Rewriting Targaryen History

Chapter 19: Chapter 19: The Morning After

I slept poorly.

That was generous. In truth, I barely slept at all. After Rhaenyra left my chamber, I remained standing in the centre of the room for longer than I cared to admit, staring at the closed door as if it might open again and reveal guards, Otto Hightower, Daemon Targaryen, or the king himself waiting on the other side.

None came. Somehow, that made it worse.

The Red Keep was quiet in the way dangerous places became quiet after midnight. Not silent, never silent, but careful. Footsteps passed now and then beyond my door. Distant voices faded through stone.

Somewhere below, a servant dropped something that clattered too loudly, followed by hurried whispers and the return of stillness. I heard every sound and imagined accusation in all of them.

Rhaenyra Targaryen had come to my room in the dead of night.

No matter how innocent the purpose, no matter how necessary the conversation, that fact alone was enough to ruin us both if placed in the wrong mouth. She was the king’s daughter, heir to the Iron Throne, and I was a foreign sellsword captain brought to court by Daemon like a trophy from the Stepstones.

If anyone discovered her visit, truth would not matter. Truth rarely mattered in courts when scandal served better. Otto Hightower would not need proof of anything improper. The suggestion would be enough.

By the time dawn crept into the chamber, I had thought through my own execution in at least six different forms. Beheading seemed most likely. Quiet imprisonment was possible. Daemon laughing while pretending not to be responsible also seemed likely, though whether he would help me or mock me on the way to the block depended on his mood. Viserys might hesitate, but hesitation did not guarantee mercy when his daughter’s reputation was threatened.

I sat on the edge of the bed and pressed both hands over my face.

"Well done, Heinrich," I muttered to myself. "You crossed worlds, survived Bloodstone, killed the Crabfeeder, and may now die because a princess used your room as a council chamber."

The words sounded absurd. They also sounded true. When a servant arrived with breakfast, I nearly reached for World Breaker. The poor man froze in the doorway, tray held stiffly before him, eyes wide as he looked from my hand to the sword resting near the bed. I forced myself to relax and waved him inside.

"Forgive me," I said. "Old habit."

It was not an old habit. Not mine, at least. Othorion’s body, however, did not enjoy being surprised while half-rested in unfamiliar rooms. That was another thing I would have to learn to live with.

The servant placed the tray on the table and left quickly.

I ate because refusing food was foolish, not because I wanted it. Bread, cheese, fruit, and watered wine. Better fare than most men in the Dread Legion would see this morning. The thought made the food sit heavily in my stomach.

My men were still in the Stepstones under Vaeron’s command, dealing with wounded, pay, graves, and the uncertainty of what came next. I was in the Red Keep, eating from a silver tray because Daemon had decided I belonged in his story.

No. That was not entirely true anymore. I had made my own move now.

I had spoken to Rhaenyra. I had lied about dragon dreams, used truth as bait, and placed the future before her like a blade wrapped in cloth. I had told her she would die. I had named dragons that would perish. I had warned her of Alicent, Otto, Aegon, and the rot already eating at Viserys.

There was no undoing that. If she believed me, everything changed. If she did not, I was finished. If she half-believed me, which was far more likely, then I had placed myself in the most dangerous position possible. Useful enough to keep close. Suspicious enough to watch. Too strange to ignore. Too informed to trust.

A knock came at the door. I closed my eyes for half a heartbeat. "Enter."

This time, it was a different servant, older and composed enough not to flinch when he saw me. He bowed. "Captain Galeris, Prince Daemon requests your presence in the training yard."

I looked toward the armour resting carefully near the wall. The thought of putting it back on made every bruise in my body object at once. Fortunately, the servant’s gaze moved to the clothes I had been given the previous evening and remained politely neutral.

"Did the prince say why?"

"No, Captain."

Naturally. "Tell him I will come shortly."

The servant bowed again and withdrew.

I dressed slowly, choosing the dark purple and black garments provided for me. They fit well enough, though I suspected they had been chosen in haste. Fine compared to camp clothing, modest compared to courtly excess. They made me look less like a battlefield relic, though World Breaker at my side ruined any attempt at harmlessness. I considered leaving the sword behind.

