Rewriting Targaryen History

Chapter 22: Chapter 22: To Braavos

Caraxes returned me to the Stepstones before midday.

The flight was no kinder the second time. I had hoped familiarity might lessen the terror, but that was a foolish expectation. Knowing what to fear did not make fear smaller. It only gave it shape.

Each beat of Caraxes’s wings sent wind tearing across my face, each shift of his long body reminded me that nothing but leather straps and Daemon’s whim kept me from falling into the sea below. The Narrow Sea stretched beneath us like dark steel, broken only by white waves and scattered ships that looked insultingly small from dragonback.

Daemon enjoyed himself.

He flew lower than necessary more than once, letting Caraxes skim over the water until spray lashed against my boots. When I refused to react, he climbed sharply instead, dragging the world downward beneath us so quickly that my stomach seemed determined to stay behind. I did not scream, which I considered a personal triumph, though I did grip the straps hard enough that my fingers ached long after.

"You are improving," Daemon called over the wind.

"I disagree!"

"You did not sound like that last time."

"Last time I was too frightened to speak!"

His laughter vanished into the sky.

By the time Bloodstone came into view, I was almost grateful to see its scorched ridges and broken beaches. Almost. The island still looked ugly, jagged, and cruel, but it was familiar now. Familiar in the way a scar was familiar.

The Velaryon banners still flew over the camp, though fewer than before, and several ships had already departed to secure other parts of the Stepstones or return to Driftmark. The war was finished in all but maintenance. The Crabfeeder was dead, the Triarchy’s hold shattered, and the remaining work belonged to garrisons, patrols, and men who enjoyed pretending victory did not require administration.

The Dread Legion had been waiting.

I saw their camp before Caraxes landed. Purple banners moved in the sea wind, the white sword and crescent wreath standing out against the dust and salt. Tents had been struck in places. Wagons were loaded. Horses were watered and restless. Men stood in loose formations, not because they had been ordered to greet me, but because the sight of the Blood Wyrm descending from the sky had frozen half the camp into attention.

Caraxes landed with enough force to send sand and loose stones scattering.

Men stepped back quickly. A few horses panicked despite Landrey’s shouted curses. The dragon folded his wings and let out a low rumble that vibrated through the ground and settled somewhere unpleasant in my bones.

Daemon dismounted first with easy grace. I followed with less grace and more relief. The moment my boots touched the ground, I resisted the urge to kneel and thank every god I did not believe in. Instead, I straightened, adjusted my cloak, and pretended I had not spent most of the journey imagining my death in increasingly humiliating detail.

Vaeron was already moving toward me.

He did not run. He was too disciplined for that, and too aware of how many men were watching. But he walked quickly, his face controlled in the way that meant his temper was not.

Jasper followed a few paces behind him, arms folded and expression grim. Dick held a ledger under one arm. Rollis watched from near a supply wagon, calm as ever, while Emeric and Landrey stood nearby with the cautious interest of men who had many questions and enough sense not to ask them first.

Vaeron stopped in front of me. His eyes moved over me quickly. Armour. Face. Sword. No obvious new wounds. Only then did he breathe. "You are alive," he said.

"I did promise to try."

His expression hardened. "That was never a good promise."

"No," I admitted. "But it seems to have held."

For a moment, I thought he might embrace me. Instead, he looked past me to Daemon, and every trace of brotherly relief vanished beneath cold fury.

"My prince," Vaeron said.

The title was correct. The tone was not.

Daemon smiled. "Little Galeris."

Vaeron’s jaw tightened. "I trust my brother amused you."

"Greatly."

"How fortunate for everyone."

Several nearby soldiers went very still. I stepped half a pace sideways, placing myself just enough between them to be noticed without making the movement obvious. "Vaeron." His eyes remained on Daemon for another heartbeat before returning to me.

Daemon looked entertained, which was never a good sign. "Your brother survived King’s Landing. You should be proud."

"I am relieved," Vaeron said. "Pride can wait until I learn what he has done."

Daemon laughed. "Clever boy."

"He is standing here," Vaeron replied.

