Rewriting Targaryen History

Chapter 71: Chapter 71: First Moves

My thoughts turned at once to alliances.

Not the soft kind spoken of by courtiers over wine, where a man smiled, promised friendship, and then waited to see which way the wind blew before deciding whether his honour had heard him correctly. I needed something harder than that. Something with weight, memory, and cost behind it.

For years, my men and I had worked to prove we were useful to the realm, not merely foreign swords hired when Westerosi pride had exhausted itself. Unsullied soldiers had bled in the Dornish Marches and in the hills of the Vale.

They had held roads, guarded villages, broken raiders, and fought enemies that mounted knights had struggled to reach. That blood had to mean something now, or else I had spent lives for gratitude too fragile to survive the first true test.

The Stormlands came first to mind.

Marcher houses like Selmy, Dondarrion, Swann, and Caron could not easily forget the Red Pass Road. Qoren Sand and his raiders had threatened their borders, burned their villages, stolen their people, and turned the Marches into a wound that no proud lord could ignore. My men had not solved every old hatred between Stormlander and Dornishman, but we had broken the force killing their smallfolk and made the road usable again.

Lord Boremund Baratheon was a man I respected. He had not loved everything about me, nor had he needed to. Respect was often cleaner than affection in politics. I believed he would not raise arms against Rhaenyra, even if he chose the safer language of neutrality when the realm began to crack.

His son was another matter.

Borros Baratheon had always watched me with the expression of a man measuring insult before it had even been given. He did not trust foreign soldiers, and he certainly did not like that men under his father’s contract had answered to me rather than to Storm’s End. Perhaps he resented the usefulness of my army. Perhaps he disliked any strength that could not be ordered by Baratheon command. Perhaps he simply looked at me and saw a sellsword too close to dragons.

Whatever the reason, he would soon matter more than his father.

That made the Stormlands less certain than I wished.

The Vale was different. Rhaenyra had blood there through her mother, and that bond still held some strength, though blood ties did not maintain themselves without care. My soldiers had fought hill tribesmen where villages were exposed and mounted knights could not always pursue. It was a beginning, but not yet a foundation. The Vale respected old blood, lawful inheritance, and the memory of Aemma Arryn. Those things could be used, but only if we reminded them before Otto did.

Then my mind turned north.

In time, Cregan Stark would rule Winterfell. He would be young, proud, hard, and if the shape of his character held from the histories I remembered, deeply loyal to oaths once given. The North did not move quickly, but once roused, it was not easily turned aside. I could not treat future loyalty as certainty, not anymore. Too much had changed. Still, House Stark remained one of the few great houses whose honour might prove more than a courtly costume.

The Riverlands were the more immediate puzzle.

They were always contested. Rivers made movement easy and loyalty complicated. Bracken, Darry, and others were believed to lean toward the Greens, while the Blackwoods and Mallisters seemed more likely to favour us.

House Tully remained uncertain, and that uncertainty mattered more than any minor pledge. In the histories I knew, the Riverlands became one of the keys to the war. Daemon’s early move at Harrenhal had not been made for romance or spectacle. Whoever held the centre could threaten roads, divide enemies, and give uncertain houses a reason to choose before fear chose for them.

I needed House Tully.

Not merely the old lord who held Riverrun now, but the future that would follow him. Oscar Tully was still a child, near the age of Aerion and Rhaegar, too young to command anything beyond a nursery quarrel. Yet in a decade, if the world held long enough, he would become a name that river lords respected. Children grew into power while adults were busy pretending time belonged to them.

But my first move lay much closer to home.

I raised it with Rhaenyra after supper, when the children had been sent to their rooms and the guards placed discreetly enough that only fools would call them invisible. She was seated near the brazier, one hand resting lightly over her stomach, though she did not seem aware of the gesture. The sight still caught me. Another child. Another life entering a world that seemed determined to make inheritance feel like war before birth.

"House Velaryon’s support must be made certain," I said. "We cannot rely on grief, affection, or shared outrage after Driftmark to hold them forever."

Rhaenyra looked up from the letter in her hand. "Corlys and Rhaenys have no reason to favour Alicent and Aegon after what happened. Aemond struck Rhaena, claimed Vhagar on the night of Laena’s funeral, and left their granddaughter humiliated as well as bruised. Daemon will not forget it either."

"I believe all of that," I said. "But belief is not security. Corlys is old, Rhaenys is wounded by more losses than anyone should be asked to bear, and Driftmark’s future is not as simple as it appears while Vaemond still breathes and believes himself cheated by succession."

Rhaenyra’s expression cooled at the mention of Vaemond. "You think he would turn House Velaryon away from us if Corlys died."

"I think Vaemond would do whatever made his own claim stronger. If that meant courting the Greens and presenting himself as the man who could free Driftmark from our influence, he would call it duty while reaching for power."

