Rewriting Targaryen History

Chapter 21: Chapter 21: The Forming of a Plan

I looked at her as she stared back with keen interest. For a moment, I wanted to ask whether she had been followed, where she had been, who had seen her, and whether she had moved carefully enough through the Red Keep now that Otto Hightower had begun paying closer attention to us both. He knew we had spoken of dragon dreams, or at least suspected enough to make the subject dangerous, and that alone should have made this visit impossible.

But Rhaenyra was already here, the door was closed, the hour was late, and by morning Daemon would take me back across the Narrow Sea, leaving no time left for caution to pretend it could save us from everything.

"Very well," I sighed. "The civil war already began with your father marrying Alicent Hightower."

Rhaenyra’s expression sharpened as I continued before she could interrupt. "As you are probably aware, if he had intended to marry purely for duty, he would have chosen Laena Velaryon. That match would have bound the Iron Throne more firmly to Driftmark, soothed Lord Corlys, strengthened the royal fleet, and kept House Velaryon from feeling slighted yet again. Instead, Otto Hightower placed his daughter close to your father at exactly the right time, and Viserys married her because loneliness, affection, desire, and comfort are often stronger than sense."

Rhaenyra’s mouth tightened. It was not easy to hear, and I knew that. Alicent had once been her closest companion, Viserys was her father, and Otto was a man she had likely disliked for years without fully understanding the depth of his ambition. To frame the marriage not as romance, grief, or royal healing, but as the first stone laid on the road to civil war, was cruel, but it was also necessary.

"Now that they have Aegon," I said, "the path is more solid. Not fixed beyond all change, but solid enough that men have begun to imagine walking it."

Rhaenyra shook her head. "Surely there is a way to avoid war and bring peace."

My eyes wavered as a terrible answer formed in my mind, one belonging to colder men than I wished to become, yet pretending it did not exist would be cowardice. "The only certain way to prevent the war would be to kill Aegon and Alicent before any faction can form around them."

Rhaenyra went still, and the room seemed to shrink around the words. "But that," I continued quickly, "would create a whole new set of horrors...kinslaying, regicide in all but name, a murdered queen, a murdered child. Your father would break, the Hightowers would become martyrs, the Faith would howl, and half the realm would call you a monster even if you had no part in it. War might still come, only under a different banner and with greater hatred."

Rhaenyra stared at me, disgust and alarm mingling in her face. "You speak very calmly of murdering my brother."

"I speak of it because others may think of it," I replied. "Terrible problems invite terrible solutions when men become desperate, but that does not mean I support it. I would not help you save House Targaryen by beginning with the murder of a child."

Her expression softened only slightly as I leaned forward. "The war may still come regardless of what we do. The question is whether we can prevent it entirely, or failing that, weaken it before it begins, reduce its supporters, deny it fuel, and minimise the death toll."

Rhaenyra’s eyes narrowed. "We?"

I held her gaze, aware of the weight of that word. "I cannot simply abandon you after revealing all this, can I?"

"You could."

"I could," I admitted, "but I will not."

"Why?"

Because I had spent too many years in another life raging helplessly at mistakes I could never touch, because I had crossed from one world into another and discovered that knowledge was not a gift if I used it only to make myself powerful, and because I had seen Bloodstone’s dead, held the Crabfeeder’s head on my sword, and learned that victories without purpose rotted quickly in a man’s hands.

"Because the fate of the continent hangs in the balance," I said. "And because I do not think I could sleep at night knowing I had a chance to do something and chose not to."

Rhaenyra’s expression softened, not fully, but enough that something in her eased. Perhaps hearing that she would not be left alone with the knowledge gave her comfort, or perhaps she simply liked knowing that someone, even a strange sellsword with impossible warnings, was willing to stand beside her against a future that had begun to look far less secure than it had days earlier.

I rose from the bed and pulled out a chair for her. She looked briefly amused by the courtesy but accepted it, sitting with the careful posture of a princess who had been taught to make even secrecy look graceful.