The smile on Daemon’s face sharpened.

I cut in before either of them could decide that the morning required blood. "My prince, I thank you for returning me to my men."

"Do you?"

"I choose to."

That amused him again. "Wise."

Caraxes shifted behind him, long neck curling as the dragon looked over the Dread Legion’s camp with unsettling attention. Men held their ground, but only because discipline was stronger than fear. I could see it in their faces. They had watched Seasmoke and Caraxes burn men from the sky, but seeing a dragon close enough to count its teeth was another matter entirely.

Daemon turned back toward me. "The Stepstones will remember you, Captain."

"I would prefer they remember the Dread Legion."

"They will remember the head on your sword first."

The words struck more sharply than he knew. Or perhaps he knew exactly. I kept my face still. "Memory is rarely kind."

"No," Daemon said. "But it is useful."

His eyes lingered on me a moment longer, then moved toward Vaeron, Jasper, the banners, the loaded wagons, the signs of departure. He understood more than I wanted him to. That was becoming a pattern.

"Braavos, is it?" he asked.

I went still. Vaeron looked at me sharply.

Daemon’s smile widened. "Court whispers. Servants listen. Captains should learn that plans spoken near princesses do not always remain as private as they hope."

My stomach tightened. He knew enough. Not everything. Surely not everything. But enough to remind me that secrets in King’s Landing were never entirely owned by those who spoke them.

"My company requires a financial centre," I said. "Braavos is suitable."

"So practical," Daemon said. "How dull."

"I am trying to improve."

"Do not improve too much. Dull men rarely change anything."

He turned toward Caraxes, then paused as though remembering one last cruelty. "Give my regards to your men, Captain. They seem very attached to you."

Vaeron’s face darkened.

Daemon mounted before anyone could reply. Caraxes rose with a scream that scattered birds from the rocks and made half the camp flinch despite themselves. Sand whipped across us as the dragon launched upward, wings beating hard enough to rattle loose canvas and send cloaks snapping.

Within moments, Daemon was above the camp, circling once as if Bloodstone remained a prize he enjoyed looking upon, then turning eastward toward whatever corner of his new kingdom required his attention.

Only when Caraxes had become a red shape against the sky did Vaeron speak. "Inside," he said.

It was not a request.

My command tent had been kept standing despite much of the camp being prepared for departure. I entered with Vaeron close behind me, and the moment the tent flap fell, he turned on me.

"What happened?"

"A great deal."

"That is not an answer."

"No."

His eyes narrowed. "Do not begin with evasions. I have spent days commanding your company after a prince stole you on dragonback. I have settled payments, arranged transport, dealt with Velaryon officers, kept the men from inventing six different rumours about your death, and endured Landrey asking whether dragons upset horses at a spiritual level. You will answer plainly."

Despite everything, I almost smiled. "At a spiritual level?"

"He was very serious."

"I missed a lot."

"You missed nothing compared to what you apparently did." Vaeron stepped closer. "King’s Landing. Viserys. Otto Hightower. Daemon. The princess. Braavos. What happened?"

I removed my gauntlets slowly, buying time that did not help. "The king received Daemon in court," I said. "Daemon gave up his Stepstones crown to Viserys and swore allegiance."

"That much reached us from Velaryon officers."

"Of course it did."

"And you?"

"I was introduced."

"As what?"

I hesitated. "As the man who killed the Crabfeeder."

Vaeron exhaled through his nose. "Naturally."

"It impressed some. Irritated others."

"Names."

"Viserys was warm. Curious. Otto was polite."

"Polite meaning dangerous."

"Yes. Alicent was careful. Daemon was Daemon."

"And Rhaenyra?"

There it was. Too quick. Too sharp. I looked at him. "She was interested."

Vaeron’s eyes did not move from mine. "In the Crabfeeder’s killer?"

"At first."

"At first," he repeated.

I walked to the small table where maps and ledgers had been kept during my absence. Dick had left them arranged neatly, of course. Routes, stores, remaining payments, ships under hire. Va, stores, remaining payments, ships under hireeron had managed everything with exactly the competence I had expected and the resentment he thought I had not noticed.

