Rewriting Targaryen History

Chapter 90: Chapter 90: Night On Bloodstone

By sunset, Bloodstone had been repaired badly enough to be defended again.

That was the best the day allowed.

The breach in the southern barricade had been closed with broken masts, spare shields, rope, stones, and the kind of stubborn labour that made poor materials serve because men had no better choice.

The lower beach remained fouled with bodies. We cleared what we could before the light failed, dragging our dead upward and leaving many of theirs where the tide could not yet take them. The wounded were carried to the covered ground near the old storehouse, where surgeons worked beneath lamplight and did not look up when men screamed.

The first assault had ended. No one believed the fighting was finished.

Captain Marq understood the island well enough to prepare for the next blow before the last blood dried. The harbour chain was checked again. Archers were moved before darkness could teach the enemy where they had stood during the day.

The Unsullied rotated through food, water, and rest in portions too small to satisfy and too necessary to refuse. Men slept with armour loosened rather than removed. Spears lay within reach. Shields were stacked where hands could find them without light.

Daemon did not leave Caraxes for long.

The Blood Wyrm crouched above the southern ridge, a dark shape against a darker sky, restless after the day’s fire. Daemon stood near him when I climbed the path, one hand resting against red scales that still held warmth from flame.

"They will come tonight," he said before I reached him.

"Yes."

"You sound certain."

"If they wait until morning, we will repair more, count better, sleep longer, and make the southern beach uglier for them. Darkness gives them something they do not have in daylight."

Daemon looked toward the sea. The last light had nearly vanished, leaving the southern rocks as jagged lines against the water. "It also gives Caraxes less to see."

"That is why they will come."

His mouth tightened. "Then I will burn what the night reveals."

"And ignore what it tries to hide badly enough to lure you out."

"You repeat yourself like a septon with better clothes."

"I repeat myself because dragons make every plan want to become simpler than it is."

He turned his head slightly, watching me with a look that could have become anger if he respected me less. "I know what they want from me."

"I believe you. I also know they will keep trying to take it."

Below us, men moved along the lower paths with covered lanterns. From this height the camp looked controlled, but control seen from a ridge was a dishonest thing. It did not show dry mouths, shaking hands, men checking the same buckle four times, or the moment before a soldier wondered whether he would have time to be afraid once the horn sounded.

Daemon followed my gaze. "You mean to stand with the southern line."

"I mean to be near enough to see what happens."

"That is not the same thing."

"No," I said. "But tonight I may need both."

He did not argue. That told me he understood the shape of the coming fight.

Night settled fully.

The Stepstones after dark did not become quiet. They became careful. Water moved between rocks with soft violence. Ropes creaked. Men whispered despite orders. Somewhere below, a wounded man called for his mother in a language I did not know until sleep or milk of the poppy dragged him away from the edge of himself.

The first warning came near the second hour of night. Not a horn. Not yet. A single covered lantern flashed from the southern watch, low and brief.

Movement beyond the outer rocks.

Captain Marq was beside me within moments. His face was shadowed beneath his helm, but his voice was steady.

"They are using the bodies and wreckage to cloak their approach," he said. "The watch saw movement between the burned boats."

"They are not close enough for the horn."

"No, my prince. But they are coming."

I looked down toward the southern beach.

Darkness hid too much. The surf broke white around rocks and corpses. Broken hulls from the day’s assault still lay at angles along the lower water. Any one of them could hide men. Any shadow between them could be empty. That was the gift darkness gave to attackers who had already paid enough dead to clutter the shore.

"Pass the warning quietly," I said. "No horn until they commit. Archers hold. Oil crews wait. Unsullied shields forward but low."

Marq nodded and sent the order. I went down to the southern line.

The men saw me come but did not call out. The Unsullied stood in formation behind the repaired barricade, shields dark, spear points catching almost no light. Velaryon archers crouched above and behind them.

Sailors with axes waited near the broken mast section, where the repairs were weakest. I placed myself behind the first line and to the right of the central breach point, where I could see the lower beach and reach the fight if the barrier failed.

The darkness moved.

At first, that was all it seemed to do.

Then a shape rose from the surf where a dead boat lay half-burned against the stones. A man. Then another behind him. Farther left, three more emerged from behind wreckage, shields held close to their bodies to hide the pale edges. A low whistle carried, almost swallowed by water. More figures lifted from shadow.

They had come closer than I liked. Not unseen. Not surprising. But close enough that the night had done its work.

The horn sounded. Bloodstone woke for the second time that day.

