Rewriting Targaryen History

Chapter 88: Chapter 88: The Long Price

The next six months did not become a song.

No single charge broke the Triarchy. No glorious landing ended the campaign before the bards could sharpen their lies. The Stepstones gave us something uglier than a great battle. They gave us work.

The enemy had learned quickly after Grey Gallows. They stopped offering Caraxes easy targets. Their ships moved in smaller groups, at worse hours, under darker sails, slipping through channels where the rocks made pursuit more dangerous than escape. They struck where they could, vanished where they must, and spent men in small, bitter measures that made every victory feel incomplete.

Daemon remained the terror in the sky, but terror was not the same as command of the sea.

Caraxes burned raiders near the southern shoals in the seventh week. He caught three ships pinned by a shifting wind and turned two into floating pyres before the third ran itself onto rocks to escape him.

A month later, he descended on a Myrish landing party north of Grey Gallows and scattered them before they reached high ground. After that, the enemy stopped gathering beneath open sky unless forced. They learned to travel beneath smoke, beside cliffs, near reefs, and under weather so poor that even Daemon had to choose between daring and stupidity.

He did not enjoy the distinction. "Their cowardice has become organised," he said one evening, standing beneath a low sky while rain softened the dust on Bloodstone’s paths.

"Organised cowardice is often what commanders call survival when it belongs to the enemy," I replied.

Daemon looked toward the sea, where the last light of the day had turned the channels black. "They are denying me clean prey because they know what happens when they offer it."

"That means Caraxes is shaping the campaign even when he does not burn anything."

"I would prefer both influence and fire."

"Most men prefer rewards that make noise."

His mouth curved slightly. "Rhaenyra must be very tired of you."

"She writes as if she misses me."

"She has always been generous with lost causes."

The humour helped because the rest of the day had not.

That morning, twelve Unsullied had died clearing a ridge we had already cleared twice before.

The enemy had used it as bait. They left cookfires, scraps, and enough track marks to suggest a careless camp. When we sent men to secure the place, hidden crossbowmen opened from cracks in the stone.

The first volley struck before shields could turn. The Unsullied took the ridge anyway, because Black Rat had trained them to move through pain and my officers had learned the Stepstones well enough to refuse confusion. We killed twenty-nine men before the rest fled into a gullied path that led nowhere worth dying for.

Twelve of ours for twenty-nine of theirs. On parchment, that looked favourable. On Bloodstone, it meant twelve names copied by lamplight and sent to Dragonstone so Dick could assign pay properly.

By the second month, the campaign had become a pattern of wounds.

A Velaryon patrol caught four Lyseni vessels trying to run supplies through a southern channel and sank two, captured one, and lost a galley whose captain had been with Corlys since before Rhaenyra was born.

Three nights later, fire arrows struck the lower stores at Bloodstone, but the barrels had been moved after Captain Marq argued that the enemy was too persistent to remain unlucky. We saved the food, lost the outer shed, and found seven burned bodies beneath the slope after dawn.

Two were ours. Five were men who had crawled close enough to die without success.

Grey Gallows endured worse weather and fewer attacks, which pleased me less than it should have. Black Rat held the island like a closed fist. He rebuilt the lower defences, rotated the Velaryon garrison until their hands stopped shaking, and refused three opportunities to pursue retreating raiders beyond known ground. His reports remained direct.

Enemy tested eastern path. Broken before main rise. Unsullied dead: 9. Enemy dead counted: 33. Water stores repaired. Garrison sleep improved. Request more bowstrings.

In the third month, he sent a shorter report after a night assault failed against the lower stones.

Enemy attempted climb during fog. Heard before seen. Attack broken. Unsullied dead: 4. Enemy dead counted: 61. Fog remains dangerous.

I read that last sentence twice.

It sounded almost like humour, though from Black Rat it may only have been weather properly accused.

Bloodstone cost me more.

That was expected, though expectation never made numbers kinder. I commanded the larger force and held the island the enemy wanted most loudly. The Triarchy struck our approaches again and again, never with enough strength to commit fully, always with enough to kill men if we grew careless.

They learned which paths we repaired first, which watch points saw late movement best, which officers liked to answer insults quickly, and which Velaryon captains could be tempted into narrow water.

We learned as well.