"The princess and I spoke," I said.

"About what?"

"Valyrian dreams."

Vaeron stared at me. For several seconds, the tent was silent. Then he said, very carefully, "Why?"

Because I needed a lie large enough to carry the truth. Because Rhaenyra already knew of prophecy. Because future knowledge sounds like madness unless dressed in the language of magic. Because I am trying to save a woman who does not yet know how much the world will take from her.

I gave him half of it. "Because she knows of a prophecy within House Targaryen," I said. "One concerning a threat from the North. I used that to warn her."

Vaeron’s face tightened. "Warn her of what?"

"The succession."

He closed his eyes briefly, as if asking patience from whatever gods quartermasters prayed to. "Othorion," he said. "Tell me you did not involve yourself in the succession of the Iron Throne while alone in the Red Keep."

I said nothing. His eyes opened. "You absolute fool."

"It was necessary."

"Necessary?" His voice rose, then lowered again with visible effort. "You were there for a handful of days."

"Yes."

"And in that time, you drew the attention of Daemon Targaryen, Otto Hightower, and the heir to the Iron Throne."

"Yes."

"Did you also insult the Faith, challenge a Lannister, and steal a dragon egg while you were there?"

"No."

"Small mercies."

I sighed. "Vaeron."

"No. Do not Vaeron me as if I am being unreasonable. You were taken from us by a prince with a dragon, returned by that same prince, and now I learn you have been whispering prophecy to Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen."

"It was not whispering."

"That does not improve it."

"She needed to know."

"Did she?" he asked. "Or did you need to tell her?"

The words struck harder than I liked. Vaeron saw that they had. I looked down at the maps. "Both."

He was silent for a while. When he spoke again, his anger had cooled into something more dangerous. "What exactly did you tell her?"

"Enough to make her watch Otto."

"That is not exact."

"No."

"Othorion."

I looked up. His expression was not merely angry now. He was worried. Deeply worried. The kind of worry that had lived in him since Myr, since he first noticed that something in his brother had changed and no answer I gave ever fully satisfied him.

"I told her there may be civil war if Aegon is placed against her," I said.

Vaeron’s face went still. "That is treasonous."

"Not if spoken as warning."

"That is the sort of distinction men make shortly before losing their heads."

"I know."

"Do you?"

"Yes."

He studied me again, and I saw the questions he was not asking. How could I know this? Why was I so certain? What had happened to his brother? How could I know this? Why was I speaking like a man haunted by memories that were not his?

I could not answer those questions. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. So I gave him half-truths, because half-truths were all I could safely give. "Since waking in Myr," I said quietly, "I have had dreams. Visions, perhaps. Memories of things that have not happened. I do not understand all of it, but enough has proven true that I cannot ignore it."

Vaeron did not look convinced. He also did not look dismissive.

That was the painful part. He knew me well enough, or knew Othorion well enough, to hear the lie beneath the shape of truth. But he also knew enough of what had changed since Myr to accept that something impossible had happened.

"And these dreams tell you Princess Rhaenyra’s claim will lead to war?"

"They tell me the realm will bleed because men refuse to accept her, and because those around her fail to prepare properly."

Vaeron looked away, jaw working. "And you intend to help her."

"Yes."

"With our company."

"With our future."

He turned back sharply. "Our future?"

"The Dread Legion cannot remain what it is forever."

That stopped him.

I placed both hands on the table, leaning over the map of the Narrow Sea. "Father built something remarkable. I know that. I honour it. But if we continue as we are, we spend the rest of our lives moving from contract to contract, killing for men who will forget our names the moment their problems are solved. We survive, perhaps grow richer, perhaps more respected. Then one day some battle goes badly, some lord refuses payment, some plague takes half the camp, and everything he built fades."

Vaeron’s anger quieted. He did not like the words, but he listened. "We have five thousand men," I said. "Coin. Discipline. A name that now carries weight from Essos to the Stepstones. We can become more than hired steel."

"By binding ourselves to a Targaryen princess?"

"By choosing a side before the world forces one upon us."

"That is not the same thing."

