Rewriting Targaryen History

Chapter 17: Chapter 17: Dragon Dreams

Rhaenyra looked at me with reserved confusion.

"Valyrian dreams?" she asked. "I do not quite understand what you mean."

We had stopped just inside the eastern gallery, far enough from the garden that the music had faded into something soft and distant. Tapestries lined the walls in rich colours, showing scenes from Norvos, Qohor, and other places across the Narrow Sea. They were probably beautiful, carefully woven, expensive, and worthy of attention.

I barely looked at them. My attention remained on Rhaenyra.

She studied me cautiously now, the earlier amusement on her face giving way to something sharper. I had shifted the conversation too suddenly for her not to notice. A moment ago, I had been the foreign sellsword captain awkwardly escorting her away from a tense family scene. Now I had spoken of Valyrian dreams, and the air between us had changed.

"I mean visions of the future," I said quietly. "Warnings. Glimpses of things not yet come to pass. I believe your ancestor, Daenys Targaryen, had such dreams before the Doom of Valyria. Perhaps others of your family have had them as well."

Rhaenyra’s expression altered. Only slightly, but enough. "Do you mean dragon dreams?"

My brows rose when she said it. I had known the phrase existed in this world, but hearing it from her mouth still sent a faint chill through me. Dragon dreams. Prophecy. The old magic of Valyria, half-feared and half-worshipped, depending on who spoke of it.

"I believe so," I said. "Though I do not think they are limited only to House Targaryen. Perhaps they come to all who carry the blood of Old Valyria, if rarely."

She looked at me more closely. That was good. And dangerous.

I was beginning to lure Rhaenyra into the web I had spent years building in another life, though it felt uglier now that I was standing before a real person rather than imagining a conversation with a doomed name from history.

My intention was simple enough in shape and monstrous in implication. I would present my knowledge as visions, as a kind of dream or warning carried through Valyrian blood. If she believed me, I could gain her trust. If I gained her trust, I could prepare her. If I could prepare her, perhaps the Dance could be avoided or won before it became the slaughter I remembered.

It was a plan. It was also a lie. That knowledge sat heavily in my chest.

"What do you mean, not just my family?" Rhaenyra asked. "Are you saying someone in your family had these dreams as well?"

I held her gaze. "Not just someone," I said. "Me." Her posture changed again, guarded but drawn in despite herself. "Lately," I continued, "I have been having visions of a future that terrifies me."

Rhaenyra did not laugh. That mattered.

A lesser person might have dismissed me at once. Another might have accused me of madness or manipulation. But Rhaenyra Targaryen had been raised among dragonlords, prophecies, and the heavy knowledge that her house had survived Valyria because one girl dreamed of fire and ruin. She could not dismiss the idea easily. Not if another part of her already knew a prophecy existed.

"What have you seen?" she asked.

I lowered my voice further. "In the future, a powerful adversary rises in the North, bringing darkness and death across the continent."

The words landed. I saw it in her eyes. The slight widening. The stillness. The sudden, terrible focus. She knew. Of course she knew.

Viserys had told her. The Song of Ice and Fire. Aegon’s dream. The secret passed from king to heir, binding the Targaryen claim to something greater than conquest. She knew of the danger from the North, or at least the shape of it. She knew enough that my words could not be easily ignored.

"You have seen it too?" Rhaenyra asked.

I nodded once. She took a small step closer, all traces of teasing now gone. "Then you know of the prophecy Aegon the Conqueror warned us about. The danger that will come from the North. The reason our house must remain strong. The reason Westeros must be united."

There it was. The secret that had once belonged to kings. Spoken softly in a gallery, between a princess who had inherited it and a foreign sellsword who should have had no possible way of knowing it.

My face grew sullen, though not by design. "I believe we may have seen slightly different dreams."

Rhaenyra’s brow furrowed. "Different how?"

"In mine, there is no one left to oppose the darkness," I said. "No dragons. No unified Seven Kingdoms. No Targaryen strength standing ready when the North calls for aid."

"That cannot be right," she said quickly. The words came too fast, too defensive. I did not blame her. "No dragons?" she continued. "Why would there be no dragons?"

I looked toward one of the tapestries without truly seeing it. "Because after a certain event, the House of the Dragon loses its power. Dragons become legend. The dynasty forged in fire and blood weakens, fractures, and is eventually extinguished. By the time the darkness comes, Westeros is divided and unprepared."

Rhaenyra stared at me. The silence between us grew heavy.