The thought lasted less than a second.

In the corridor, two guards waited to lead me through the Red Keep. Whether they were escorts, watchers, or both, I did not ask. The castle felt different by morning. Last night it had been all shadows and imagined threats.

Now it was movement, colour, and polished danger. Servants carried baskets and linens. Guards changed posts. Courtiers drifted through halls in conversation, pausing to glance at me as I passed.

The whispers had not stopped. If anything, they had improved with rest. "Captain Galeris."

"The Crabfeeder’s killer."

"Daemon’s man, they say."

"No, a sellsword."

"Valyrian blood."

"Look at the sword."

I kept my face calm. That was becoming a habit.

The training yard was already alive by the time I arrived. Men-at-arms drilled beneath the morning sun, steel ringing against steel. Younger knights practised under the eye of older masters.

Pages carried blunted weapons and shields nearly too large for them. The smell of sweat, leather, dust, and oiled metal washed over me like something familiar enough to be comforting.

Daemon stood near the centre of the yard with a practice blade in hand.

He was speaking to a knight when I entered, though his attention shifted to me immediately. He wore a dark tunic and riding leathers, looking more at home here than he ever would among tapestries. A faint smile touched his mouth.

"You look tired," he said.

"I slept poorly."

"First night in the Red Keep?"

"Yes."

"That happens. The walls whisper."

"I assumed that was the courtiers."

Daemon laughed and tossed the practice blade to a waiting squire. "They do worse than whisper."

I stopped a few paces away and bowed slightly. "You requested me, my prince?"

"I did."

"For what purpose?"

"To see if Bloodstone left you as useful as it found you."

That was not an answer I liked. A squire approached carrying another practice blade. Daemon took it and offered it to me hilt first.

I looked at the weapon, then at him. "I am still wounded."

"So am I."

"You have a strange definition of rest."

"I find rest boring."

"That explains much."

His grin sharpened. "Careful, Captain. You are less amusing if you make me like you."

"I shall try to become duller."

"Too late."

Against my better judgement, I accepted the practice blade.

It felt wrong in my hand compared to World Breaker. Heavier in some places, duller in others, without the subtle balance of Valyrian steel. Still, Othorion’s body adjusted quickly. Too quickly. I rolled my shoulder and winced when the movement tugged at the half-healed wound near my back.

Daemon noticed. "Still sore?"

"I had an arrow in my back a few days ago."

"And now you do not."

"A remarkable recovery, then."

"Exactly."

He attacked without warning. I barely brought the practice blade up in time. Wood struck wood with a crack that jarred my arms. Daemon pressed immediately, fast and sharp, giving no room for complaint. I stepped back, parried another strike, and turned aside from a third aimed at my ribs.

He was testing me. Not trying to hurt me seriously, perhaps, but close enough to make the distinction academic. Around the yard, men began to watch. That irritated me almost as much as the pain.

Daemon moved beautifully. That was the word, though I disliked giving it to him. His fighting had none of the desperate ugliness of the Crabfeeder or the disciplined practicality of Jasper.

Daemon fought like a man who enjoyed the sword as much as the victory, every movement confident, elegant, and cruel. He had the arrogance of someone who had been trained from childhood and had rarely met men good enough to punish him for mistakes.

Unfortunately, he was not merely arrogant. He was good.

I blocked, turned, and answered with a cut toward his shoulder. He slipped aside with a laugh and struck my blade hard enough to force my guard wide. I recovered, but the motion sent pain down my side. My breath caught for half a moment.

Daemon’s eyes lit. "There," he said. "Bloodstone did leave something."

"A healthy hatred of pirates."

"And court?"

"That began later."

He came again.

This time I did better. Not well enough to win, but well enough that the watching men quieted. Othorion’s instincts rose through the exhaustion, meeting Daemon’s speed with discipline and economy.

I could not match his freshness, but I did not need to. I let him spend movement, gave ground when needed, and struck only when a clear opening appeared. One such opening almost touched him.

