Rewriting Targaryen History

Chapter 69: Chapter 69: The Newest Dragon Rider

Driftmark turned to chaos when Prince Aemond was reported missing.

House Velaryon servants and soldiers scoured High Tide in search of the silver-haired prince. Doors were thrown open, torches were lit, guards shouted across corridors, and the quiet order of mourning collapsed into fear. A missing child was dangerous enough. A missing Targaryen prince on the night Vhagar roared was something far worse.

It could only mean one thing. The original story was remaining true. Aemond Targaryen would claim the largest and most senior dragon in existence at only eight and a half years old.

While everyone searched for Aemond, I knew he was not the one I needed to worry about first. If history had kept its old shape, then he was most likely already soaring on Vhagar’s back, holding on for dear life while the ancient dragon tore through the night sky above Driftmark.

No, the children I needed to find were the others. My sons as well as Baela and Rhaena.

I rushed first to the rooms of my youngest children. Viserys II was sound asleep, curled beneath his blankets with one hand still closed around the little wooden dragon he had brought from King’s Landing. For once, I thanked whatever gods had made him too young to chase danger properly. Aerion and Rhaegar remained in their quarters as well, though Rhaegar was awake, sitting upright in bed with a scowl on his face.

"Aerion snores like a dying boar," Rhaegar complained before I could ask.

Aerion, still asleep, made a sound that did not help his brother’s case.

"You will remain here," I told him. "No matter what you hear outside, no matter who shouts, and no matter how curious you become, you will stay in this room until your mother, or I come for you."

Rhaegar looked toward the door, fear and excitement warring on his face. "Is it Vhagar, Father? I heard something large outside, and the servants were running as if the castle had caught fire."

"It may be Vhagar," I said, keeping my voice steady for him. "That is why you will stay here and protect your brother by not adding yourself to the list of children I must find."

That reached him. He nodded and sat back against the pillows, trying to look older than five and failing in a way that hurt to see.

When I reached Jacaerys and Lucerys’s room, their beds were empty. Both boys were gone.

They had likely woken to the sound of Vhagar and gone to investigate, curious children drawn toward danger because noble blood did not make common sense grow faster. I felt my stomach turn cold.

Rhaenyra remained with the younger children while I took four Unsullied with me. Twenty had accompanied me to Driftmark, but mustering them all would have raised panic through the castle and turned a child’s mistake into the beginning of a siege.

"My sons must be found immediately," I told the four in High Valyrian. "Search carefully, but do not frighten the household unless there is no other choice."

They nodded firmly without a word spoken.

We searched the nearby corridors first, then the adjoining chambers, then the lower passages. Each moment stretched too long. The sound of Vhagar had faded, which meant the flight had already happened. If the old shape of the story held, then Aemond had landed. And if Aemond had landed, then the fight would soon follow.

Time was running out.

One of the Unsullied returned from a side passage and gestured toward a narrow entrance cut into the stone near the lower part of the castle. A servant’s way, or perhaps an older tunnel leading toward the rocks. There had been movement there, he indicated. Small bodies. Children.

It had to be them.

Voices reached us as we approached, faint at first, soft as feathers dragged over stone. Then they grew louder. Sharper. More frightened.

My men and I sprinted. I hoped, foolishly, to foil the original story.

I arrived too late.

The cave entrance opened into a low, cold space beneath the castle, where torchlight shook across stone and threw every shadow into ugly shape. What lay before me was the horror of a story I had known, changed just enough to mock me.

My boys were bruised and beaten. Jacaerys stood half in front of Lucerys, blood running from his nose and one ear, his nightclothes torn at the shoulder. Lucerys’s lip was split, his cheek already swelling, and small cuts marked his elbows and hands. Behind them stood Baela and Rhaena.

Rhaena had a black eye.

The bruise was dark and swollen beneath her small face, shiny in the torchlight, obscene on a child that young. It made my skin crawl. No grieving girl should have borne such a mark on the night she buried her mother.