I took the other chair opposite her as candlelight flickered between us, catching on the edge of World Breaker’s pommel where the sword lay within reach. There was a great deal to say, far too much.

"We are coming close to the beginning of 114 AC," I said. "That means a new series of events will soon begin to unfold. Your brother is only a few months old, and you are sixteen, so for now there is no true immediate threat. Aegon is an infant; he cannot scheme, claim, or even understand the crown men already imagine for him."

Rhaenyra’s face tightened as I continued. "But within a year, the vultures will begin trying to marry you off and place distance between you and the capital."

"So Father will allow me to be sold off like livestock?" she asked, her voice sharp enough to cut.

"No, not at first. He will grant you the choice he did not properly give himself. You will be allowed to look for a husband among the great houses, and lords will present themselves with pride, hope, and entitlement thick enough to choke on."

A faint smile touched her mouth. "That sounds unpleasant."

"It is."

"You speak as though you watched it happen."

"In a way."

The smile vanished, and I did not elaborate. "The choice is taken from you after you and Daemon are caught exploring a brothel."

Rhaenyra winced. "Me and my uncle in a brothel, it sounds like the start of a bad joke."

"No, Princess. It is very real, or it was meant to be."

Her gaze snapped back to mine. "Meant to be?"

"I changed history."

The words sat heavily between us as she leaned forward. "How?"

"The war in the Stepstones was not meant to end this early. The Crabfeeder was supposed to remain a thorn in Daemon and Corlys’s side for longer, dragging the war on nearly another year. I finished it early; I offered the plan, became the bait, killed the Crabfeeder, and returned to the capital with Daemon a year before he was meant to return."

Rhaenyra said nothing as I continued. "It was upon his return that you snuck out with him, and that night gave Otto Hightower exactly what he needed to damage you. He used the scandal to discredit you, wound your relationship with Alicent, and force your father into action. Daemon was exiled again, and you were pressed toward marriage with Laenor Velaryon."

"Laenor," she repeated quietly.

"Yes."

"He does not fancy women?"

I hesitated, then shook my head. "No."

Rhaenyra absorbed that with a complicated expression, more frustration than surprise. "And my father would force me to marry him anyway?"

"After the scandal, yes."

She looked away, and I watched her carefully, seeing the change in how she regarded me. She no longer saw only a madman or spectacle; there was still doubt, but now she listened like someone beginning to hear truth beneath the impossible.

"What should I do, then?" she asked. "You keep telling me what will happen, not how to stop it."

There was irritation in her voice, and fear beneath it, which was good, because fear alone could paralyse while irritation demanded action. "For now, you must act like the daughter Viserys expects you to be," I said.

Her brows rose. "That is your grand advice?"

"Yes."

"How inspiring."

"No scandals, no open defiance, no reckless flights into the city with Daemon, and no giving Otto easy weapons. You must bide your time and use court to gauge who supports you, who fears you, who flatters you, and who looks past you toward your brother."

Rhaenyra leaned back, displeased but listening as I continued. "Lord Beesbury is one you should grow closer to. He will live long enough to speak against Otto’s betrayal, and he will die for it. Men willing to die for your claim should not be discovered only when they are already old and surrounded by enemies."

That struck her, and I saw it in the way her mouth closed around whatever sharp reply she had prepared. "Lord Lyonel Strong should also be valued. He is not perfect, but he is steadier than most and less poisoned by faction than many. Do not waste men like that by assuming your father’s affection is enough to hold the realm together."

Rhaenyra nodded slowly. It was simple advice, perhaps dull, but practical, asking her to watch, restrain herself, and gather strength quietly without alerting half the court.

"I can do that," she said. "But for how long? Until I am married off? What are the next steps?"

"You will be able to choose your husband," I said. "My advice would be to choose someone who supports you completely and strengthens your faction in ways others cannot."

Rhaenyra studied me, then said suddenly, "So I should marry you, then."

I almost swallowed my tongue, and for several seconds no words came. Marriage to a princess, the heir to the Iron Throne, was absurd and dangerous beyond measure, something no man of my station should entertain unless he wished to be destroyed by every great house insulted by the match.