Almost.

Daemon twisted at the last moment, my blade passing close enough to tug at his sleeve. His smile widened into something genuine and dangerous. "Not bad."

"I live for your praise."

"That sounds like a lie."

"It is."

He laughed, then struck harder.

I parried, but the force drove me back a step. Another blow came low. I caught it badly, pain flaring through my wounded side. My guard dipped. Daemon’s practice blade stopped just beneath my chin.

The yard went still. He leaned closer. "Dead."

"So I noticed."

"You are skilled."

"I am flattered."

"You are also tired, wounded, and too proud to say when you should stop."

"That may be true."

"It is."

He lowered the blade but did not step away. His eyes searched my face with uncomfortable focus. "And distracted."

There it was. I said nothing. Daemon circled slowly, the way a cat might circle something it had not decided whether to kill or play with. "You returned from the gallery yesterday looking as though someone had opened your skull and rearranged the contents."

"A poetic description."

"I am a prince. We are educated occasionally."

"Rarely, I assume."

He smiled. "There. That is better."

I kept my expression neutral. Daemon’s voice lowered slightly. "What did you and my niece discuss?"

"Tapestries."

His smile did not move. "You are becoming better at lying," he said. "Not good. Better."

"I would not wish to be too good. It seems unhealthy."

"Most useful skills are."

The practice yard continued around us, though badly. Men were pretending not to listen while listening very intently. Daemon knew it and enjoyed making the conversation seem casual enough that no one could accuse him of interrogation.

"Rhaenyra is curious," he said.

"She seems intelligent."

"She is."

"And proud."

"Also true."

"And more careful than she pretends."

Daemon’s eyes sharpened. "You noticed that quickly."

"It is difficult not to."

"Many men manage."

"Many men are fools."

"That was her line, not yours."

I cursed inwardly. Daemon’s grin returned. Not wide. Not obvious. But triumphant in the way of a man who had just found a loose thread. "She said that to you?"

"Something similar may have been said."

"In the gallery."

"I do not remember precisely."

"You remember precisely."

I looked at him. "Do you have a question, my prince, or merely a collection of suspicions?"

"Both."

"Then I hope they keep you entertained."

Daemon stared at me for a moment. Then he laughed.

The sound broke the tension enough that some of the watching men returned awkwardly to their drills. Daemon tossed his practice blade back to the squire and stepped closer, his amusement dimming into something more private.

"Be careful with her," he said.

The words were quiet. I looked at him. For once, he did not seem to be mocking.

"She is the king’s heir," I replied.

"She is my niece."

"I know."

"No," Daemon said. "You know facts. Do not mistake that for knowing what matters."

That landed too close to truth. He turned away before I could answer, calling for wine as if the conversation had meant nothing. I stood there with the practice blade in hand, heart beating faster than the short bout could explain.

Daemon did not know. Not fully. But he had sensed enough.

The morning worsened when Otto Hightower appeared.

He entered the yard without armour, without weapon, and without any need for either. Men moved aside for him as easily as they had for Daemon, though for different reasons. Daemon bent rooms by threat and charisma. Otto Hightower did so by making every man aware that he would remember who had failed to move.

"My prince," Otto said.

"Otto," Daemon replied, already bored.

"Captain Galeris."

I bowed. "My lord Hand."

"I hear Prince Daemon has decided to test your recovery."

"He has a generous concern for my health."

Daemon smiled into his cup.

Otto looked at the practice blade in my hand. "And how fares your health?"

"Improving."

"Good. The king would be displeased if his brother’s guest collapsed after only one day in the capital."

Daemon snorted. "Viserys would blame me."

"Correctly, perhaps."

The exchange was light enough on the surface. Beneath it, old hostility moved like something beneath water.

Otto turned his full attention to me. "I had hoped to speak with you."

Of course he had. "I am at your disposal, my lord Hand."

"A dangerous phrase in this castle," Daemon said.

Otto ignored him. "Walk with me."

It was not a request, though it wore the clothing of one.