Aemond Targaryen was on the ground, screaming with one hand pressed to his face. Blood poured between his fingers.

A rock lay in Lucerys’s trembling hand, red at one edge.

For half a heartbeat, I could only stare. Then fury found my voice. "What have you done?" I demanded, looking at all of them, because no child in that cave stood untouched by blame or fear.

Jacaerys and Lucerys went stiff. Baela pulled Rhaena closer. Aemond was too consumed by pain to notice the sternness in my voice.

Lucerys stepped toward me, shaking so badly the bloodied rock slipped from his fingers and struck the ground. "Father, I am sorry. I lost control because he hit Rhaena, and then he hurt Jace. I did not mean to take his eye."

Rhaena stepped forward before I could answer. Tears welled in her eyes, but she forced the words out. "It is not Luke’s fault. He protected me from Aemond after Aemond hit me."

Baela lifted her chin, though her own face was pale. "Aemond said Vhagar chose him because Rhaena was too weak, and when Rhaena pushed him, he struck her hard enough to knock her down."

Jacaerys wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. "Luke only used the rock after Aemond struck me with one first. He was going to hit me again, Father."

Before I could say anything more, the door connecting the cave to the castle burst open. Targaryen men-at-arms poured in with torches and drawn steel, only to stop at the sight before them: children bloodied, a prince maimed, and four Unsullied standing at my back like silent judgement.

The guards looked at me with caution. I did not protest when they insisted the children be brought before the King. To refuse would only create more danger. I had found them too late, and now the matter had grown beyond a father’s discipline.

We returned to the great hall under torchlight.

By the time we arrived, the room was full. Grief had been replaced by accusation before anyone had even spoken. Rhaenys had Baela and Rhaena near her, one arm around each girl, though her eyes burned when she saw Rhaena’s bruised face. Daemon stood behind them, still as a drawn blade. Rhaenyra rushed to our sons, her face paling at the sight of their injuries.

Lucerys had a cut lip, a bruise on his cheek, and several small cuts along his hands and elbows. Jacaerys had taken the worst of the beating, probably shielding his younger brother. His nose was bloodied, blood had run from one ear, and thin cuts marked his neck and forearms. He tried to stand straight when Rhaenyra reached him, but he swayed enough that I nearly moved to catch him.

Across the room, Aemond sat in a chair while Alicent hovered over him in visible panic. A maester worked at his eye with trembling care. Blood had soaked the cloth beneath his hand.

"How bad is the wound?" Alicent asked, her voice tight with fear. "Tell me plainly, Maester. Can my son’s eye be saved?"

The maester lowered his head. "Your Grace, the wound can be cleaned and closed, but the eye itself is lost. Prince Aemond will never see from it again."

Alicent went red.

Her hands trembled. Her brow furrowed, and when she turned from Aemond to the King, the composed mask of the Queen had cracked so completely that only the mother remained beneath it.

"Your son was maimed," Alicent said, each word violent with restraint. "These savage boys cut out our child’s eye, and he will never see from it again."

Viserys studied her face. Her fury was seething through the composed demeanour she usually wore like armour. He looked exhausted, ill, and heartsick before the questioning even began.

"I will have the truth of what happened," Viserys demanded, looking toward the children. "No more shouting, no more accusations thrown across the hall. You will speak clearly, and you will speak honestly before your King."

Lucerys stepped forward. To his credit, he did not hide behind Rhaenyra. His hands shook, but he faced his grandfather.

"Aemond claimed Vhagar," Lucerys said. "Rhaena was upset because Vhagar had been her mother’s dragon. When she confronted him, Aemond said the dragon no longer belonged to her and pushed her to the floor."

He paused, looking nervously toward me. I nodded for him to continue.