Yet some treacherous part of me did entertain it, a quieter and far more foolish part that saw Rhaenyra watching me in candlelight and wondered what it would mean to stand beside her as something more than an adviser. That thought was dangerous, and I buried it.

Rhaenyra chuckled softly. "You should see your face, Captain."

"I imagine it looks appropriately horrified."

"Does the thought of being married to me scare you?"

"Not at all," I said too quickly. "It merely took me off guard."

"Of course."

"Besides, it is cruel to joke about executions."

Her smile widened. "Executions?"

"If I suggested such a match aloud, half the court would begin measuring my neck for a block, and the other half would argue over who gets to swing the axe."

Rhaenyra laughed quietly, though she did not dismiss the idea, which unsettled me more than the joke itself. After a moment, she pivoted. "What will you do? I doubt I will see you for a while."

It was a fair assumption. I was being removed from court thanks to Otto’s pressure and Daemon’s whims, and now I had a chance to return to my men, rebuild my strength, and prepare for what was coming.

The problem was that preparation could not happen from sentiment alone. Warnings would not win a war. Prophecy would not hold a shield wall. If the Dance came, then Rhaenyra would need more than frightened knowledge and a few loyal lords.

"My men and I will go to Braavos first," I said.

"Braavos?"

"Yes. The Dread Legion has amassed a fortune over two decades. My father did not build the company by spending coin as quickly as he earned it, and Vaeron has guarded our accounts like a dragon sleeping on gold. If we are to become more than a sellsword company drifting from contract to contract, then Braavos is where I need to begin."

Rhaenyra smirked. "And what does a mercenary captain need from Braavos?"

"Ships, bankers, armourers, grain merchants, and men who understand how to move coin without half the world noticing," I said. "Braavos gives me access to money, contracts, supplies, and distance from Westerosi eyes. From there, I can strengthen the company properly rather than simply gathering every desperate blade in Essos."

Her interest sharpened. "So you mean to expand."

"Yes," I said. "But not recklessly. Numbers alone are not enough. A large army of undisciplined men is only a mob with better steel. I need soldiers who can hold formation, follow orders, and stand firm when dragons, cavalry, or panic would break lesser men."

"And where will you find such soldiers?"

I hesitated. This was the part that sat uneasily in my stomach. "Astapor," I said.

Rhaenyra’s expression changed. "The Unsullied."

"Yes."

"Slave soldiers."

"There is no way to make that clean," I admitted. "The Unsullied are among the finest infantry in the world, perhaps the finest disciplined foot soldiers alive. They can hold against cavalry, mobs, fear, and exhaustion in ways most armies cannot. But buying them means touching the vilest trade in Essos."

"Then why do it?"

"Because if I do not, another man will," I said. "Because war rarely allows clean hands. Because if I can buy some and free them into proper service, with pay, rights, and choice after a term, perhaps that is better than leaving them in chains until some slaver sells them to a crueller master."

Rhaenyra studied me carefully. "That sounds like something you have already told yourself."

"It is."

"And do you believe it?"

"I am trying to."

The honesty seemed to satisfy her more than certainty would have. I looked toward the window where night pressed dark against the glass, imagining Braavos first, with its canals, bankers, and hidden wealth, then the long road south and east toward Slaver’s Bay.

It was an ugly path, but perhaps necessary. If I wanted to change a war before it began, then I needed power that did not depend on the promises of men who might abandon Rhaenyra when the first dragon screamed.

"I need soldiers," I said. "But more than that, I need the Dread Legion to become something men cannot dismiss. Not merely a sellsword company. Not merely foreigners hired for coin. Something steadier. Something with purpose."

Rhaenyra’s eyes held mine. "What would it become?"

"Yours, perhaps."

The silence that followed was heavy. Rhaenyra looked away first, though not before I saw something pass through her face. Relief, temptation, or perhaps the dawning awareness that such a force could be hers if she dared accept it. A force not inherited from Viserys, not borrowed from Daemon, not dependent on Velaryon pride or Hightower goodwill.

A force built before the war began.