I returned the practice blade to the squire and followed Otto toward the edge of the yard. Daemon did not stop us. That worried me more than if he had. He simply watched, wine in hand, with the expression of a man interested in seeing which knife struck first.

Otto led me beneath a shaded walkway overlooking the yard. "You have caused quite an impression," he said.

"I arrived with Prince Daemon. Impressions were unavoidable."

"A fair point."

He walked slowly, hands folded behind his back. "Your family is of Valyrian descent?"

"Yes."

"From where in Essos?"

"Several places over the generations. Volantis at one time, then disputed lands, Free Cities, wherever survival allowed."

"And now you command a sellsword company."

"The Dread Legion."

"Five thousand men."

"Near enough."

"A sizable force for one so young."

"My father built it. I inherited responsibility earlier than expected."

"Ah, yes. Your father died?"

"Of disease."

"My condolences."

"Thank you."

He sounded sincere enough to be polite and not sincere enough to be vulnerable. "And your brother commands them now?"

"In my absence."

"At sixteen."

"He is capable."

"So I have heard."

I looked at him. "From whom?"

Otto’s expression remained calm. "The Red Keep has many ears, Captain."

That was not comforting. He stopped near the end of the walkway, where the view opened onto part of the yard. Daemon was speaking with two knights now, though I doubted his attention had fully left us.

"Tell me," Otto said, "how long do you intend to remain in Westeros?"

There it was. The root of the matter. "I have not yet decided."

"Your contract with House Velaryon is completed?"

"Near enough. Payment and final terms remain."

"And after that?"

"I will consider opportunities."

"In Westeros?"

"Perhaps."

Otto turned his head slightly. "You understand why some might find that interesting."

"A foreign sellsword company of five thousand men lingering near Westerosi politics?" I asked. "Yes, my lord. I understand."

A faint smile touched his mouth. "Good. Awareness is useful."

"So is clarity."

"Indeed. Then allow me to be clear. The realm has little need for private armies without clear employment."

"The Dread Legion goes where it is contracted."

"And if it is contracted by a lord within the Seven Kingdoms?"

"Then that would depend on the lord, the contract, and whether the crown objected."

Otto studied me. I had given him enough respect not to insult him and enough uncertainty not to bind myself. Vaeron would have been proud, or furious that I was negotiating without him. Possibly both.

"You speak carefully," Otto said.

"I am in a careful place."

"Are you Daemon’s man?"

"No."

"No hesitation."

"It was an easy question."

"Is it? He brought you here. Presented you in court. Speaks of you with amusement, which for Prince Daemon is often a sign of interest."

"I was useful to his victory."

"Were?"

"I may still be useful. That is not the same as belonging to him."

Otto seemed to approve of the distinction. "And Princess Rhaenyra?" he asked.

The world narrowed. I kept my face still. "What of her?"

"She seemed interested in you yesterday."

"She was interested in the Stepstones."

"Was she?"

"As were many others."

"Few were escorted away from the gathering by you."

"Her Grace mentioned tapestries. The princess wished to see them. I offered courtesy."

"Courtesy," Otto repeated.

"Yes."

His gaze did not leave my face. "Be careful, Captain Galeris. Courtesy toward princesses can be misunderstood."

"I would not wish for misunderstanding."

"No," Otto said. "I imagine you would not."

For the first time, I felt the true edge beneath his calm. He did not know about the night visit. If he had, this conversation would be different. But he suspected proximity. Interest. Possibility. Perhaps that was enough for him to begin arranging precautions.

"Princess Rhaenyra is the king’s heir," Otto said. "Her reputation is of great importance."

"I understand."

"Do you?"

"Yes."

"Then understand this as well. Men who arrive suddenly, wrapped in blood and stories, often mistake attention for influence. Court can be generous with fascination and merciless with those who believe it means safety."

It was a warning. A polite one. That made it worse. I bowed my head slightly. "I will remember that, my lord Hand."

"See that you do."

He turned as if to leave, then paused. "One more thing."

"Yes?"

"Dragon dreams are dangerous subjects."

My blood went cold. For a heartbeat, I could not breathe.

