Rewriting Targaryen History

Chapter 18: Chapter 18: A Dream of Dragons Falling

Rhaenyra Targaryen had gone completely insane.

There was no gentler way to think of it. A princess of the blood, the named heir to the Iron Throne, had slipped into my bedchamber in the dead of night with no escort, no guards, and no witness save myself.

If we were discovered, it would be a royal scandal before dawn. If Otto Hightower learned of it, then Viserys would know soon after, and if Viserys knew, there was a very real chance my head would be removed from my body before I had time to explain that nothing improper had occurred.

I wanted to panic. I did not. Barely.

"Were you followed?" I asked cautiously. "What have you been doing for the last few hours?"

Rhaenyra sniggered softly, as if my fear were a charming novelty rather than a reasonable response to the possibility of execution. "Of course I was not followed. I have been in my chambers the entire time. I was quite discreet in getting here, Captain."

I exhaled with some relief. Some.

The situation was still absurdly dangerous, but at least she had not spent the evening running through the city with Daemon. That was a different disaster, one I wanted desperately to avoid.

In the history I knew, that scandal would wound Rhaenyra deeply, harden Viserys’s choices, destroy Otto’s position for a time, and push Daemon into yet another exile. It was one of those moments that seemed small compared to war, yet helped shape everything that came after.

If that could be avoided, then life would be easier. Or at least less immediately catastrophic.

"Very well, then," I said. "As promised, I will reveal what I know. But you may not like it."

Rhaenyra’s eyes burned with conviction. "I am ready to hear what you have seen."

I studied her for a moment. She looked brave. Proud. Restless. Young in a way that made what I knew feel obscene. The histories had made her a claimant, a queen, a symbol of ambition and tragedy.

Standing before me in the dim light of my chamber, she was still a young woman who had come seeking answers because a stranger had spoken of dreams, dragons, and a darkness in the North.

I lowered my guard and sat on the edge of the bed, leaving World Breaker within reach but no longer in hand. "Within the next two decades," I said, "a great civil war will begin. It will claim the lives of thousands, tear families apart, and strip away the greater part of House Targaryen’s power."

Rhaenyra did not look as shocked as I expected. That unsettled me.

Perhaps some part of her already understood that war was possible. Perhaps every heir with a rival brother understood it, even if no one dared say so aloud. Beneath her composure, though, I saw the wound.

The idea of civil war hurt her, not only because it threatened her claim, but because it threatened the family she still believed could be held together by love, loyalty, and her father’s word.

"How does the civil war end?" she asked.

I took a slow breath. There was no kind way to say it. "It ends with you being burned and eaten alive by your brother’s dragon."

The colour drained from her face.

For a moment, she looked less like the Realm’s Delight and more like a girl who had been struck across the mouth. Her eyes searched mine for mockery, madness, anything that would make the words less real.

"You lie," she said. The words came sharply, but not strongly enough. "That is too cruel a fate," she continued. "I am a Targaryen princess. I am my father’s heir."

"I know."

"My father named me before the lords of the realm."

"I know."

"They swore to me."

"I know."

"Then why would they turn against me?"

The question was not anger alone. It was fear. It was disbelief. It was the first crack forming between the world as Rhaenyra understood it and the world I knew would come.

"Because oaths are easier to swear than keep," I said.

Her jaw tightened. I shook my head slowly. "And it is not your fate alone that is cruel. You lose most of your children. Your remaining sons are there when you die."

That was almost too much.

Rhaenyra took a step back, eyes trembling with fury and horror. I hated myself for saying it. I hated the way the words hung between us. Yet I knew fragments would not be enough. If I gave her only warnings without consequence, she could dismiss them as fearmongering. She needed to understand the scale of what waited for her.

She needed to know that this was not merely about a crown. For several seconds, she said nothing. When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter. "So you are saying my death leads to the fall of Targaryen power?"