Arrows fell first. They did not fall cleanly. Darkness made distance treacherous, and many vanished into rocks or water. Enough found men. The enemy answered with crossbows from lower ground, firing upward at shadows and lantern slits. A quarrel struck the stone near my face and snapped into splinters.

"Shields high," I called in High Valyrian.

The first enemy rush struck the barricade before the archers could loose a third volley.

It was nothing like the daylight assault.

In daylight, we had seen the weight coming. We had watched boats, banners, waves, and the shape of command. At night, the fight arrived as pieces. Men climbed from wrecks. Men crawled between bodies. Men appeared from gullies we had watched all day and still distrusted too little. They struck the line in knots, not ranks, and every knot seemed too close before it was fully seen.

The Unsullied held the first impact.

Spears thrust downward over the barricade. Men screamed and fell back into others still climbing. Hooks caught the timber. Axes bit into rope. A raider pushed a wet hide over the barricade to block spear points, and three behind him tried to lift it as a shielded bridge.

"Oil on the left," I ordered.

A covered jar rolled from above and broke across the hide and the men beneath it. A torch followed. Fire climbed fast. The hide turned from shield to trap, and the raiders beneath it staggered backwards, burning, ruining the climb of those behind them.

Then the right side bent.

A group had come through the lower rocks instead of the beach, using the old drainage cut that Marq’s men had blocked with stones after the first assault. They had cleared enough of it in the dark to force a narrow passage. The first warning was not a horn but a shout from a Velaryon sailor who died before finishing it.

"Right breach," Marq called from somewhere behind me.

I was already moving.

The enemy came through in a cramped rush, six or seven men at first, then more pressing behind. Their shields were round, painted dark, and wet from the climb. One carried a short axe. Another had a curved blade that caught the lantern light as he swung for the nearest Unsullied officer.

I met him before the blow landed.

My sword took him across the forearm and then the throat as he stumbled. The axe man crashed into me a breath later, shield first. We struck shoulder to shield, both of us slipping on wet stone.

He was strong and frightened, which made him stronger for the first three heartbeats and worse after them. His axe chopped low. I turned enough that it bit into my coat rather than my hip, then drove my dagger under his shield and into the soft place below his ribs.

He fell against me. I shoved him aside and nearly lost my footing on blood. The next man tried to climb over him. An Unsullied spear took him through the mouth.

More came behind.

For several minutes, the fight became too close for command to remain clean. I shouted in High Valyrian, moved men by hand when noise swallowed words, and fought where the line needed weight more than instruction.

The old part of me, the mercenary captain who had lived before court and children and poisoned councils, returned without ceremony. Cut the hand that grips. Step away from the dead before they trip you. Do not follow the falling man. Watch the second blade. Breathe when able. Kill when required.

A crossbowman appeared above the drainage cut, kneeling behind a broken stone. I saw him too late.

The quarrel struck the shield of the Unsullied beside me with a sound like a hammer blow. The soldier staggered but did not fall. I took one step forward and threw my dagger before the crossbowman could reload. It struck badly, hilt turning, blade catching in his cheek rather than his throat. He screamed, and that was enough. A Velaryon arrow took him in the chest.

"Block the cut," I shouted. "Stone and shields, now."

Two Unsullied dragged a broken mantlet into the gap while others held the press. A sailor shoved stones forward with both hands and lost three fingers to an axe for it. He kept pushing until someone pulled him back by the collar.

Above the harbour, Caraxes screamed. The sound rolled over the fight and changed the enemy’s voices. Fire lit the sea. Daemon had launched at last.

For a heartbeat, the entire southern beach appeared in red and gold. The scale of the assault revealed itself all at once. Hundreds of men were on the lower stones. More boats waited beyond the surf. Others drifted dark behind wreckage, packed with raiders who had not yet committed. The enemy had used the night well, but dragonfire turned concealment into exposure.

Caraxes swept low over the outer boats.

Daemon did not burn near our line. He burned behind the assault, across the water where the next wave waited. Flame struck three boats together, leaping from sail to shield to men packed too tightly to scatter. Another vessel tried to back away and collided with a craft still pushing forward. Fire spilt between them. The water itself seemed to glow where burning pitch spread across the surface.

The men pressing our barricade heard the screams behind them and fought harder. They knew retreat had become a narrowing thing.

The repaired barricade shuddered. Timber cracked. A section near the centre collapsed inward under a crush of bodies and hooks.

"Reserve to centre," I called.

The order moved, but slowly. Darkness, bodies, and broken ground stole speed from even trained men.

I ran toward the centre before the reserve reached it.

The breach opened into a chaos of shields and reaching hands. A Tyroshi with a crested helm forced his way through first, shouting for others to follow. He cut down a Velaryon archer with a curved sword and turned toward the gap behind our first line.