I could almost see her thoughts moving, piece by piece. She was young, but she was not foolish. She understood enough politics to know that houses did not simply collapse without reason. Dragons did not vanish without catastrophe. A dynasty did not lose its power unless something broke it from within.

"And what event would that be?" she asked.

The question was quiet. Too quiet. I opened my mouth. Then I heard footsteps. They were faint at first, then clearer, approaching along the corridor outside the gallery. Not hurried, but close enough that our privacy was about to end. My time had been cut short.

Frustration tightened in my chest.

I had given her enough to unsettle her, but not enough to guide her. Perhaps that was for the best. Too much truth too quickly could make even prophecy sound like treason. Still, I needed her to seek me out again. I needed her curiosity sharpened into urgency.

So I took the risk. I switched from the common tongue to High Valyrian, keeping my voice low enough that only she could hear. "Listen carefully," I said in the old language. "You are being watched. There are people who pray for you to stumble so your brother may rise in your place. Find time to speak with me again, and I will tell you everything."

Rhaenyra froze.

Not completely. She was too well trained for that. But the shock was there, quick and bright behind her eyes. Part of it, I suspected, came from hearing me speak High Valyrian so fluently. Another part came from the warning itself.

Your brother. That was the blade hidden inside the words.

Her face changed in a way I could not fully read. Anger, suspicion, fear, curiosity, all contained behind the mask of a princess who had just learned that a stranger knew far too much.

The footsteps reached the entrance. I turned. Alicent Hightower stood beneath the archway. She looked lonely.

That was my first thought, and it surprised me. Not queenly, though she was that. Not suspicious, though there was caution in her eyes. Lonely. Tired, too, in a way that fine clothes and careful posture could not hide. She had the appearance of someone who had spent the afternoon beside people who smiled at her without truly seeing her.

Her gaze moved from Rhaenyra to me. For a moment, I wondered how much she had heard.

Not the High Valyrian, perhaps. At least not enough to understand. But she had seen the closeness of our conversation, the seriousness on Rhaenyra’s face, the fact that I had turned too quickly.

Alicent folded her hands before her. "Princess," she said gently. "Might I have a moment?"

Rhaenyra’s expression closed. The shift was subtle but painful to witness. Whatever openness my warning had created vanished beneath old hurt and newer distance.

"Of course," Rhaenyra said.

Alicent looked at me. "Captain Galeris."

I bowed. "Your Grace."

Her face remained polite. "Thank you for escorting the princess."

"It was my honour."

Rhaenyra glanced at me once. Only once.

But there was meaning in it now. Not trust. Not yet. Perhaps not even belief. But interest, sharpened by unease. She would think on what I had said. She would replay the words. She would wonder how I knew of Aegon’s dream, why I had spoken of her brother, and what future could leave the world without dragons.

That was enough. For now. I left them in the gallery and returned to the garden.

The gathering was beginning to loosen, though not yet end. Lords and ladies still lingered with wine cups in hand, speaking in clusters beneath the shade. Servants cleared trays and replaced empty pitchers. The music had shifted into something slower, more tired, as if even the musicians wished the afternoon would release them.

Daemon saw me before I reached him. "Ah," he said, loud enough for those nearby to hear. "My guest of honour returns at last."

Viserys looked over with a smile, still warmed by wine and his brother’s presence. "Did the tapestries impress you, Captain?"

"I fear my understanding of fine weaving is limited, Your Grace."

Daemon grinned. "A tragedy. We dragged him all the way from war and failed to make a courtier of him in a single afternoon."

"A difficult task," Viserys said.

"Impossible, perhaps," I replied.

That drew a laugh from the king, and several nearby courtiers followed his lead. Daemon’s eyes, however, remained on me with something sharper than amusement. He knew something had happened. Not what, perhaps. But enough.

He leaned closer as I resumed my place near him. "My niece did not bore you, I trust?"

"No, my prince."

"Good. She rarely bores anyone."

I said nothing. His smile widened. "That is not a denial."

"It was not meant as one."

Daemon laughed softly, but his gaze stayed watchful for a moment longer before he turned his attention back to Viserys. I stood behind him once more, wearing calm as carefully as armour, while my mind remained in the gallery with Rhaenyra.

Had I gone too far? Perhaps.

Had I said enough? No.

The problem with prophecy was not making someone listen. It was making them understand without turning them against you. Rhaenyra knew part of the truth already. That made her easier to reach, but also more dangerous.