"Not entirely," I said. "The war itself does that. Many dragons die. Syrax. Meleys. Caraxes. Vhagar. They are only a few. By the time the war ends, House Targaryen still survives, but its power is broken. Dragons slowly become fewer, smaller, weaker. Some are said to be no larger than cats. Then they die out entirely, and what was once the greatest strength of your house becomes a memory."

At the mention of Syrax, her composure almost broke. I saw it clearly.

Rhaenyra could imagine political betrayal, perhaps even war if forced to. But Syrax dying was different. Dragons were not horses or ships or banners. They were part of Targaryen identity, part of her soul in ways I did not fully understand and never could. To tell her Syrax would die was not merely to speak of losing a weapon. It was to speak of losing something intimate.

"Why should I believe you?" she demanded.

There it was. The question I had known would come. "So far, you have only spoken about terrible possibilities. You speak as if these things are certain, but you offer no proof except your own words. What makes you so confident they will happen?"

She did not trust me. Good.

That was the correct response. A princess who simply accepted the word of a foreign sellsword she had met that afternoon would have been far more dangerous than one who challenged me.

Her suspicion meant she was thinking. It also meant I was standing at the edge of a cliff. If I pushed too hard, she would turn hostile. If I said too little, she would dismiss me. If I made one mistake, the plan would fail before it had truly begun.

A world of possibilities stood on the other side of her belief. So did ruin. I chose my next words carefully. "Your father will not stop with Aegon," I said. "He will have three more children by Alicent Hightower. A daughter, Helaena, and two sons, Aemond and Daeron. Both of those sons will become dragonriders of great importance."

Rhaenyra went still. "That is not impossible," she said, but her voice had changed.

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

"Alicent is young. The king wants more children. Anyone could guess that."

"Anyone could guess more children," I said. "Not their names. Not what they become."

Her eyes narrowed. "Names can be invented."

"They can."

"Then perhaps you are inventing them."

"Perhaps."

That answer frustrated her more than denial would have. I leaned forward slightly. "I am not asking you to trust me blindly, Princess. I am asking you to consider whether my words sound ludicrous."

Her expression hardened. So I continued.

"Alicent will not remain merely the king’s wife. Whether by her own will, her father’s, or the weight of fear placed upon her, she will become the centre of opposition to you. Your title as heir will be turned from honour into threat. Your brothers will grow up believing your rule endangers them, because men around them will whisper that so long as you live, they are unsafe."

Rhaenyra looked away. That struck something.

She knew court well enough to understand the possibility. Perhaps she already sensed it. Perhaps the laughter in the garden, the coldness from Viserys, the distance from Alicent, and Otto’s watchful presence had begun arranging themselves into a shape she did not want to name.

"My father would not allow that," she said.

The words sounded less certain than before. "Your father has already begun a battle with rot," I said.

Her eyes snapped back to me. I hated myself again. But I did not relent. "Small wounds. Cuts from the throne. Sores that do not heal properly. At first, they will seem minor. Then worse. Over the years, his body will weaken. As he grows weaker, others will grow stronger around him."

Rhaenyra’s face had gone pale again, but this time not from disbelief. From recognition. She had seen something. A cut. A wound. A weakness. Some small sign that Viserys himself might have dismissed. But she had seen it.

"When his body can no longer withstand it," I said, "Otto Hightower and those loyal to him will move. Aegon will be placed upon the Iron Throne. You will not be informed as heir. You will be treated as a threat."

Her mouth parted slightly. I lowered my voice. "And assassins will be discussed."

For a moment, the chamber felt colder.

Rhaenyra stood very still, one hand curling into the fabric of her cloak. She was not convinced, not fully, but I could see the battle within her. Pride urged her to reject me. Fear urged her to listen. Intelligence forced her to admit that what I described was not impossible.

That was all I needed. Not belief. Not yet. Only possibility.

"Right now," I said, "you are in a disadvantageous position. Your enemies are circling your father like vultures, whether you wish to see them or not. Otto remains your strongest opposition."