"No," I admitted. "But it may lead to the same place."

Vaeron looked down at the map, then reached out and tapped Braavos with one finger.

"And this?"

"Braavos: secure banking arrangements, purchase ships or long-term transport contracts, acquire armour, food stores, and equipment. We begin recruiting, but carefully. No swelling the ranks with men who will break at the first true test." I stated.

"Good."

I almost smiled. Logistics calmed him in a way nothing else could. "Then?" he asked.

"Then Astapor."

His finger stopped moving. "No."

"You have not heard the plan."

"I heard Astapor. That was enough."

"Vaeron."

"No." He stepped back from the table. "You want Unsullied."

"Yes."

"Slave soldiers."

"Yes."

"Do you hear yourself?"

"I do."

"Do you?" he demanded. "Because you speak as if we are discussing spears or grain. Men are not equipment to be purchased."

"I know."

"And yet?"

"And yet they are being purchased whether we approve or not," I said. "By Ghiscari masters, Volantene nobles, Qartheen merchants, and any warlord with enough coin and few enough scruples. If we buy them and free them into paid service, with rights, shares, and the choice to remain or leave after a term, then we may do some good while gaining soldiers no Westerosi lord can easily match."

Vaeron stared at me with disgusted disbelief. "That is a very pretty chain you have wrapped around an ugly thing."

The words hurt because they were fair. "I know."

"Do you?"

"Yes."

"Then say it plainly."

I held his gaze. "If we go to Astapor, we will buy men who were made into soldiers by cruelty beyond imagining. We will profit from their suffering even if we intend to free them afterwards. We will stain ourselves by touching the trade at all."

Vaeron said nothing.

"But if war comes," I continued, "discipline will matter. Infantry that does not break will matter. A force loyal to us and not to Westerosi politics will matter. If I can turn coin earned through two decades of sellsword work into an army that keeps Rhaenyra alive, keeps dragons from dying, and prevents the realm from tearing itself apart, then I have to consider it."

"You keep saying if."

"Because I am not foolish enough to call it clean."

"No," Vaeron said quietly. "Only necessary."

That was worse than anger. He turned away, one hand running through his silver-white hair. For the first time since I had returned, he looked sixteen. Not the vice-captain. Not the quartermaster. Not the boy who could tame ledgers and supply lines better than men twice his age. Just my younger brother, dragged into a future I could not fully explain and expected to make sense of the impossible because I needed him to.

"I am sorry," I said.

He laughed once, without humour. "For which part?"

"All of it."

"That is too large an apology to be useful."

"I know."

He looked back at me. "You should have told me sooner."

"Yes."

"You still have not told me everything."

"No."

"Will you?"

I wanted to say yes. I could not. "When I can."

Vaeron’s eyes searched mine, and for a moment I feared that would not be enough. Then he nodded once. Not acceptance. Not forgiveness. But postponement.

"I will prepare the company for Braavos," he said. "We have already hired enough ships to move the men, horses, and stores. With favourable weather, a month is reasonable. Longer if storms turn against us."

"Good."

"I will also begin reviewing what coin can be safely spent without weakening us."

"Good."

"And I will look into the price of Unsullied because apparently we are now the sort of men who discuss buying slave soldiers in order to save princesses from prophecies."

I winced. "When phrased like that, it sounds worse."

"It should sound worse."

"Fair."

Vaeron stepped toward the tent flap, then stopped. "Othorion." I looked at him.

"This princess," he said. "Rhaenyra."

"Yes?"

"Is she a cause, a political opportunity, or something else?"

I did not answer quickly enough. Vaeron’s expression tightened. "That is what I feared."

"It is not simple."

"It never is when men begin lying to themselves."

"I am not."

"Good," he said. "Then do not start."

He left before I could reply.

The Dread Legion sailed three days later.

Bloodstone receded behind us slowly, its ridges dark against the morning sky. I stood at the stern of the lead ship and watched the island shrink, feeling less triumph than I had expected.

