Rewriting Targaryen History

Chapter 70: Chapter 70: The Shape of Fear

The incident at Driftmark widened the rift between the factions more quickly than any council argument could have done.

By the time we returned to King’s Landing a few days later, Otto Hightower had already begun shaping the story into something useful. He did not need to lie outright. That was never his cleanest method. Half-truths were better, because they gave cowards something firm to stand on while pretending they were only being reasonable.

Prince Aemond had been maimed. Prince Lucerys had taken his uncle’s eye and suffered no punishment severe enough to satisfy those already inclined to hate him. The King had called the matter finished.

Rhaenyra’s sons, Otto whispered through careful mouths and useful silences, had learned they could spill royal blood and remain protected by their mother’s position and their father’s foreign swords.

It was hostile, malicious, and most importantly, it was working.

Courtiers looked at my children differently after Driftmark. Servants lowered their voices when Jacaerys and Lucerys passed. Men who had once smiled at Luke’s gentle manners now watched his hands, as if the boy carried a hidden blade beneath every sleeve. Women who had cooed at my sons in the gardens suddenly found reasons to draw their own children closer.

That was the part I hated most. Not the politics. Politics had always been rot beneath perfume. I hated seeing children turned into symbols before they understood the war being built around them.

Jacaerys was solemn, too eager to be brave because he thought courage might make adults less afraid. Lucerys had grown quieter since Driftmark, ashamed of a wound he had caused in panic and frightened by the way strangers now looked at him. Rhaegar and Aerion did not understand all of it, but children knew when a room changed. Even little Viserys noticed when his brothers were watched too closely.

My sons were not monsters. They were not spectacles for a court hungry for scandal. They were children, and King’s Landing had begun to look at them as if childhood were a disguise.

With the court turning colder around us, I could no longer trust ordinary caution. Aemond had gained Vhagar, lost an eye, and been given a grievance that Otto would feed until it became armour. Alicent had raised a blade in a hall full of witnesses. Ser Curtis Crakehall had obeyed an order to take a child’s eye without hesitation. Any one of those facts would have been troubling alone. Together, they were a warning.

I went to the barracks where fifty Unsullied were stationed as my household guard.

Vaeron and the Dread Legion were away in Essos, contracted by a Braavosi lord who feared Lorathi soldiers might turn to plunder after famine had weakened the island. I disliked having him gone, though I could hardly fault him for doing exactly what I had asked of him over the years. House Galeris needed coin, contracts, and reach beyond Westeros. The Dread Legion could not remain decorative simply because King’s Landing had grown poisonous.

The Unsullied gathered without fuss. Grey Roach stood at their front, narrow-faced and still, his helm tucked beneath one arm. He was not Black Rat, but he had served long enough under my command to understand that an order was not made clearer by being shouted.

I spoke in High Valyrian.

"My children are under threat from enemies both open and hidden. From this day forward, no son of mine is to be without protection while we remain in King’s Landing. Two of you will attend each child at all times. You will remain close enough to answer any threat, but not so close that the boys feel they are prisoners inside their own lives."

Grey Roach inclined his head. "Your sons will remain under watch, my prince. We will set the guard in pairs and change the men often enough that no pattern becomes easy for others to use."

"Good," I said. "There will also be men posted at their doors each night. I will not have anyone entering their chambers without my knowledge, the Princess’s command, or the authority of the King himself."

Grey Roach considered that carefully. "If Queen Alicent sends for one of the boys in the King’s name, should we delay until your permission is obtained?"

"If the King himself summons them, they go with proper escort," I replied. "If the summons comes through the Queen, her father, or any servant whose authority cannot be confirmed, you will delay politely and send word to me at once. Courtesy is useful, but it must not become a door left open."

Grey Roach nodded. "And what of Prince Aemond if he approaches them?"

"You are not to treat Aemond as an enemy simply because he is angry," I said. "He is still a child, and grief, pride, and pain have made him more dangerous than he understands. Watch him closely. If he speaks, let him speak. If he threatens, move nearer. If he raises a hand, place yourselves between him and my sons before anyone else can decide the matter with blood."

"What of the knight who tried to take Prince Lucerys’s eye?" The question was asked without emotion, which was why I trusted it.

"Ser Curtis Crakehall is to be watched whenever he comes near my family," I answered. "Do not provoke him, do not insult him, and do not give him an excuse to claim you acted first. He is not dangerous because he is angry. He is dangerous because he obeys without needing anger at all."

Grey Roach’s eyes remained steady. "If he draws steel again against your children, do you wish him disarmed as before?"

"If he draws steel against my children, you will stop him immediately," I said. "Take him alive if that can be done without risking the boys. If it cannot, then the fault will belong to the man who chose to raise a sword at children a second time."

Grey Roach bowed his head. "Your command is understood."

