Rewriting Targaryen History

Chapter 86: Chapter 86: The Enemy Answers

The command tent smelled of smoke, wet leather, old wax, and men who had slept badly enough to make patience a scarce resource.

By the time Daemon entered, Captain Marq had already spread the latest watch reports across the table. Corlys stood over them with both hands braced on the wood, reading the Stepstones as if the ink and stones could be forced into honesty by attention alone. Two Velaryon captains waited near the tent flap, salt-stained and quiet. Neither had removed his sword belt.

Daemon arrived with soot still on one sleeve and Caraxes’s cry fading somewhere above Bloodstone’s eastern ridge.

"You wanted what I saw," he said, taking his place without asking. "The ships I burned were not meant to take Bloodstone. They were too few, too light, and carrying the wrong men for a proper landing. They were testing the channel toward Grey Gallows."

Corlys looked up. "Did the fleeing ship run for open water or cover?"

"Cover. It turned south-east toward a cluster of rocks beyond Grey Gallows. I left it breathing long enough to show me the direction."

Captain Marq leaned closer to the map. "There are coves there. Poor ones, but a man can hide shallow craft if he knows the tide and does not care how many hulls scrape."

"One of your patrols marked those rocks two days ago," Corlys said to the older Velaryon captain.

The man nodded. "We found ashes from cookfires and drag marks above the waterline. We thought smugglers at first, perhaps raiders sheltering between attacks. We did not have enough men to clear the coves properly."

Daemon tapped one finger against the map near Grey Gallows. "Then we should clear them now. Caraxes can reach them before the sun begins to fall."

"You can reach them," I said. "That is not the same as clearing them."

His eyes shifted to me. "A burned cove is a cleared cove."

"Only if every man inside waits politely to burn. If they scatter into cracks, caves, and gullies, we learn little and teach them plenty."

Daemon’s mouth curved with irritation rather than humour. "You are determined to make dragonfire sound like a clerical error."

"I am determined not to mistake a useful weapon for an answer to every question."

Corlys gave a low grunt that could have been approval or indigestion. "The Triarchy has fought dragons in these waters before. They know better than to mass where fire can solve the matter in a breath."

Daemon looked at him. "They have also died to dragons in these waters before, which is why the lesson sometimes bears repeating."

"It will be repeated," I said. "But not because a fleeing ship invited us to choose speed over sense."

The tent held quiet after that. Not hostile, not yet. Daemon had not come to be commanded like a knight in another man’s host, and I had not brought five thousand Unsullied to spend them cleaning up after his temper. Corlys understood both facts and looked deeply unsurprised by the inconvenience.

Captain Marq broke the silence with a practical cruelty that made me like him more. "If I may speak plainly, my lords, the men holding Bloodstone will cheer any plan that burns the enemy before the enemy climbs these rocks. They will also curse us all if the dragon chases shadows east while fire rafts drift into the harbour behind him."

Daemon gave him a sharp look. "You think I would miss fire rafts?"

"I think the Triarchy hopes someone believes himself too dangerous to be baited."

That answer was brave enough to be useful.

Daemon studied him for a moment, then laughed once under his breath. "Bloodstone has improved its manners since I last campaigned here."

"Exhaustion has stripped most of the decorative ones away," Marq replied.

A runner entered before Daemon could answer. He carried a sealed strip of oiled cloth, marked with the simple black sign used by the Unsullied officers. He bowed to me and spoke in halting High Valyrian.

"From Grey Gallows, my prince. Sent by Black Rat."

I took the message and broke the seal.

Black Rat’s hand was clean, direct, and without a wasted word. The report was written in High Valyrian, as expected.

Landing completed before full dark. No attack during disembarkation. Garrison exhausted. One hundred and seventeen wounded unable to stand watch. Forty-two dead awaiting proper handling.

Water stores low but not desperate. Arrows nearly spent. Enemy craft seen beyond eastern rocks after midnight. No pursuit ordered. Three hidden crossbow positions found at first light and cleared. Request more arrows, vinegar, linen, and two additional signal horns. Grey Gallows holds.

I read it twice, then translated the substance into the common tongue for the table.

Corlys’s face tightened at the casualty numbers. One of his captains lowered his eyes. "Black Rat did not pursue the craft beyond the known rocks?" Corlys asked.

"No. He held the shore, secured water, and cleared positions close enough to threaten his line."