Somewhere beneath that ugly ground lay one hundred and five of my men. Somewhere on the scorched ridge, the Crabfeeder had died beneath World Breaker. Somewhere in those caves, Heydrich Adler had learned that Othorion’s body could kill more easily than his mind could forgive.

The war was over. But Bloodstone did not feel finished with me. Vaeron stood beside me as the wind filled the sails. For a while, neither of us spoke.

Then he said, "Braavos first."

"Braavos first," I agreed.

"And then perhaps Astapor."

"Perhaps."

He glanced at me. "No. If you mean to do it, say so. I would rather argue against a decision than chase a shadow."

I looked east across the sea. "Then yes," I said. "If the coin holds and the opportunity is there, Astapor."

Vaeron nodded grimly. "Then we will need more than ships and coin. We will need translators, legal witnesses if we mean to free them properly, officers capable of integrating men who have never lived freely, and rules clear enough that our own soldiers know what they are and are not permitted to do."

Despite everything, I felt a small measure of relief. "You have been thinking about it."

"I have been trying not to," he said. "It did not work."

The voyage north was kinder than the first crossing had been. That alone felt like mercy.

The sea was still the sea, and no sane man trusted it fully, but the weather held fair more often than not. Winds pushed us steadily, and the ships moved in loose formation across the Narrow Sea toward Braavos.

Men who had dreaded the return voyage slowly began to relax when the first week passed without storm, sickness, or death. Landrey still complained about the horses. Emeric still complained about salt air and bowstrings. Jasper grew bored by the fifth day and began organising deck drills until the sailors threatened to throw him overboard. Rollis spent hours watching the horizon as if expecting the sea to confess something.

Dick, naturally, counted everything. Food stores. Water. Men. Arrows. Coin. Losses. Replacement costs. Future expenses. If numbers could be placed in a ledger, Dick found them and made them stand in neat rows.

Vaeron spent most days with him. That was how I knew he was still angry. When he was furious, he worked.

For my part, I tried to become useful. I trained lightly where space allowed, reviewed ship assignments, spoke with officers, and listened to reports from men who had held the company together in my absence.

The Dread Legion had not broken without me. Of course it had not. That should have reassured me, and it did. But it also reminded me that command was not ownership. The company was not mine simply because I had inherited it. It was a living thing, held together by habit, coin, loyalty, fear, respect, and the labour of men like Vaeron.

If I meant to change its future, I needed them with me. Not dragged behind me.

On the twelfth night of the voyage, Vaeron finally came to me without ledger or excuse.

I was near the bow, watching moonlight scatter across the water. The ship creaked beneath my boots, and the air smelled of salt and tar. Most of the crew slept. A few sailors worked quietly in the dark, shadows moving against canvas and rope.

Vaeron stood beside me. "You like her," he said.

I closed my eyes briefly. "That is how you begin?"

"Yes."

"No discussion of supplies first?"

"I thought I would try something unexpected."

"It is unsettling."

"Answer."

I looked out over the sea. "I barely know her."

"That was not the question."

"No," I admitted.

He waited. I sighed. "She is not only what I expected."

"No one ever is."

"In my dreams," I said carefully, "she was history. A name. A tragedy. In King’s Landing, she was real."

Vaeron leaned against the rail. "And pretty." I gave him a flat look. He shrugged. "It seemed relevant."

"She is intelligent. Proud. Frightened, though she hides it well. Too used to being loved by her father and not used enough to being opposed by men who smile while doing it."

"And pretty."

"Vaeron."

"I am only ensuring the record is complete."

Despite myself, I smiled. It faded quickly. "She kissed my cheek before I left," I said.

Vaeron went very still. "Ah."

"It was not..."

"Do not insult me."

I stopped.

He rubbed his face with one hand. "You warned a princess of civil war, offered her the future allegiance of our company, discussed building an army for her, and she kissed your cheek."

"When you say it like that..."

"It sounds exactly as reckless as it is."

"Yes."

He looked at me sideways. "Does she trust you?"

"No. Not fully."

"Good. That means she has sense."

"She is beginning to believe me."

"That is more dangerous."

"I know."

"Do you?"

I almost laughed. "You ask that often."

"You require it often."