Rhaenyra’s eyes flashed. "And who supports me, then? You make it sound as if I am alone."

"You are not alone," I said.

I paused. There were names I could give and names I should withhold. Every truth was a tool, but some tools could cut the hand that held them. Still, she needed more than horror. She needed a map. Even a partial one.

"Lord Lyonel Strong supports you," I said. "As does Lord Beesbury. Their loyalty matters, but their deaths will diminish your strength in council. They will be replaced, in time, by men who favour Aegon. Tyland Lannister. Jasper Wylde. Others who cloak ambition in law."

Rhaenyra did not seem surprised by the mention of Lannisters. Perhaps Jason Lannister’s pride had already made her wary. Rejection, in men like him, rarely remained private. A slighted lord could become an enemy simply because a woman had refused to let him imagine himself chosen.

"Your uncle supports you," I continued. "He hates the Hightowers too much to do otherwise, though Daemon’s support is not always a safe thing."

"That I know," she said quietly.

"Corlys Velaryon supports you. Eventually. His reasons are tangled in marriage, blood, ambition, and grief, but he stands with you. The Vale will rise for you. The North as well. Parts of the Riverlands and Reach will declare in your name. You are not alone, Princess. But at present, your position is weaker than it appears."

Rhaenyra absorbed that in silence.

I could tell the mention of her children had caught her attention. I had spoken of sons, of Velaryon support, of betrothals I had not fully named. Questions moved behind her eyes, and I feared them. I could not tell her everything. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.

How could I explain Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey without tearing open wounds that did not yet exist? How could I tell her that one son would die in the Gullet, another in the storm above Shipbreaker Bay, another in King’s Landing after dragons and mobs made madness of the city? How could I speak of Aegon the Younger and Viserys the Second, children forever changed by a war they survived only in body?

Those were not warnings anymore. They were cruelties.

Rhaenyra turned away from me and walked toward the narrow window. Moonlight caught in her hair, making it almost silver-white. For a moment, she looked older than she was. Not as old as the woman she would become, but closer to her than before.

"You know too much," she said.

It was not accusation alone. It was fear. "Yes."

"You speak of my father’s future children. My dragon’s death. My own death. My children, whom I do not yet have. Lords who will support me and lords who will betray me."

"Yes."

"And I am meant to believe this comes from dreams?"

I said nothing.

She turned back toward me. "Or are you an agent of someone?"

"No."

"Otto?"

"No."

"Daemon?"

"No."

"Corlys?"

"No."

"Then who sent you?"

"No one."

"That is difficult to believe."

"I know."

Her frustration sharpened. "Do you?"

"Yes," I said. "A foreign sellsword captain arrives in court with Daemon, speaks of prophecy, claims to know the future, and warns the princess that half the realm will one day turn against her. I would not trust me either."

That slowed her. Rhaenyra studied me again, and this time her suspicion was mixed with something more thoughtful. "You admit that?"

"It would be insulting to pretend otherwise."

"Most men do."

"Most men are fools."

That almost earned a smile. Almost. She crossed her arms. "Then give me one reason to keep listening."

I looked at her carefully. "Because if I wanted to harm you, I would flatter you."

Her expression changed.

I pressed on. "I would tell you that your father’s word is enough. That the lords will remember their oaths. That Alicent loves you too dearly to become your enemy. That Otto Hightower serves only the realm. That Daemon’s presence solves more problems than it creates. That your birthright is secure because justice is on your side."

Each sentence struck harder than the last. "Those are comforting lies," I said. "I have brought you none of them."

Rhaenyra held my gaze for a long moment.

The room was quiet except for distant night sounds from the castle. A guard’s faint footstep somewhere beyond the corridor. Wind against stone. The far-off murmur of a place that never truly slept.

"You say I should prepare," she said at last.

"Yes."

"For war."