Daemon leaned over the map. "He has discipline, then."

"He has more than enough to annoy men who prefer dramatic mistakes."

"Your affection is strange."

"It is usually practical."

Captain Marq pointed toward Grey Gallows. "If he found three crossbow positions near the line, the enemy had men close enough to watch the landing. They chose not to attack."

"Because they were counting," Corlys said. "Men, ships, response, rotation, signals."

"They are studying us," I said.

Daemon’s expression sharpened. "Then let them study fire."

"They already have. This morning told them Caraxes is here, and the ship you spared told them he can be seen before he is survived. Tonight they will ask a different question."

Corlys looked at the darkening edge beyond the tent flap. "Harbour?"

"Harbour, eastern watch, or Grey Gallows," I said. "Perhaps all three if they have enough nerve and cheap men."

Marq straightened. "Bloodstone can be ready before sunset."

"It will be ready before sunset," I said. "No open fires except shielded pits. Harbour chain watched by men who have slept. Archers doubled above the lower pier. Unsullied reserve close enough to move without crowding the first line. Any boat without the proper signal is warned once, then struck."

Daemon’s eyes remained on the map. "And Caraxes?"

"You and Caraxes remain above Bloodstone until we know whether the first threat is real or meant to pull you away."

He did not like it. That was visible enough. He also did not reject it.

"I will not sit on a rock while enemies pass close enough to spit at," he said.

"No one is asking you to sit. I am asking you to choose the moment that hurts them, not the moment that flatters them."

For a moment, his face held that dangerous stillness Targaryens wore when pride and reason stood too close together.

Then he looked back toward the map. "If they send fire rafts, I burn them before they touch the harbour."

"If they send ships beyond the outer rocks, you strike if Corlys’s signals confirm they are not baiting you away from a second approach."

Corlys lifted his chin. "My captains can manage the signals."

Daemon glanced between us. "You have both become dull in old age and fatherhood."

"I have six children and a wife recovering in King’s Landing," I said. "Dullness has begun to look like a virtue with excellent survival rates."

He snorted. "Rhaenyra has done terrible things to you."

"She would say they were improvements."

"She would be wrong with confidence, which is the family way."

That eased the tent without weakening the matter.

By sunset, Bloodstone was waiting.

The island looked almost calm from the upper watch, but the calm had been built by order rather than luck. Fires were hooded. Barrels had been moved from exposed points. Archers crouched near stone breaks above the harbour.

Unsullied stood in the shadows of the lower approaches, shields ready, spears angled where the paths narrowed. Runners had been placed between the harbour, eastern watch, and command tent. Two fresh signal horns had been sent toward Grey Gallows with arrows, linen, and vinegar under Velaryon escort.

Caraxes slept badly above the eastern ridge.

Even from a distance, the dragon looked restless. His head lifted whenever the wind shifted. His tail moved across the rock in slow lines. Daemon sat near him for a time, speaking too quietly to be heard, one hand resting against red scales that had seen more war than most armies.

Night came without ceremony.

The Stepstones changed after dark. In daylight, the rocks were ugly but readable. At night, they became suggestions. A man could stare at a channel until his eyes invented movement from water, shadow, and fear. The sea turned black between the rocks, and every small sound seemed to carry too far or not far enough.

The first warning came from the harbour chain. One horn. Then another. Not panic. Signal.

I was already moving when Captain Marq reached me. Corlys emerged from the lower path with two men behind him, one carrying a covered lantern. Above us, Caraxes lifted his head and made a low sound that rolled through the stone beneath our feet.

"South-west approach," Marq said. "Low craft. No proper signal. Moving with the tide, not oars."

Fire rafts.

We reached the harbour overlook as the first glow appeared on the water.

At a distance, they looked almost harmless. Small dark shapes drifting between broken reflections, their flames kept low beneath wet hides or clay coverings until they passed the first rocks.

Then the covers began to fall away. Orange light breathed up from within them, catching rope, pitch, and stacked brush. Three rafts came first. Then two more behind them, angled differently, using the tide to spread.

No men aboard that I could see. Cheap wood, cheaper courage.

The harbour chain lay across the entrance like a dark line. If the rafts struck it burning, the fire might climb the tarred ropes, spread to the nearest pier, and turn the transports into trapped fuel.

Daemon was already moving toward Caraxes. I lifted the signal lantern twice, then held it steady. He saw. Caraxes launched from the ridge with a scream that broke the night open.