Captain Marq became very good at making tired men angry in useful directions. He stopped two reckless patrols from chasing false signals by threatening to assign every surviving man to latrine work under Unsullied supervision.

Corlys adjusted the fleet until no patrol held the same water long enough for the enemy to treat it as habit. Daemon began flying at strange hours, not to burn ships, but to remind hidden men that the sky could become death without warning.

Still, the dead accumulated. Fifteen Unsullied in a night fight near the harbour chain. Twenty-three during a failed enemy landing that ended with bodies rolling back down wet stone. Seven killed by a collapsed path after rain loosened rock beneath a watch post. Thirty-one across two weeks of crossbow ambushes, most of them while clearing ground that had seemed secure the day before.

The tally became something I hated and needed.

By the end of the fourth month, the additional Unsullied dead under my direct command had passed one hundred and forty. Black Rat’s losses after Grey Gallows were far lower, though not because his ground was safe. He had fewer men, a narrower front, and a commander’s patience that made the enemy pay dearly for every attempt to draw him out.

I wrote to Rhaenyra whenever ships could carry letters safely.

I did not write every detail, because honesty was not the same as handing her fresh grief without purpose. I told her when men died. I told her when we held. I told her enough that she could know the shape of the campaign without waking to every scream I heard in memory.

Her replies came with news of home folded between fear and command.

Aemma has begun to smile at the ceiling beams as if they are courtiers beneath her notice. Jace grows sterner each week and must be reminded that being eldest does not require him to look solemn at breakfast.

Luke asks after you quietly and pretends not to. The twins have decided pirates must be either cowards or fools, and I have told them most men are capable of both. Viserys insists the cup-dragon remains ready if called upon.

Then, beneath that, in a different hand of thought if not ink: Do not spend yourself trying to make the war shorter than it can be. Come home alive rather than early.

I carried that sentence for three days before answering it.

Vaeron’s letters were less tender and more insulting, which made them no less welcome.

Dick has discovered that war multiplies stupidity faster than rabbits. He has accused three shipmasters of lying, two quartermasters of creative arithmetic, and one fisherman of treason against basic measurement.

The Dread Legion is rested enough to become restless. Jasper claims that remaining ready without sailing is a form of torture invented for men with functioning legs. Celeste says I am becoming unpleasant company. I told her I was unpleasant before marriage, and she answered that marriage had at least made me more expensive.

Aegor asks whether you have killed all the pirates. Vaerya asks whether Aemma bites yet. I told both children that war is slower than stories and babies learn teeth before strategy.

Beneath the humour, Vaeron always included the numbers I needed. Stores. Replacement shields. Transport readiness. Dread Legion strength. Dragonstone’s harbour watches. Grey Worm’s reserve. He did not once repeat his request to bring the company into the campaign.

That restraint worried me more than argument.

By the fifth month, the Triarchy changed its pressure.

They began striking our supply more than our men. A grain ship from Driftmark was taken in poor weather before its escort could turn. Three smaller boats carrying vinegar, linen, and spare bowstrings disappeared east of Grey Gallows.

A captured raider told us under questioning that several Triarchy captains had begun paying silver for information on our water rotations, not our troop counts. That was when I understood the enemy had stopped trying to knock the door down for the moment.

They were studying the hinges. Corlys took the news with a sailor’s fury, which was quieter than a young man’s and more useful.

"They want to make the garrisons expensive to keep," he said in the command tent, one finger pressed against the route marks. "If they cannot seize Bloodstone cleanly, they will make every barrel cost three ships and every ship cost men."

"Can they sustain that?" Marq asked.

Corlys’s eyes remained on the map. "For longer than we would like. The Triarchy can hire hunger in many ports."

Daemon leaned against a table leg, arms folded. "Then we burn the ports feeding them."

"We do not yet have proof enough to strike Free City harbours without making this larger than the Stepstones," I said.

His gaze sharpened. "It is already larger than the Stepstones. Men in Tyrosh, Myr, and Lys are paying for every corpse on these rocks."

"I know. Knowing it and proving it before the realm are not the same."

Daemon looked as if he disliked the realm for requiring paperwork before dragonfire. He was not entirely wrong.