"For the possibility of it."

"That is the same thing."

"No," I said. "Preparing for war can prevent one. Refusing to prepare can invite it."

She looked toward the door, then back at me. "And what would you have me do? Accuse the queen? Denounce Otto? Tell my father that a sellsword with purple eyes saw my death in a dream?"

"No."

"Then what?"

The question was sharp, but beneath it I heard the first thin thread of acceptance. Not trust. Not belief. But she had moved from whether to listen toward what listening might require.

That mattered.

I stood slowly, careful not to startle her.

"Do nothing obvious," I said. "Not yet. Do not confront Alicent. Do not accuse Otto. Do not tell Daemon everything simply because he hates your enemies. Do not let your father dismiss this as fear, jealousy, or foreign manipulation."

Rhaenyra’s mouth tightened. "You ask me to remain silent."

"I ask you to survive court before trying to rule it."

She did not like that. Good. The truth was rarely pleasant.

"Begin by watching," I said. "Watch who speaks when succession is mentioned. Watch who looks to Alicent before answering. Watch who praises Aegon in ways that seem harmless. Watch Otto most of all. He will never move like a fool. That is what makes him dangerous."

"And you?"

"Watch me as well."

That surprised her. I gave a faint, humourless smile. "You would be foolish not to."

Rhaenyra looked at me for a long moment, then nodded once, slowly. "At least we agree on that."

The answer relieved me more than it should have.

She still did not trust me completely. I could see that plainly. But she was no longer dismissing me as mad. She was no longer simply offended. The possibility that I might be right had taken root, and once planted, such thoughts were difficult to kill.

Especially in someone as proud and intelligent as Rhaenyra Targaryen. "What else?" she asked.

I hesitated. This was the dangerous part. "You need allies who are yours," I said. "Not merely your father’s. Not men who support you because Viserys commanded it years ago and have since grown comfortable forgetting. Yours. Bound to you by loyalty, marriage, gratitude, interest, or fear. Preferably more than one of those."

Her eyes sharpened. "You speak like a man who has thought about this for some time."

"I have."

"How long?"

Longer than you can imagine. "Long enough."

"That is not an answer."

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

A trace of irritation returned. "You enjoy avoiding those."

"I enjoy remaining alive."

"And you think I would kill you?"

"No," I said. "But others might, if they knew what I know."

Rhaenyra accepted that reluctantly. I moved to the small table and poured water into a cup, mostly to give my hands something to do. I did not drink. My mouth was dry, but my stomach felt too tight to accept anything.

"The Velaryons matter," I said. "More than most. Dragons, ships, wealth, blood close enough to your own to make alliance natural and rivalry dangerous. Keep Corlys from feeling slighted. Keep Laenor close if you can. Do not underestimate Rhaenys."

"The Queen Who Never Was," Rhaenyra said.

"The queen who remembers being passed over."

Her eyes flickered. That had struck true. "Women denied power do not always respond the same way," I said. "Some become allies. Some become warnings. Some become both."

Rhaenyra was silent. Then she said, "And Daemon?"

I almost laughed. Not because the question was funny, but because there was no safe answer. "Daemon is dangerous."

"I know that."

"No," I said quietly. "You know he is reckless. You know he is bold, charming, violent, and difficult. That is not the same as understanding how dangerous he is."

Her expression hardened. "He is my uncle."

"Yes."

"He supports me."

"He may."

"He hates Otto."

"That does not mean he cannot harm you while doing so."

Rhaenyra looked away first.

There was something there. Something I knew from history and did not want to touch too directly. Her closeness with Daemon was already a thread in the tapestry, one that could become rope, noose, or chain depending on how it was pulled.

"I am not telling you to reject him," I said. "I am telling you not to mistake his hatred of your enemies for selfless loyalty."

She gave a small, bitter smile. "You mistrust everyone."

"No," I replied. "I mistrust motives."

"Even mine?"

"Especially yours."