"When will I see you again?" she asked, and there was almost a hint of sorrow in her voice.

"I will return, hopefully within a year, with more men and a company ready for something greater. We may swear allegiance to you, if you will accept it."

"Allegiance," she whispered as she rose and stepped closer, too close, the candlelight softening her features without erasing their sharpness.

"Do not forget me, Captain."

"I doubt that will be possible."

Her mouth curved slightly. "Good." She leaned closer, close enough that I could smell the faint trace of perfume in her hair. "I can always fly to Braavos on Syrax and drag you back if I wish."

The hairs on my body stood upright, and I could not tell whether she was joking. "A simple summons and a ship would suffice."

"Less dramatic."

"Far safer."

"I am Targaryen. We are not known for choosing safety."

"That is exactly what worries me."

She smiled, then softened, and before I could speak, she leaned forward and kissed me gently on the cheek. It was not quite a lover’s kiss, too brief and controlled, but far from meaningless, and the warmth of it struck through me as she noticed my reaction and smiled again.

"If I have need of you, I will come to Braavos and find you."

She stepped back, drew her hood over her hair, and moved toward the door. "Princess," I said quietly. She paused. "Be careful."

Rhaenyra looked back at me, the teasing gone. "So should you."

Then she slipped out, leaving me alone with the candlelight, the silence, and the fading warmth of her kiss. I stood there for several moments as the entire conversation replayed in fragments: Aegon, Alicent, Laenor, Daemon, the brothel, Beesbury, the Unsullied, allegiance, marriage, Syrax, and her lips against my skin. It was too much.

I had meant to warn her and guide her, but instead I had given her a future to fear and perhaps a reason to think of me as more than a stranger, which was dangerous for her, for me, and for everything I was trying to change.

I sat heavily on the bed, pressing a hand over my face. In my old life, I had imagined saving Rhaenyra with logic and knowledge, not this tangled reality where she stood in my room at night, proud and afraid, teasing me about marriage one moment and speaking of allegiance the next.

I had not imagined wanting her to believe in me as badly as I now did, and that was the most dangerous part, because the future was no longer only history to be corrected—it had a face, and tomorrow I would leave it behind.

The rest of the night passed without sleep, and when dawn came, I was already dressed. My armour was packed, though I wore enough for travel, and World Breaker hung at my side as a servant led me to the yard where Daemon waited.

The Red Keep was quiet in the pale light, too quiet for a place that felt like a nest of sleeping knives, and as I walked its halls, I wondered who had seen too much, who might speak at the worst possible moment.

Outside, the morning air was cool, and Caraxes waited like a nightmare of red scale and heat. The dragon’s eyes fixed on me with unpleasant recognition as Daemon stood beside him, dressed for flight and far too pleased.

"You look worse than last time," he said.

"I slept less."

"Fear of flying?"

"Fear of court."

"Wiser."

I looked at him. "You seem cheerful."

"I am leaving King’s Landing, which would improve many men’s moods, mine especially."

He watched me as servants secured my baggage. "Any farewells?"

"No formal ones."

"Informal?" I held his gaze, and Daemon smiled slowly. "I thought so."

I said nothing, knowing denial would only amuse him further. Viserys had not come to see us off, which did not surprise me, and Otto was absent as well, though I doubted he was unaware. Rhaenyra was not there, which should have relieved me, but did not.

Daemon climbed first, settling into the saddle with ease, and I followed with less grace, gripping the straps as Caraxes shifted beneath us. Before we rose, I looked back toward the Red Keep, where high above on a balcony a lone figure stood in the morning light, silver-gold hair moving in the wind.

Rhaenyra did not wave, and neither did I; we only looked at one another across the distance, too far for words and too watched for gestures. Then Caraxes screamed and launched into the sky, the Red Keep dropping away beneath us as King’s Landing spread below like a board of pieces I had only begun to understand. Wind tore at my face as the city shrank and the Blackwater opened ahead, Daemon laughing at something I could not hear.

I held tight and looked back once more, seeing Rhaenyra still on the balcony before the clouds swallowed the castle and she was gone.