you are not merely brave. You have sense as well."

"I try not to rely on bravery when sense will do."

"A rare quality in men who carry swords."

Daemon placed a hand over his heart with mock offence. "Rhaenyra, you wound me."

"You have survived worse."

"True."

Alicent chose that moment to step in.

It was not abrupt. Nothing about Alicent was abrupt in public. She moved into the conversation with the practised gentleness of someone who had learned that steering was best done softly when surrounded by stronger personalities.

"Prince Daemon," she said, "since you have returned to court, perhaps you would like to see the new tapestries sent from Norvos and Qohor. They were placed in the gallery last week."

The silence that followed was small, but noticeable.

Daemon turned his head slowly toward her. "Tapestries," he said.

Alicent’s smile remained polite. "Yes. They are said to be very fine."

Viserys stared at her for half a heartbeat, then began to laugh. Not a polite chuckle, but a full, helpless burst of amusement that made several courtiers nearby look over. Daemon joined him a moment later, softer but no less cruel in its implication.

"My dear," Viserys said, still laughing, "Daemon has returned from war. I doubt he has much interest in looking at tapestries."

Daemon lifted his cup. "I would rather return to the Stepstones."

Viserys laughed harder.

Alicent’s face did not change much, but I saw it. The faint tightening around the eyes. The smallest lowering of her chin. A young queen being laughed at by her husband and his brother before half the garden, all because she had attempted to redirect a conversation that was drifting somewhere she did not like.

It was a small cruelty. Perhaps not intended as cruelty. That did not make it harmless.

Rhaenyra watched the exchange, and for a moment something complicated crossed her face. Amusement, irritation, maybe sympathy, though whether for Alicent or simply against being dismissed, I could not tell.

"I would like to see them," Rhaenyra said.

The laughter stopped too quickly. Viserys turned toward her. The warmth in his expression cooled with a speed that made the air seem to shift. It was not anger exactly, not the kind that burst outward and filled a room. It was worse in its restraint. A father’s disappointment sharpened by a king’s impatience.

"Then do not deprive yourself," he said coldly.

The garden seemed to still around the words. Alicent lowered her gaze.

Rhaenyra’s expression hardened, but only for a heartbeat before she mastered it. She had inherited more than silver hair from the dragonlords. Pride sat in her spine, visible in the way she refused to look away from her father even after the rebuke landed. Still, I saw the wound. It was quick, private, and almost hidden.

Almost.

Daemon’s amusement had dimmed, though he did not intervene. Perhaps he found the tension interesting. Perhaps he thought nothing of it. Perhaps he understood too well that Viserys’s tenderness could curdle whenever Rhaenyra’s will reminded him of the duties he preferred not to face.

I should have remained silent. Every sensible part of me knew that.

I was a foreign sellsword captain standing in the royal garden, already noticed by Daemon, measured by Otto, observed by Alicent, and now caught in a small family wound that had nothing to do with me. Intervening was foolish. Offering anything was dangerous. I had no place here.

But perhaps that had been true since the moment Daemon dragged me onto Caraxes.

I bowed slightly toward Rhaenyra. "If the princess would like," I said, "I would be honoured to escort her."

The words landed with more force than I intended. Rhaenyra looked at me. Alicent looked at me. Viserys looked at me. Daemon looked at me as if I had just placed a knife on the table and asked whether anyone wished to see how sharp it was.

For one long moment, I wondered if I had made a terrible mistake.

Then Rhaenyra smiled. Not broadly. Not warmly. Something smaller, sharper, and far more dangerous. "That is kind of you, Captain," she said. "I accept."

Viserys blinked, then seemed to remember he could hardly object without making the moment worse. "Yes. Of course."

Alicent’s expression eased, though only slightly. "The gallery is shaded at this hour. It should be pleasant."

"Then we shall see if Norvos and Qohor have better taste than the Stepstones," Rhaenyra said.

Daemon leaned back, watching us with keen amusement. "Do try not to steal my guest entirely, niece."