The words were familiar enough to make both of us pause. Then Vaeron looked back out to sea. "What did you tell her about us?"

"That I would not abandon her. That the company could become something greater than hired steel. That if she accepted it, one day our allegiance might be hers."

Vaeron was quiet for a long time. When he spoke, his voice was softer. "And what did she say?"

"She repeated the word."

"Allegiance?"

"Yes."

"As if she wanted it?"

"As if she understood what it meant."

Vaeron nodded slowly.

Five thousand men. More, if Braavos and Astapor changed things. A disciplined company with its own command, treasury, and growing legend. In Westeros, that was not nothing. It would never replace dragons, fleets, or great houses, but it could tip a balance if placed correctly.

And that was before future knowledge. "She may use you," Vaeron said.

"Yes."

"You may use her."

"Yes."

"You may both pretend otherwise if you begin liking each other too much."

I had no answer. Vaeron sighed. "At least you know."

The ship cut through the dark water, carrying us farther from Bloodstone and closer to whatever we were becoming.

"I want a better life for them," I said after a while.

Vaeron did not ask who I meant. The men. The company. The Dread Legion.

"I am tired of the idea that our only future is another contract," I continued. "Another frightened magistrate. Another merchant prince. Another border lord. Another battlefield that means nothing once the coin is paid. Father built us to survive, but perhaps survival was only the first step."

Vaeron’s expression softened slightly. "He would have liked hearing that."

"Would he have agreed?"

"Not immediately."

That made me smile faintly. "No?"

"He would have argued for three days, called you ambitious, asked for numbers, insulted your assumptions, and then secretly begun planning how to make it work."

"I wish I knew him better."

Vaeron looked at me sharply. I realised the mistake too late. Othorion should not have said that. Not like that. I kept my gaze on the water.

After a moment, Vaeron said quietly, "You knew him."

"Yes," I said. "I mean I wish I had understood him better before he died."

Another half-truth. Another small wound. Vaeron accepted it, or chose to.

"Then build something worthy of him," he said. "But do not pretend worthy means large. Men like Landrey will think that. Jasper too, perhaps. Bigger company. More banners. More songs. That is not enough."

"No."

"If we take in Unsullied, if we recruit more men, if we bind ourselves to a princess and become something beyond sellswords, then we need laws of our own. A code stronger than coin. Otherwise we will become just another army convinced its purpose excuses its crimes."

I looked at him. He was sixteen. Sometimes I forgot that. More often, he made it impossible to believe.

"You are right," I said.

"I usually am."

"Do not ruin it."

He almost smiled.

"We will write it in Braavos," he said. "Before Astapor. Before new contracts. Before oaths to princesses. A charter for the Dread Legion. What we are. What we refuse. What our men are owed. What happens to those we free, recruit, or command. If we are going to become something else, then we decide what that is before necessity decides for us."

I felt something settle inside me. Not peace. Direction.

"Yes," I said. "A charter."

Vaeron nodded. "Good. Then perhaps we are not entirely doomed."

"High praise."

"Do not grow used to it."

The month passed with fair winds and uneasy planning.

By the time the first Braavosi ships appeared on the horizon, long and lean against the pale morning, the Dread Legion had changed in ways no man outside its command could yet see. No banners had been remade. No oaths sworn. No Unsullied bought, freed, or folded into our ranks.

But the idea had taken root. In ledgers, in conversations, in arguments between brothers beneath moonlight, in the quiet understanding that we were sailing toward something larger than another contract.

Braavos emerged from mist and sea like a city conjured by wealth and defiance. The Titan came first.

It rose from the water with sword in hand, vast and grim, guarding the entrance to the lagoon as if daring the world to challenge what lay beyond. Men gathered along the rails to stare. Even veterans fell silent. I had read of the Titan. Othorion had seen it before. Neither memory lessened the sight of it.

Vaeron stood beside me, ledger tucked beneath one arm. "Braavos first," he said.

I looked up at the Titan’s stone face, then beyond it toward the city where coin, ships, secrets, and futures waited. "Braavos first," I agreed.

And after that, Astapor.