She set the letter aside. "Then what do you suggest? If affection is not enough, and shared enemies are not enough, what would bind Driftmark more firmly to us?"

I waited a moment, not because I wished to be dramatic, but because the answer carried the weight of our children’s futures. Rhaenyra was clever enough to see where the path led, yet perhaps motherhood made her hesitate to name it before I did.

"We betroth Jacaerys to Baela and Lucerys to Rhaena," I said. "The boys know them, care for them, and will not be handed to strangers for the sake of cold advantage. The matches would bind our line to Daemon’s daughters and to House Velaryon’s blood, making it far harder for Driftmark to be separated from us without tearing through its own grandchildren."

Rhaenyra did not answer immediately.

I had expected anger. Perhaps not at the idea itself, but at the timing. Jace and Luke were still boys. Baela and Rhaena were girls who had only just buried their mother. Marriage belonged to a future none of them should have needed to imagine yet.

Instead, Rhaenyra leaned back and studied me with the expression she used when weighing whether a hard truth had arrived too early or exactly on time.

"I do not hate the idea," she said at last. "That worries me, because I wanted to rebuke you for speaking of marriages while they are all still so young."

"You may still rebuke me if it helps. I have survived worse."

"I am considering it for my own satisfaction," she replied. "But politically, it makes sense. Jacaerys and Baela would join the claims of Dragonstone, Driftmark, and Daemon’s blood in one marriage. Lucerys and Rhaena would heal some part of the wound Driftmark opened, if healing is even the right word for children being asked to carry adult fractures."

"They would not wed for years," I said. "A betrothal now is not a demand that they become adults before they are ready."

"No, but it gives adults permission to begin imagining them as pieces on a board." Her hand moved again to her stomach, this time knowingly. "I will allow this discussion for Jace and Luke because the matter is already before us. You will not begin arranging marriages for Rhaegar, Aerion, Viserys, or the child I carry until they have done more in life than learn to breathe and cause trouble."

"I would never be foolish enough to suggest such a thing aloud."

Her eyes narrowed. "Aloud?"

"I am a strategist, my love. I think many dangerous things and wisely say very few of them."

"That wisdom had better grow stronger, or the boys will begin to wonder why their father has been given a blanket in the dungeons."

I felt a brief chill that had nothing to do with the brazier. "I will choose to believe that was a jest."

"You may choose whatever comforts you."

Despite the subject, I smiled. "Then we ask Corlys, Rhaenys, and Daemon carefully. Not as if we are claiming their daughters, but as if we are offering to bind wounds before others use them."

Rhaenyra nodded slowly. "I will go to Driftmark to speak with Daemon and if Corlys and Rhaenys will receive me. This cannot be done by raven."

"No. A raven would make it look like arrangement. This needs to sound like family before it sounds like politics."

"It is both."

"It has to be."

Her gaze lingered on me, serious now. "And if Baela or Rhaena refuse when they are old enough to understand?"

"Then we do not force them."

That answer mattered. I saw it land.

Rhaenyra’s shoulders softened a little. "Good. I will not use girls who have already lost their mother as rope to tie ships to our harbour."

"Nor would I ask you to."

The next matter was less delicate, but no less necessary.

Jacaerys and Lucerys needed proper instruction in swordsmanship. They were old enough to begin learning, and after Driftmark, I would no longer allow childhood to be mistaken for safety. Training would not make them warriors overnight, nor did I want it to. I wanted them to know how to move, how to guard, how to fall, how to avoid panic when struck, and how to survive long enough for help to reach them.

I could have taught them myself, but only in pieces. My responsibilities were too many and too irregular to make me a constant instructor. The Unsullied could teach discipline, spearwork, formation, and the brutal efficiency of survival, but my sons were Westerosi princes. They needed the sword as noble boys were expected to know it, and they needed teachers whose presence at their side could not be easily twisted into another tale of foreign soldiers shaping Rhaenyra’s children into something unnatural.

So I went to King Viserys.

He received me in his private parlour, where Old Valyria remained assembled in carved stone and painted detail. His model had grown since I last stood there. Towers had been altered, roads added, dragon roads refined, and tiny buildings arranged with the kind of care a healthier king might have given to councils. The sight was both marvellous and sad. Viserys could rebuild a dead empire in miniature while the living one rotted around him.

He looked cautious when I entered.

Our relationship had not broken after Driftmark, but something had shifted. His wife had stabbed me in front of half the family. His son had lost an eye. My son had taken it. There were some wounds that even Viserys could not cover with gentle intentions.

"Othorion," he said, setting down a small carved piece. "I wondered when you might come to speak with me privately. I hope you know I would rather hear a difficult request plainly than wait for it to grow teeth in silence."