He turned and began assigning men. Ten would begin with my sons, divided between their chambers, lessons, training yard, and the gardens. The rest would remain on rotation, training, resting, and taking ordinary guard posts so the change did not look too much like fear made visible.

It was not enough. It was necessary, but it was not enough.

Guards could protect a door. They could not secure a court. They could stop a blade, but not a rumour. They could stand between my sons and Ser Curtis Crakehall, but they could not stop Otto Hightower from turning every defensive measure into proof that Rhaenyra’s children lived behind foreign spears because they feared justice.

King’s Landing had become a board arranged by someone else.

We had supporters, but too few near the King. Lord Lyman Beesbury remained loyal to Rhaenyra’s claim on the Small Council, though loyalty in an old man’s bones did not give him command of the room. Ser Lorent Marbrand and Ser Steffon Darklyn of the Kingsguard seemed favourable to us, and both had been assigned often enough to Rhaenyra that I trusted them more than most white cloaks.

That trust had limits.

Otto had spent years placing men where patience could become power. He could not dismiss Lord Beesbury without cause, but he had surrounded him carefully. Ser Tyland Lannister had been added to the Small Council as Master of Ships, bringing with him Westerland wealth, Lannister pride, and the kind of polished courtesy that hid a knife better than anger ever could.

When Lord Strong died in a mysterious fire, Lord Jasper Wylde replaced him as Master of Laws, and the balance shifted further toward those who smiled at Rhaenyra while making her path narrower.

The Kingsguard worried me more.

Ser Curtis Crakehall’s loyalty was obvious now. His appointment had given Otto and Alicent a sword in white, one that could move under the appearance of duty. Ser Willis Fell was quieter, but the Queen trusted him, which meant I could not.

The Cargyll twins remained neutral for the moment, as did Lord Commander Harrold Westerling, but neutrality was a bridge built over deep water. Useful, necessary, and always at risk of collapse.

Westerling was old. His honour remained sound, but his body would eventually betray him. When he left the Kingsguard, whether by retirement, illness, or death, the matter of his replacement would not be treated as a small thing.

Ser Curtis Crakehall would likely be advanced, and another Green loyalist would be given the cloak made vacant by that rise. Ser Rickard Thorne was the obvious choice, a man already considered before Curtis was placed. Otto would not waste such an opening.

King’s Landing was not safe.

That evening, when Rhaenyra and I were alone in our chamber, I broached the matter plainly. My side still ached where Alicent’s blade had entered, and the wound pulled whenever I moved too quickly. It was not deep enough to endanger me, but it was deep enough to remind me that courtly violence did not always announce itself as war.

Rhaenyra stood near the window, looking out over the city as if the walls themselves had disappointed her.

"My love," I said, "we can no longer pretend King’s Landing is merely uncomfortable. Driftmark has made our enemies bolder, and they have already begun using Aemond’s eye as a weapon against our sons. Have you seen how the court looks at Luke?"

Her face tightened.

"I have seen it," she said. "They look at him as if tenderness were a trick he has been taught to use. He is still the same boy who cries when he thinks one of his brothers is hurt, and now servants whisper as though he cut Aemond for pleasure."

"That will not improve while Otto controls the story."

"No," she said, turning from the window. "It will become easier for them to believe the ugliest version, because believing it gives them permission to fear us."

"Then we should leave," I said. "Dragonstone is safer, and distance would deny Otto the pleasure of turning every meal, lesson, and garden walk into a performance. Celeste is there with Vaeron’s children. Baela and Rhaena are only a few hours away on Driftmark. Our boys would not be isolated, and they would breathe cleaner air than this."

Rhaenyra looked at me for a long moment, and I saw the answer before she spoke it. "You are thinking as a father," she said. "I love you for it, but I cannot think only as a mother, no matter how much I wish the world would let me."

"Rhaenyra, if we remain here, the boys remain within reach of people who have already shown us what they are willing to do."

"And if we leave now, our enemies will call it retreat. They will say Rhaenyra fled the capital because her son maimed the King’s son and could not bear the judgement of the court. They will say you hid the boys behind Unsullied spears because guilt needed walls."

"They will say that regardless of what we do."

"Yes," she replied. "But absence lets them say it without contradiction. Our supporters will be left to defend us while we sit on Dragonstone, and some of them will decide that the safer future lies with those still present beside the King."

I hated that she was right.

"Your father wants the boys near him," I said. "That is part of the trap, whether he means it or not."

"He does not mean it as a trap," Rhaenyra said. "That almost makes it worse. He loves them, and he loves me, and he believes wanting peace strongly enough should make peace obey."

"He has believed that for too long."

"I know."

Her hand moved to her stomach. It was a small gesture. Small enough that another man might have missed it. I did not.

"We cannot leave yet," she said quietly. "Not while Father wishes to see the boys, and not when he is soon to hear that I am with child."