The dragon passed over us low enough that heat and wind pressed men flat against stone. He did not dive straight for the harbour. Daemon took him wide, cutting across the rafts’ path from the seaward side. Fire spilt downward in a controlled sweep, not at the chain, but ahead of it.

The first raft vanished inside flame. The second broke apart before it reached the rocks. The third kept drifting, half-lit, until a Velaryon boat hooked it from the side and pulled it into open water where Caraxes finished it with another burst.

"Eastern watch!" a runner shouted from behind us.

Another horn sounded. This one from the far side of Bloodstone.

Marq cursed and turned, but I caught his arm before he could start giving orders to everyone at once.

"Send the reserve by the inner path," I said. "No more than two files until they know what they are facing. I will not empty the harbour over a horn."

He nodded and sent the command.

Corlys had his eyes on the water. "They wanted Caraxes over the harbour."

"They still may."

The two rear rafts continued drifting. One had begun to burn too early, wasting itself against a reef. The other passed behind smoke and vanished for several heartbeats.

Daemon saw it before I did.

Caraxes banked, but not sharply enough to leave the eastern side blind. He burned the hidden raft from above, then climbed rather than chase the shadows beyond it. The restraint was visible even from the harbour wall. It cost him. I could tell by the way Caraxes’s wings snapped at the air, eager to follow the line of retreat.

The eastern horn sounded again. Then stopped. No third signal.

A runner arrived breathless several minutes later. "Small craft near the eastern rocks, my prince. Two boats, perhaps three. They pulled away when the reserve showed shields. No landing."

"They were watching who moved," I said.

Marq spat over the wall. "They risked men only to count our answer."

Corlys’s face was grim. "Men can be bought cheaply in the Free Cities when they are poor enough or desperate enough."

Down below, Velaryon sailors dragged the last burning wreckage clear of the chain. Steam rose where seawater claimed the pitch. Archers remained at their posts. Unsullied did not cheer. That silence mattered. Cheers after a small victory could soften men before the second question arrived.

Daemon landed near the eastern ridge and came down soon after, smelling of smoke and dragon heat. He looked less pleased than he had that morning.

"You were right," he said.

The words were not grudging enough to be insulting.

"They tried to pull you toward the harbour while they watched the eastern path," I replied.

"They also placed one raft to vanish behind smoke. If Caraxes had chased the first three too low, the hidden one might have reached the chain."

Corlys looked toward the black water. "They are learning quickly."

Daemon’s eyes remained on the harbour. "So are we."

That was true, though not comforting.

Another runner came from the eastern watch. This one carried a short report from the reserve officer. Two small boats had approached under muffled oars. No landing made. One man killed by arrow before retreat. No insignia recovered. Tracks impossible to confirm in darkness.

The Triarchy had not come to break Bloodstone that night.

They had come to measure it.

By the time the last fire sank into wet ash, the camp was fully awake. Men checked ropes, counted arrows, and inspected the harbour chain for damage. Captain Marq sent half the men back to rest under threat of being struck with his own scabbard if they argued. Corlys ordered patrols adjusted before dawn. Daemon returned to Caraxes, though he paused long enough to look back at me.

"They will try Grey Gallows soon," he said.

"I know."

"Black Rat will need warning."

"He already expects it, but he will have the details before morning."

Daemon nodded, then climbed toward the dragon.

Near dawn, I stood above the harbour with Corlys while the smoke thinned over the water. Bloodstone had held without losing a pier, a chain, or a post. That should have felt like success.

Instead, I watched the dark channels between the rocks and thought of the fleeing ship Daemon had let go, the hidden coves beyond Grey Gallows, and the small boats that had come close enough to count our habits.

The Triarchy was not afraid of the dragon. Not enough. They were learning how far he flew, how quickly we woke, and which paths we defended first when fire touched the sea.

Corlys seemed to follow my thoughts without asking for them. "The next move cannot be only defence."

"No," I said. "But it cannot be anger either."

The first pale line of sunrise reached the water.

Behind us, Bloodstone stirred again, not rested but alive. To the east, Grey Gallows waited behind dark channels. Somewhere beyond it, men who had sent fire into our harbour were deciding what the night had taught them.

Daemon had changed the campaign. The enemy had answered.

Now we needed to decide what lesson they would pay for learning.