"When Rhaena fell, I pushed him back. Then he started hitting me and said sellsword princes should not presume to touch him. Rhaena tried to stop him, but he struck her in the eye. Jace came between us, and Aemond hit him with a rock. I thought he was going to hit Jace again, so I grabbed another rock and hit him back."

Viserys’s face changed at the phrase. "Sellsword princes," he repeated softly.

He turned toward me, perhaps expecting outrage. Truthfully, the insult meant little to me when aimed at my pride. It was petty, predictable, and born from adults too cowardly to say plainly what they taught their children to repeat. But for a child to say it to another child, with such bitterness behind it, was cruel.

Viserys turned next to Aemond, his warmth fading. "Is this true, Aemond? Did you strike Rhaena, and did you use that insult against your nephews?"

Before Aemond could answer, Alicent stepped forward. "You ask him as if he is the accused. These children ambushed your son after he claimed a dragon. He was outnumbered, beaten, and maimed, and now you question him as though he brought this upon himself."

Viserys turned to her slowly. "Have you looked at young Rhaena’s face, Alicent? Do you believe that bruise appeared there by accident, or that a grieving girl half his size was a threat that required such force?"

"What of your son’s eye, Viserys?" Alicent replied sharply. "Does that not matter to you because the wound was done by Rhaenyra’s child?"

The room tightened.

Daemon’s hand flexed once at his side. Rhaenys’s eyes remained fixed on Alicent. Corlys looked between the children with the grim exhaustion of a man whose daughter’s funeral had become the stage for another family’s war.

Viserys said nothing for a moment. Then he looked to Rhaenyra and me, and finally to the children.

"It is clear that all involved have suffered at each other’s hands," he said. "Aemond has lost an eye, Rhaena has been struck, and Jacaerys and Lucerys have been beaten. I will not allow this night to become a contest of which child’s wound deserves the most blood in payment. The matter is finished."

Alicent’s composure vanished.

"What of retribution for this grievance?" she demanded. "Your son has lost an eye, and you would call it finished because saying the word spares you from making a choice."

Viserys struck his cane against the floor. "Enough, Alicent. I will not have more blood taken from children tonight to satisfy rage disguised as justice."

Alicent shook her head, fury and grief twisting together until they became something frightening. "If you will not act for our son, then I shall."

Her gaze snapped to the newest member of the Kingsguard.

"Ser Crakehall, bring me Lucerys Targaryen’s eye."

Every eye turned to Ser Curtis Crakehall.

He was a tall man, not yet thirty, broad through the shoulders, with dark blond hair and green eyes that gave away nothing. A cousin of Lord Crakehall, he had been placed in the Kingsguard after Cole’s death, not because he was the finest knight in the Seven Kingdoms, and not because the King had needed him close. He was there because Otto Hightower had learned from losing Criston Cole that the Queen required steel inside the white cloaks.

Ser Curtis was not emotionally bound to Alicent. That made him worse. Criston Cole had been a wound with a sword. Ser Curtis Crakehall was a tool that knew exactly where it had been placed.

His green eyes fell upon Lucerys. There was no hint of hesitation or anger. He simply inclined his head. "As you command, my Queen."

He drew his sword and advanced.

"Sheathe your sword at once, Ser Curtis," Lord Commander Westerling ordered, his voice cracking through the hall like a whip. "You will not raise steel against a child before the King."

The order fell upon deaf ears.

Ser Curtis continued forward, blade drawn and face empty of passion. What sort of knight obeyed such an order? The answer stood before me in a white cloak: the sort Otto Hightower had chosen carefully.

I moved before Lucerys.

The four Unsullied moved with me, shields lifting and spears lowering in a single motion. They did not shout. They did not threaten. They simply became a wall of bronze, leather, and disciplined murder between my son and the Queen’s command.

If Ser Curtis wished to take Lucerys’s eye, he would have to go through them first.

"Do not kill this man," I commanded in High Valyrian. "Disarm him only, unless he leaves you no choice."

Ser Curtis attacked.