"You took him from his army," Rhaenyra replied. "I doubt you can complain if someone borrows him from a garden."

Viserys chuckled again, though the sound did not quite recover its earlier warmth. I bowed once more, first to the king, then to Alicent, then to Daemon. "Your Grace. My prince."

Daemon’s eyes held mine for a moment. There was warning there. Amusement too. And curiosity. Always curiosity. "Enjoy the tapestries, Captain," he said.

"I will attempt to understand them."

"That would put you ahead of me."

Rhaenyra turned, and I fell into step beside her, careful to remain half a pace back as propriety demanded. The garden’s attention followed us. I could feel it pressing between my shoulder blades. Whispers had already begun, soft as silk and twice as sharp.

The foreign Valyrian captain. The princess. Daemon’s guest. The king’s sudden coldness. Alicent’s attempt to steer the conversation. In the Red Keep, even walking away became an event if enough people chose to watch.

For several moments, neither of us spoke. We left the main gathering behind and followed a pale stone path toward the eastern side of the keep. The music faded beneath the sound of fountains and distant gulls. Guards watched us pass, their faces carefully blank. My armour sounded too loud again, each step a reminder that I was dressed for war while escorting the heir to the Iron Throne through a royal garden.

Rhaenyra broke the silence first. "You did not have to do that."

"No, Princess."

"Then why did you?"

Because I need to speak with you. Because I crossed death, sea, and dragonfire to reach this moment. Because your future is a wound I have seen before it opens. Because every step I take now might save you or doom you faster.

I chose a safer answer. "You seemed interested in the tapestries."

She gave me a sideways look. "That is a terrible lie."

"I am out of practice."

"At lying?"

"At courtly lying."

"That is worse," she said, though there was amusement in her voice.

We entered a shaded walkway where climbing vines softened the red stone walls. The air cooled slightly, carrying the scent of flowers and dust. Somewhere behind us, the garden continued its performance without us. I wondered how long before Daemon grew bored enough to follow, or Otto decided my absence beside Rhaenyra required quiet investigation.

Not long, probably. I had limited time.

Rhaenyra slowed near an archway leading into the gallery. Through it, I could see tall windows, painted walls, and tapestries hanging in careful display. They were likely beautiful. I barely saw them.

She turned toward me before entering. "Well, Captain Galeris," she said. "You have rescued me from my father’s displeasure and delivered me to foreign embroidery. Was that your whole plan?"

The word struck me harder than it should have. Plan.

For years in my old life, I had imagined impossible conversations. What would I say to Rhaenyra Targaryen if I could reach her before the Dance? How would I warn her without sounding mad? How could I make her stronger without turning her paranoid? How could I prevent Alicent, Otto, Daemon, Viserys, and the realm itself from pulling her toward disaster?

Those thoughts had been fantasies once. Now the princess stood before me, alive and curious, waiting for an answer.

My mouth felt dry. "No," I said quietly. "It was not my whole plan."

Her amusement faded just slightly. I looked past her into the gallery, then back toward the garden path behind us. No courtiers close enough to hear. No servants lingering. No Daemon, not yet.

This was the opening.

Perhaps not the perfect one. Perhaps not even a wise one. But history did not seem inclined to offer perfect moments. It offered dangerous ones and dared men to use them.

Rhaenyra studied me. "You look serious suddenly."

"I am."

"Should I be concerned?"

"That depends on how honest you wish me to be."

Her brows lifted. "A bold thing to ask a princess you have only just met."

"I know."

"And yet you ask."

"Yes."

She crossed her arms lightly, curiosity now sharpened into full attention. "Then ask your difficult question, Captain."

My heart beat once, hard against my ribs.

I had thought of this moment in another life. I had prepared speeches in my head while lying awake in Dresden, useless and aching, surrounded by books and the ghosts of dragons. None of those speeches survived the reality of her standing before me.

So I let them die. I lowered my voice. "Princess," I said, "What do you know of Valyrian dreams?"