Otto’s expression did not change. "The Targaryens are fond of old mysteries. Prophecy, blood, destiny. Such things can inspire. They can also destabilise. Wise men do not speak of them lightly."

I forced myself to answer. "I will remember that as well."

"Good."

He left me beneath the shade with my pulse hammering in my ears. He knew. No. Not knew. Suspected.

Had Alicent told him I had mentioned Valyrian dreams? Had a servant heard something? Had Rhaenyra spoken too openly? Or had Otto simply guessed from fragments, from the question in the garden, from Alicent’s interrupted conversation, from my sudden closeness to the princess?

With Otto, the difference barely mattered. He had found a thread. And Otto Hightower did not leave threads unpulled.

By midday, I had seen enough of court to understand that my position was worse than I had hoped and better than I deserved. Worse, because Otto was watching me. Better, because Rhaenyra had not betrayed me. Not yet. She appeared at luncheon with composure so complete that I might have doubted the previous night had happened if I had not lived it myself.

She did not look tired. That irritated me.

I looked like I had spent the night being interrogated by ghosts. Rhaenyra looked like a princess who had slept peacefully and risen to attend her duties. She greeted Viserys with warmth, Alicent with courtesy, and Daemon with that familiar mixture of affection and challenge. When her eyes passed over me, they did not linger.

Perfect. Too perfect. She had understood.

Whatever else she thought of me, she knew how to hide a secret.

The luncheon was smaller than the garden gathering but no less dangerous. Viserys sat at the centre, pleased to have Daemon near him. Alicent was present, though quieter than the day before.

Otto stood nearby for part of the meal before joining the table at the king’s request. Several lords and ladies filled the remaining spaces, enough to create conversation without allowing privacy.

I was placed lower than the royal family but close enough to be spoken to when someone remembered I existed. That suited me.

For a while, the talk remained harmless. Ships, trade, the Stepstones, the difficulty of maintaining supply routes, the cost of war. Then one lord, eager to flatter, raised his cup toward Viserys.

"The realm is blessed, Your Grace. Victory in the Stepstones, peace in the capital, and a young prince in the cradle."

Aegon. There it was. The word itself was not spoken, but it did not need to be. Alicent lowered her gaze toward her plate. Viserys smiled with fatherly pride, though I saw Rhaenyra still slightly beside him.

"To Prince Aegon," another lord said.

Several cups lifted. I lifted mine as well because doing otherwise would be foolish. Rhaenyra lifted hers a heartbeat later. Only a heartbeat. But I saw it. More importantly, she saw herself seeing it.

Her gaze moved quietly around the table. She watched who smiled too warmly. Who looked toward Alicent. Who looked toward Otto before drinking. Who watched her while pretending to honour the king’s son.

Then, very briefly, her eyes met mine. No expression passed between us. None that anyone else could read. But something had shifted. She was watching now. Not believing fully. Not trusting me. Not ready to reshape her life around my warnings.

But watching.

And once Rhaenyra began to watch, the court could no longer look quite the same.

Later, as the meal ended and the guests began to separate, she passed near me with a cup still in hand. She did not stop. She did not turn her body toward mine. To any observer, she merely moved through the room as the princess had every right to do.

Her voice reached me softly. "You said he would watch me."

I followed her gaze. Otto Hightower stood beside the king, speaking with calm attention while Viserys listened. His posture was respectful, his expression loyal, his hand resting lightly near the chain of office at his chest. Nothing about him looked threatening.

That was the genius of it. Rhaenyra’s face remained calm. "He already does," she murmured.

I did not look at her. "Yes," I said quietly. "He does."

She continued walking. No one noticed. Or if they did, they gave no sign.

I remained where I was, cup in hand, heart steady despite the danger that had just sharpened around us. Rhaenyra did not trust me. Not yet. Perhaps not for a long time. But the first crack had formed in the world she thought she knew, and through it she had seen Otto Hightower smiling beside her father.

That was enough for one morning. Across the room, Daemon watched me over the rim of his cup. And Otto Hightower, still speaking softly to the king, smiled as though nothing in the world had changed.