"I have not come to demand an apology, Your Grace," I said. "Nor have I come to reopen Driftmark when the wound is still fresh for everyone involved."

Relief moved across his face, though weariness remained beneath it. "Then I am grateful for your restraint. I fear the matter has already taken more from this family than any of us know how to count."

"It has," I replied. "That is why I have come about the boys."

Viserys straightened slightly. "Jacaerys and Lucerys?"

"Yes. I would ask that proper sword tutors be appointed for them. I can instruct them when time allows, but I cannot be present with enough regularity to give them what they need. My Unsullied are excellent soldiers, but they are not Westerosi knights, and my sons must learn the sword in a manner suitable to their station."

For the first time since I entered, Viserys looked almost relieved. Perhaps he had expected accusation and found instead a practical request he knew how to answer.

"That is reasonable," he said. "Princes should learn discipline with a blade before pride teaches them foolishness. Did you have anyone in mind?"

"I would ask for Ser Arryk and Ser Erryk Cargyll," I said. "They are skilled, sworn, and respected. Their reputations are clean enough that no one can claim the boys are being shaped by foreign methods or private ambition."

Viserys rubbed his thumb over the edge of the table, considering. "The Cargyll twins are good men. I have found them steady, which is not always the same thing as brilliant, but is often more useful."

"That steadiness is exactly why I ask for them."

He hesitated then, and I knew the offer before he spoke it.

"Ser Curtis Crakehall already teaches Aegon, Aemond, and Daeron," Viserys said carefully. "It may be better, in time, for the boys to train together under one knight. Shared lessons might soften what happened at Driftmark."

I kept my voice controlled. "Your Grace, I respect that Ser Curtis is a capable swordsman and a member of your Kingsguard, but he drew steel to take my son’s eye on the Queen’s command. I will never permit him to stand over Jacaerys or Lucerys with a training blade in his hand."

Viserys closed his eyes briefly.

He had expected that answer. He had probably hoped I would spare him from hearing it.

"I know," he said. "I should not have suggested it, but I still find myself reaching for paths where the children might be brought together again before the adults make enemies of them completely."

"I understand the wish," I said. "I do not trust the path."

"No," Viserys replied, opening his eyes. "Nor would I, in your place."

That admission cost him something. Not enough to change the past, but enough that I bowed my head slightly in acknowledgement.

"The Cargylls will teach them," he said. "Not separately. I would prefer they alternate lessons with both boys together. If one brother teaches one prince and the other teaches the second, court will invent meaning where none need exist."

"That is wise, Your Grace."

"Let Jacaerys and Lucerys begin together, and when your younger sons are of age, they may join as well. I will speak with Lord Commander Westerling and make the arrangement formal enough that no one can interfere without coming through me."

"Thank you, Your Grace. My sons will benefit from instruction given by knights whose honour is trusted."

Viserys looked toward the model of Valyria. His expression had softened, but sadness remained in the lines around his mouth.

"I wanted them all to grow together," he said. "Rhaenyra’s sons, Alicent’s sons, Daemon’s daughters, all of them. I thought if children shared enough meals and lessons, they might forget the quarrels waiting for them."

"They do not forget quarrels when adults keep feeding them."

"No," he said. "I suppose they do not."

For a moment, he looked older than he had when I entered. Not weaker in body, though that was there too, but older in spirit. A king who had spent years trying to make peace out of proximity and was beginning to see that closeness could also sharpen knives.

"I will not fail the boys in this," Viserys said. "Whatever else has happened, they are my grandsons."

"I know they love you," I said. "Especially Jace, though he tries to make solemn faces when he thinks men expect it of him."

That drew a small smile from him. "He gets that from Rhaenyra."

"And perhaps from me."

"Then the poor child had no chance."

The smile faded, but not unpleasantly. He lifted the small carved piece again and turned it over in his hand. "Go, Othorion. I will arrange the lessons. And when you speak with Rhaenyra, tell her I would like to see the boys tomorrow if she is willing."

"I will tell her, Your Grace."

I bowed and left him among his little towers and dead roads.

The first moves had begun.

Rhaenyra would fly to Driftmark to speak with Daemon, Corlys, and Rhaenys about betrothing our sons to Baela and Rhaena. The Cargyll twins would begin training Jacaerys and Lucerys under the King’s authority. Grey Roach’s men would remain close enough to keep blades from becoming surprises.

None of it was enough to win a war. That was not the point.

Wars were not won at the first move. They were shaped there, in small decisions that seemed too practical to become history. A marriage discussed before children understood marriage. A sword lesson arranged before a boy learned fear properly. A guard placed at a door before anyone admitted the room was under threat. A letter sent to a lord who might one day choose silence or steel.

Otto had spent years turning the court into ground that favoured him.

Now I would begin turning the realm.