I reached him from the side.

He was better than the men before him. He caught my first cut on his shield and answered with a thrust that forced me back. His sword was shorter than mine, quick in close ground. He pressed hard, using the bodies around us to keep me from stepping freely.

For three exchanges, I gave ground because dead men underfoot made pride dangerous. His fourth strike came too high. I caught it, turned his blade, and drove my pommel into his face hard enough to break something. When he reeled, I cut under his arm where the mail opened.

He fell into the breach he had tried to widen.

The reserve arrived.

Unsullied shields slammed into place, one after another, and the gap became a wall again. Spears thrust over the fallen. Men on the enemy side pushed forward and died without understanding the breach had already closed.

Captain Marq appeared at my left, breathing hard, blood running from a cut above his brow.

"You are bleeding, my prince."

"So are you."

"I had hoped command would make you too sensible for this."

"I had hoped the enemy would respect the barricade."

"Neither of us should gamble."

A horn sounded from the harbour. This time, the note was longer.

I turned, cold spreading under my ribs. "The chain?"

A runner came down the path, nearly falling as he reached us. "Fire boats near the harbour mouth. Lord Corlys is engaging. The chain holds for now."

For now.

The assault was not only on the southern beach. The main weight was here, but the enemy had sent fire toward the harbour again while our eyes were pulled to the night fight. Not surprise. Pressure.

"Send the second reserve to the harbour," I ordered. "No more than that. The southern line remains the main fight."

Marq repeated the command to the runner, who vanished uphill.

Caraxes turned in the sky. Daemon had seen the harbour threat.

The dragon climbed from the burning boats beyond the beach and banked toward the chain. He moved like a red shadow crossing stars. For a moment, I feared the enemy had managed what they wanted, drawing him away while the southern assault still pressed. Then Caraxes burned a line across the harbour mouth without descending fully, catching two fire boats before they reached the chain, and turned back almost at once.

Daemon had learned the rhythm of their bait. Or perhaps he had simply grown angry enough to become efficient.

Either way, he saved the harbour.

The centre breach held. The right drainage cut was sealed. The left side still fought, but the enemy there had begun to falter. Their second wave had burned badly, and their third was trapped between wanting to reinforce and fearing the sky.

The darkness no longer belonged only to them. Fires on the water threw enough light across the rocks for our archers to find targets. Velaryon ships struck at the outer boats where they could. Corlys had kept his screen together, and that discipline mattered as much as dragonfire.

Still, the enemy did not break quickly.

They came again at the centre, stepping over the dead who had failed before them. A group with large shields pushed forward beneath wet leather, trying to smother the spear line long enough for axemen behind them to cut the barricade apart. I sent oil again, but they had learned. The first jars rolled off the hides without catching properly. The second burst too far to the right.

So we used stones.

Baskets tipped from above. Heavy rocks crashed onto the shielded group, not enough to kill all of them, enough to break shape. Spears entered the gaps. One axeman reached the top of the barricade before an Unsullied officer dragged him over by the front of his armour and killed him on our side with a short blade.

The officer died moments later to a quarrel through the neck.

I saw him fall and marked his face in my mind because later someone would give me a name and I would need somewhere to put it.

The fighting lasted into the deep night.

Time became measured by signals, not hours. Harbour secure. Centre holding. Left line reinforced. Enemy boats burning beyond lower rocks. Wounded moving. Arrows low at southern rise. Send stones. Send water. Send men who can still stand.

By the time the enemy began to withdraw, the beach was burning in four places.

Caraxes had done much of that. The Velaryon ships had done the rest. Broken boats knocked together in the surf, spreading fire like quarrels passed from hand to hand. Some raiders tried swimming away from the shore and drowned in armour. Others clung to wreckage until flames found them. A few still fought near the barricade because no retreat had remained by the time they understood the battle was lost.

"Hold formation," I ordered. "No pursuit beyond the lower stones."

The Unsullied obeyed.

Velaryon men needed the order twice. That was not cowardice or indiscipline. It was anger. Men who had spent hours fighting in the dark often wanted daylight’s satisfaction too early. Captain Marq made sure no one got it.

One sailor tried to climb down after a wounded raider who had cursed him in the common tongue. Marq caught him by the back of his coat and threw him against the barricade.

"You will not die for a man already bleeding into the tide," he said. "Stand where you are useful."

The sailor stared at him, shaking, then lowered his axe.

At last, the remaining enemy pulled away.

Some boats escaped south under cover of smoke and darkness. More did not. Caraxes circled once but did not chase far. Daemon kept him above Bloodstone until the last serious movement near the harbour had ended. The dragon’s wings beat slow and heavy as he returned to the ridge, flame leaking from his jaws in dull red threads.