He was brave. I gave him that much. He was also skilled, and under other circumstances that might have mattered. But he was one knight against four Unsullied in close formation, and discipline made numbers sharper. His first cut glanced from a raised shield. A spear haft struck his wrist. Another shield drove into his chest, breaking his balance. Within moments his sword clattered against the stone floor, and two spearpoints rested at his throat.

Ser Arryk and Ser Erryk Cargyll moved next, twin white cloaks flashing as they seized Ser Curtis and hauled him back. Lord Commander Westerling’s face was white with fury.

"You will stand down and remember your vows," Westerling said. "You wear the white cloak of the Kingsguard, not the livery of the Queen’s anger."

For a moment, I thought the situation had been defused.

Then Alicent moved. She seized Viserys’s Valyrian-steel dagger from his belt and charged toward us.

Rhaenyra turned first, gathering Lucerys behind her. My body acted before thought. I stepped between Alicent and my family, blocking her path before the blade could reach my son or wife.

I did not lay hands on the Queen. I did not strike her. I did not even shove her back. Instead, I shifted just enough that the dagger drove into my lower side rather than anywhere fatal.

The pain was immediate and vicious.

I had been cut, bruised, pierced, and broken in half a dozen ways before, but experience did not make pain polite. My body flinched despite me. Heat spread beneath my ribs, and for one sharp moment my breath vanished.

The hall froze. Alicent’s face lost all colour. Good. Let everyone see the monster grief and fear had drawn from her. She had ordered a knight to take the eye of a child. She had raised a blade before the King. Let no one pretend shock when that blade found flesh.

I gripped her wrist long enough to remove the dagger from my side, then released her as though touching her any longer would stain me. Blood darkened my tunic. I sat heavily in the nearest chair before my knees could turn the choice into collapse.

Aemond spoke from across the room, his voice shaking with pain and triumph.

"Do not mourn me too much, Mother. I am all right, and tonight was a fair exchange. I lost an eye, but I gained a dragon."

The words settled over the hall like ash.

Viserys looked mortified. "Alicent, you will leave this hall," the King said, his voice broken with horror. "You will go now, before this night takes anything more from us."

Lord Commander Westerling saw to it. Alicent did not fight him, though she looked as if part of her still did not understand what her hand had done.

Rhaenyra rushed to my side, fear cracking through the composure she had held all evening. Jacaerys and Lucerys looked at me as if I had become something more and less than a man in the same moment. That frightened me more than the wound.

"You are hurt, my love," Rhaenyra said, pressing cloth against my side. "Do not tell me you are fine when there is blood on your hand and mine."

"I believe she missed anything of importance," I said, though the words came thinner than I would have liked. "Are the boys safe?"

"They are safe, but you are not answering the question that matters. Why did you not stop her properly? You are more than capable of doing so."

"I did not wish to lay hands on the Queen in front of the court," I replied carefully, wincing as the maester approached with wine and linen. "Let this be the consequence of her trying to take our son’s eye."

Rhaenyra understood. She hated it.

The maester poured wine into the wound, and I clenched my jaw hard enough to taste blood. Pain flashed white behind my eyes, but I kept my seat. If Alicent had meant to make me bleed, she had succeeded. If she had meant to make me look weak, she had failed.

Tonight was my blunder.

I had known that during this funeral Aemond would make an attempt to claim Vhagar, yet I had failed to act quickly enough to prevent it. I had recognised the pieces and still arrived too late. Now the future Green faction had gained another dragon, and not merely any dragon. Vhagar. The largest living dragon in the world. A weapon from the Conquest placed beneath the will of a boy whose humiliation had just been transformed into pride.

Another domino had fallen. The march toward the Dance of the Dragons continued, altered but not averted. The fight to prevent the decimation of House Targaryen had grown harder in a single night.

Aemond had lost an eye. Alicent had drawn blood. Lucerys had learned what fear could make a child do. And Vhagar had chosen a new rider.