If she believed me, she might act rashly. If she disbelieved me, she might report me. If she repeated my warning to Viserys, Otto, or Daemon, I could find myself trapped beneath questions I was not ready to answer.

By the time the gathering came to an end, my thoughts had become a tangled mess of possibilities.

Viserys retired with good cheer, Daemon at his side for part of the walk before being drawn away by some lord eager to speak of the Stepstones. Alicent and Rhaenyra did not return together. I noticed that. I also noticed Otto Hightower watching the garden with the expression of a man who had found several things worth remembering.

Eventually, a servant was sent to guide me to my lodging. My room in the Red Keep was simple. That was not a complaint.

After weeks in tents, on ships, and beneath skies that never seemed to stop threatening rain or fire, four walls and a proper bed felt almost decadent. The room was not large enough to flatter an arrogant man, but neither was it insulting.

A narrow bed stood against one wall, with a chest at its foot, a washbasin, a small table, two chairs, and a window overlooking part of the inner yard. The stone walls held the day’s warmth, and for once the floor beneath my feet did not shift like a ship or crunch with sand.

Best of all, I was given clothes. Actual clothes.

Not armour. Not salt-stiffened travel garments. Not blood-marked cloth hastily cleaned after battle. A servant arrived with a modest but fine set of garments suitable enough for someone of uncertain rank who needed to appear in the Red Keep without looking as though he had crawled straight from a battlefield. Dark purple, black, and muted gold had been chosen, likely because someone had noticed the colours of my company and armour.

I appreciated the thought more than I expected. Removing the armour took time.

Without Vaeron or an attendant who knew the straps properly, it became an awkward process of patience, frustration, and quiet cursing. Piece by piece, Othorion Galeris the battlefield curiosity was set aside. Greaves, gauntlets, pauldrons, breastplate, all placed carefully where they could be cleaned and checked later. World Breaker remained close. That, I would not surrender.

When I finally stood in plain clothes, I almost felt human again. Almost.

The bruises prevented the illusion from going too far. My body ached everywhere the armour had hidden damage. The cut on my neck pulled when I turned my head. The wound in my side burned dully. My back remained stiff from the arrow that had found me on Bloodstone. The healers had said I was fortunate. I was beginning to dislike that word.

For the rest of the day and into the evening, I remained in my room.

Part of me knew I should have explored. King’s Landing was beyond the walls. The Red Keep itself was a maze of history, and every corridor might teach me something useful. But exhaustion held me more firmly than curiosity. I ate the meal sent to me, drank watered wine, cleaned World Breaker with slow care, and sat by the window while the sky darkened over the capital.

Below, the Red Keep continued breathing.

Servants moved with lamps. Guards changed posts. Distant laughter rose and faded. Somewhere in the castle, Daemon was likely drinking, charming, insulting, or plotting. Viserys was perhaps speaking fondly of reconciliation.

Otto Hightower was surely thinking. Alicent was doing whatever lonely queens did when the court stopped looking. Rhaenyra was somewhere within these walls, carrying my warning like an ember cupped in both hands.

I should have slept. Instead, I waited without admitting I was waiting.

Night deepened.

The Red Keep grew quieter, though never silent. Castles had their own sounds after dark: footsteps in distant halls, muffled voices behind doors, the creak of wood, the murmur of guards, wind moving against shutters. I lay on the bed fully dressed, World Breaker within reach, staring up at the ceiling and trying to decide whether I had already doomed myself.

At some point, exhaustion finally began to drag at me. Then the latch moved. My eyes opened at once.

The door crept inward slowly, quietly, but not quietly enough. I reached for World Breaker and had my hand around the hilt before the figure slipped through the gap and closed the door behind them.

A hood hid their face. For one heartbeat, I thought of assassins. Then the figure lowered the hood. Silver-gold hair spilt free in the dim light.

Rhaenyra Targaryen stood in my room.

Her expression was serious now, stripped of garden amusement and courtly performance. Whatever questions had followed her since the gallery, they had not allowed her to sleep either.

She looked at my hand on World Breaker’s hilt. "Do you greet all visitors with steel, Captain?"

I released the sword slowly. "Only the unexpected ones, Princess."

Rhaenyra stepped farther into the room, her eyes fixed on mine. "You said you would tell me everything."

My pulse quickened. The plan I had carried from another life stood suddenly before me, alive, dangerous, and waiting.

"Yes," I said quietly. "I did."