"We strike their supply craft harder," I continued. "Not the cities. Not yet. Corlys, tighten the escort routes and change departure times from Driftmark. Marq, reduce exposed stores again, even if the men complain about carrying barrels farther uphill. Daemon, when weather allows, I want Caraxes above the southern approach at irregular hours. Make the raiders wonder whether every easy prize has wings above it."

Daemon considered that, then nodded. "That is at least close enough to violence to be tolerable."

"It was designed with your comfort in mind."

The room accepted that as planning.

The next weeks were harder, but they worked. Not perfectly. Nothing in the Stepstones did. But the enemy began losing more small boats than they captured, and one Tyroshi captain was taken alive with letters that named three merchants, two false cargoes, and enough payments to make Corlys smile like a man considering which throat to put pressure on later.

Still, the rocks kept charging their price.

By the end of the sixth month, the additional Unsullied dead since our arrival stood at just over two hundred. Most had fallen on Bloodstone under my command. Black Rat had lost more men too, but far fewer after the first great assault. Grey Gallows had become a hard place to approach and a worse place to climb. Bloodstone remained larger, busier, and easier to tempt.

I read the full casualty list in my tent during a windstorm that shook the canvas and made the lamp flame lean sideways. Two hundred more. Not counting the three hundred and twenty at Grey Gallows. Not counting Velaryon sailors, garrison men, scouts, and crews who vanished with ships in bad weather and enemy water.

I had known war would take men. Knowledge did not make me less responsible for handing them to it in ordered files.

Captain Marq found me still awake well after midnight. He entered only after permission, soaked from shoulder to boot and carrying a sealed report beneath his coat.

"My prince," he said, "I have news from the southern watchers."

"Tell me it is dull and administrative."

"I would, if the gods had arranged a kinder night."

I held out my hand. He gave me the report but did not leave. That alone told me enough to dislike the seal before I broke it.

The writing belonged to one of Corlys’s forward captains.

Multiple raider groups converging north-east of the southern shoals. Larger host confirmed by three sightings. Campfires counted across two coves. Prisoner claims captains are gathering for a major descent upon Bloodstone. Estimate five thousand men, perhaps more if late arrivals continue. Ships hidden beyond outer rocks. Movement expected within days.

I read it once, then set it down carefully. Outside, the wind struck the tent again.

Marq watched my face. "Descent upon Bloodstone. That was the word the prisoner used."

"Not Grey Gallows?"

"Bloodstone, my prince. The prisoner said the captains believe Grey Gallows has become too costly after Black Rat’s defence. They mean to take the larger prize, break our harbour, and force Lord Corlys’s fleet to answer under pressure."

The choice made sense. That made it worse. Bloodstone was our spine. It held command, stores, harbour access, and the best point from which to coordinate the fleet and Grey Gallows. If the Triarchy could break it, the campaign would not merely suffer a loss. It would lose shape.

"Who else knows?"

"Lord Corlys has been woken. Prince Daemon is being found, assuming he is not already with Caraxes and pretending sleep is for other bloodlines. I sent for the Unsullied officers before coming here."

"Good."

Marq’s bandaged arm had long since healed, but he still held it close when tired. Six months on Bloodstone had worn every man into habits he no longer noticed.

"Five thousand," he said. "Maybe more."

"That is what the report says."

"We have made them bleed for six months, and they are still gathering that many for one throw."

"Yes."

He looked toward the tent flap, where rain had begun to strike through the wind. "Then this campaign is about to become uglier."

"It already was ugly. Now it is becoming honest."

Marq absorbed that with a tired nod. I rose and reached for my coat.

The map table waited in the command tent. So would Corlys, Daemon, Marq, my officers, and the first shape of the battle the Triarchy had spent six months preparing. Beyond the dark, Grey Gallows held under Black Rat. Behind us, Dragonstone held under Grey Worm and Vaeron. Farther still, Rhaenyra waited with our children in a city where Otto would give every death a useful name if he could.

For half a year, the Triarchy had pestered, cut, burned, tested, and bled. They had lost ships, captains, raiders, coin, and hundreds upon hundreds of men. It had not been enough. Now their scattered knives were gathering into a spear pointed at Bloodstone.

I stepped out into the rain and started toward the command tent, already hearing the horns calling officers from their beds.

Five thousand men. Perhaps more.

At last, the enemy meant to knock at the door with both hands.