The horns gave the end of contact before dawn. No one celebrated. Men simply stood where they were, as if the act of not fighting required instruction too. When the first grey light touched the water, the cost showed itself.

The southern beach had become a field of blackened wood, dead men, broken shields, and steam rising from hot places where seawater moved in. The bodies nearest the line were mostly whole.

Farther out, where Caraxes had burned the boats, they were shapes I did not look at longer than needed. The enemy dead lay in heaps along the lower rocks, in the surf, across the wreckage, and half-submerged beneath smoking planks.

Captain Marq came to me after the first counts began. His voice was rough from shouting.

"Early numbers, my prince. They will change once we search the rocks."

"Give them."

"Unsullied dead stand at one hundred. A few may still be found beneath the breach wreckage, but the officers believe that number is close. Velaryon losses are lower than I feared, though not kind. Enemy dead counted on shore are above four hundred already. The burned boats will add more. Lord Corlys believes the total enemy loss may reach a thousand once the water gives up what it can."

One hundred Unsullied. A thousand enemy. A victory, if written by a man who did not have to walk through it.

I looked toward the line. The Unsullied were already gathering their dead separately from the enemy. They moved with care, not ceremony. Ceremony would come later, if the Stepstones allowed it. For now, care was enough.

Daemon descended from the ridge not long after sunrise. His face was marked with soot, his hair damp with sweat despite the cold. He looked tired in a way only those who knew him would notice.

"You held the southern line," he said.

"With more help than pride wants to admit."

"Pride can be educated."

"That sounds unlike you."

"It can be educated in others."

He looked toward the burned water. Caraxes shifted above us, lowering his head to watch men move among the wreckage.

"They tried to use darkness well," Daemon said. "If they had committed with better timing at the harbour, it might have cost us more."

"They came close enough."

"They lost enough men to remember it."

"Black Rat said after Grey Gallows that they could afford to lose men."

Daemon’s expression did not soften. "Can they afford to keep losing them?"

"That is the question they are asking themselves now."

Corlys joined us with a rolled report in hand. His cloak smelled of smoke and seawater. "Their second assault is broken. Several ships fled south before dawn. My captains are watching but not pursuing into the outer rocks."

"Good," I said.

He looked at the beach. "Good is a strange word for this hour."

"It is the only one that does not lie too much."

Corlys accepted that.

By midmorning, the count became firmer.

Enemy dead on shore and in the immediate surf: six hundred and seventeen. Enemy dead estimated from burned and sunken boats: near four hundred more. Prisoners: thirty-two, most wounded, several too badly burned to survive the day. Unsullied dead: one hundred. Unsullied wounded: one hundred and eighty-six. Velaryon and garrison dead: forty-one. Wounded: more than twice that.

The second assault had failed.

It had also shown us the enemy still had enough strength to fight hard after losing the day before. The host beyond the southern rocks had been hurt, not destroyed. They had learned more about our barricades, our reserves, Daemon’s restraint, Corlys’s screen, and the cost of darkness against disciplined men.

We had learned that they could come closer at night than comfort allowed.

I ordered the dead named before the day’s repairs began.

Not all at once. That would have delayed work the living needed. But each officer brought his list, and I read the Unsullied names as they were given. Some were old names chosen after freedom. Some were numbers still carried by habit. I read both because refusing one would not make the old world vanish, and ignoring the other would insult the man who had chosen it.

When the last list was done, I stood a while near the repaired centre breach.

My sword arm ached. The cut in my coat had missed flesh by less than a finger. Dried blood stiffened one sleeve, not all of it mine. Below, men dragged enemy bodies from the path so the barricade could be rebuilt again.

Captain Marq approached slowly. "The men are asking whether there will be a third assault today."

"What answer are you giving?"

"I tell them the enemy may be stupid, angry, or desperate, but rarely all three in the same hour."

"That is comforting."

"I am not paid to comfort them."

"No. But if they ask me, I will tell them the same thing with more authority."

He gave a tired smile. "That should make it nearly true."

The sun climbed behind thin smoke.

Bloodstone still held. The harbour chain remained intact. Caraxes watched from above like a threat given scales. Corlys’s ships guarded the southern water. The Unsullied stood where they had been ordered, one hundred fewer than before night fell.

The Triarchy had attacked under darkness and lost near a thousand men for the attempt.

That did not end the campaign. It did not even end the host gathered beyond the rocks. But it bought Bloodstone another day, and in the Stepstones another day was often the only victory honest men could claim before the next horn sounded.