That made her look back at me. "You want the throne," I said.

"It is mine."

"Those are different statements."

Her eyes flashed. "Careful, Captain."

"I am being careful. That is why I say it now, here, where no one else can hear." I lowered my voice. "If you want the throne because your father named you heir, that is law. If you want it because you believe only you can keep the realm united for the prophecy, that is duty. If you want it because it was promised and you cannot bear having it taken, that is pride. Most rulers carry all three. Knowing which one speaks loudest in you may one day matter."

Rhaenyra stared at me as if deciding whether to strike me or continue listening. Perhaps both.

Finally, she said, "You speak very boldly for a man alone in the Red Keep."

"I am aware."

"And if I decide I do not like what you say?"

"Then I am in trouble."

That earned the smallest smile, though it vanished quickly. "I do not trust you," she said.

"I know."

"I do not know what you are. Dreamer, liar, spy, madman, or some combination of the four."

"Reasonable possibilities."

"But you knew of Aegon’s prophecy."

"Yes."

"And my father’s wounds."

"Yes."

"And you do not speak like someone seeking coin."

"No."

"What do you seek, then?"

There it was. The major question beneath every question.

I could have lied again. Perhaps I should have. I could have said honour, favour, service, or the preservation of the realm. All would have been partly true. None would have been the whole of it.

I looked at her and thought of Dresden. Of books. Of pain. Of a chandelier falling. Of waking in a body that was not mine with a name I had not earned. Of Bloodstone, the mass grave, the Crabfeeder’s head raised on World Breaker, and men chanting Othorion’s name while horror and pleasure warred inside me.

"I seek to prevent the end of dragons," I said.

Rhaenyra’s face softened, just slightly. Not with trust. With understanding. That, perhaps, was more useful. "If what you say is true," she said slowly, "then changing it will not be simple."

"No."

"It may be impossible."

"Yes."

"And if we fail?"

"Then thousands die, dragons burn, and the darkness comes to a world less prepared than it should be."

She looked toward the window again. This time, when she spoke, her voice was quieter. "You ask me to carry a great deal on the word of a stranger."

"I do."

"You ask me to believe that everyone around me may one day become an enemy, tool, or casualty."

"Not everyone."

"Enough."

I did not deny it. Rhaenyra breathed in slowly, then released it. "I will not act on this tonight," she said.

"Good."

That surprised her. "Good?"

"You should not act while shaken. That is how mistakes are made."

"And you think I am shaken?"

"I think anyone sane would be."

For once, she did not argue. She moved toward the door, then paused with her hand near the latch. "I will think on what you have said."

"That is all I ask."

"No," she said, glancing back. "It is not."

I said nothing. Her eyes held mine. "You want me to seek you out again."

"Yes."

"You want to become my adviser."

"I want you to have one who knows what may come."

"That is not a denial."

"No."

The faintest edge of a smile touched her mouth. "You are at least honest about some things."

"Some things are safer than others."

Rhaenyra nodded once, then drew her hood back over her silver-gold hair. "If I decide this is madness, Captain Galeris, I will deny this conversation ever happened."

"I would expect nothing less."

"And if I decide you are a threat?"

"Then I hope you will remember that I came to you with warnings, not demands."

She considered that. Then she opened the door. Before stepping out, she looked back one final time. The suspicion was still there. So was fear. But beneath both, something else had begun to form.

Not trust. Not yet. But belief that trust might one day be possible.

"You will tell no one I came here," she said.

"No one."

"Not Daemon."

"Especially not Daemon."

That seemed to satisfy her more than it should have. Rhaenyra slipped into the corridor and closed the door behind her, quiet as a secret. I remained standing in the centre of the room for a long time after she left, listening to the silence she had left behind.

The first move had been made. Not in battle. Not with a sword. Not beneath banners or dragonfire. With a lie wrapped around truth.

And somewhere deep in the Red Keep, the future had shifted again.