The room seemed to narrow.

For a moment, everything else lost shape. Otto, Alicent, Aemond, Vhagar, Ser Curtis, the Kingsguard, the Small Council, every whisper in the Red Keep, all of it fell away beneath the weight of those words.

"With child?" I asked, because my mind had understood before my voice did.

Rhaenyra’s expression softened, though apology lingered beneath it. "I meant to tell you differently. I had thought of a dozen better moments, all of them quieter than this one. The maester believes I am nearly two moons along."

I crossed the room and drew her into my arms.

Carefully at first, because she was Rhaenyra and because everything precious in this world seemed surrounded by knives. Then more tightly, because joy demanded its due even when fear stood nearby waiting to be counted.

"By the gods," I murmured against her hair. "Another child."

She leaned into me. "You are happy."

"I am happy enough that the word feels too small."

"That is good," she said, and I heard the relief she had tried to hide. "I know the timing is difficult."

"The timing is terrible," I said, pulling back enough to look at her. "That does not make the child unwelcome."

Her eyes shone, though she did not let the tears fall. "I needed to hear you say that."

"Then hear it again. This child is wanted."

For a few breaths, there was only that. My wife. Our child. The impossible tenderness of hope arriving in a room already crowded with danger.

Then the world returned.

A pregnancy would bind us more tightly to King’s Landing, at least for now. Viserys would want Rhaenyra close. Alicent would watch the swelling of Rhaenyra’s belly as one more reminder of what she feared and resented.

Otto would see opportunity in every change of appetite, every cancelled appearance, every rumour of weakness. If the child was a son, the Greens would count him as another obstacle. If the child was a daughter, they would still find a way to call her a threat.

Joy did not remove danger. It gave danger something new to aim at.

Rhaenyra saw the thought cross my face. "Do not retreat into strategy so quickly. I have only just told you."

"I am trying not to," I said. "But you married a man whose mind sharpens knives whenever happiness enters the room."

"That is a terrible habit."

"It has kept me alive."

"It has also made you insufferable."

"I thought that was part of my charm."

Her smile was small, but real. "A contested part."

I rested my hand gently over hers at her stomach. "If we must remain in King’s Landing, then remaining cannot mean waiting for Otto to decide the shape of the next blow."

"No," she said. "It cannot."

"We need stronger allies. Not merely courtiers who nod when the room is safe, and not merely a few white cloaks whose honour may be outnumbered. We need houses with enough weight that supporting you becomes a position, not a risk whispered behind sleeves."

Rhaenyra’s eyes sharpened. The mother remained, but the heir returned beside her. "The Stormlands?" she asked.

"Boremund respects fulfilled contracts, and Manfred Dondarrion has reason to know the value of our word. The road was held, and we paid for it in blood. That must become more than gratitude."

"The Vale already favours me through my mother’s blood, but favour left unattended becomes memory instead of strength."

"Then we attend it," I said. "The Velaryons are wounded after Laena, but Rhaena’s black eye and Aemond’s claim of Vhagar may draw them closer if handled carefully. Daemon will not forget what happened to his daughter."

"Nor will Rhaenys."

"No," I agreed. "And Rhaenys’s anger is worth more than most men’s loyalty."

Rhaenyra looked toward the door, as if she could see beyond it to the city, the Keep, the council chamber, and every hidden hand moving against us.

"Otto has spent years making support for me seem costly," she said. "He has made lords ask what they might lose by standing too near Dragonstone."

"Then we show them what they gain," I replied. "Roads held. Contracts honoured. Pirates broken. Coin paid. Children of clear Valyrian blood. A princess who remains the King’s named heir. A house with dragons, soldiers, and enough discipline not to mistake strength for noise."

"That sounds like a campaign."

"It is one."

She studied me. "Not with swords."

"Not first."

Rhaenyra took that in, and something settled between us. Not comfort. Comfort would have been too gentle a word for the work ahead. It was resolve, perhaps, or the old familiar shape of two people realising the room had grown too dangerous for silence.

I had spent years trying to earn the trust of lords who whispered that I was nothing more than an ambitious sellsword with a dragon princess for a wife. In the Stormlands, I had bought respect with discipline, roads, and dead men’s names. In the Stepstones, Vaeron had kept the Dread Legion profitable and feared. On Dragonstone, the Unsullied had made strength visible enough to frighten a queen.

Now that trust had to become allegiance. Not someday. Now.

Rhaenyra placed her hand over mine again, holding it against the life still hidden beneath silk and skin.

"We protect the children first," she said.

"Always."

"Then we protect the claim."

"And if those become the same thing?"

Her gaze did not waver. "Then we stop pretending they were ever separate."

Outside our chamber, King’s Landing whispered. Inside, my wife carried another child.

Between those two truths, the next war began taking shape.