Rewriting Targaryen History

We left Tumbleton with enough men to make the roads tremble and not enough to make me comfortable.

That was the nature of the thing. An army always looked large until placed against all it was expected to do. We had over twelve thousand men in the field, Footly banners now marching beside Rhaenyra’s dragon and my crescent-wreathed sword, but the Reach spread wide around us.

Before we marched, I left Tumbleton guarded.

Five hundred veterans of the Dread Legion remained under Rollis. He disliked being left behind and made certain everyone knew it, though I trusted him more for his complaints than I would have trusted a younger man’s eagerness.

With him stayed two hundred Unsullied, placed not as decoration but as the hard centre of the garrison. Footly men who knew the town and nearby fields filled the spaces between them.

"Tumbleton must remain a door, not a memory," I told Rollis before leaving.

He leaned on his cane and looked over the men assigned to him. "If you are driven back, I will keep the door open. If some Fossoway fool thinks to slip around and shut it, I will break his hand in the hinge."

"That is almost reassuring."

"It was meant to be entirely reassuring, but your standards have become unreasonable."

I clasped his forearm. "Hold the town."

He met my eyes then, humour thinning into duty. "March carefully, my prince. Roads in the Reach look soft until they are full of men trying to kill you from behind hedges."

"I will remember."

"See that you do. I am too old to rescue commanders who forget simple things."

The army moved west before the morning warmed.

The first day was slow by design. I wanted the column to settle before distance stretched it thin. The Unsullied formed the centre in ordered ranks, quiet beneath spear and shield. The Dread Legion moved around them with scouts, horse, and wagon guards.

Footly’s fifteen hundred marched with local confidence, though some looked uneasy among so many men from elsewhere. That would pass, or it would not. The important thing was that they marched under Rhaenyra’s cause where the Reach could see them.

Baela and Moondancer worked ahead of us from the first hour.

I had expected courage from her. I had expected impatience. What I had not fully expected was how quickly she made discipline into pride of its own. She flew high when ordered high, returned when ordered to return, and gave reports cleanly, with landmarks, numbers, and direction rather than dramatic declarations. Moondancer was quick enough to vanish into cloud shadow and small enough that men below often noticed her only after she had passed.

Rhaenys watched her with quiet severity.

"She is doing well," I said during the first evening halt.

"She is," Rhaenys replied. "Do not tell her too warmly yet. Baela can turn praise into permission if it is handed over without weight."

"I have a daughter. I understand the danger of praise becoming law."

"You have Aemma. That is not the same thing as understanding daughters. That is surviving a small royal occupation."

I laughed before I could stop myself.

It felt strange on the road to Longtable, with Fossoway men waiting ahead and Hightower strength gathering beyond them. But soldiers heard laughter differently from speeches. It told them their commanders still had breath for something besides fear.

On the second day, Baela reported Fossoway scouts near the western lanes.

"They are watching the main road," she said, standing over the map with wind-tangled hair and bright eyes. "Not closely enough to count every wagon, but enough to know we are moving. I saw red apple banners near a low ridge and men cutting timber."

"Barricades?" Landrey asked.

"Likely. I did not fly low enough to see the shape. There were carts pulled across the road and men working beside them."

Rhaenys gave her a small nod. "That was the correct distance."

Baela tried not to look pleased and failed just enough.

I marked the ridge. "Then they mean to slow us before Longtable or beyond it. We continue to the mustering point, but no foraging parties leave without escort. Fossoway riders may try to cut stragglers."

Black Rat, through Grey Worm, recommended tighter night watches and wider spacing in the march where the road allowed. He also asked whether the enemy was likely to burn fields ahead of us.

"Not yet," Lord Footly answered. "The Fossoways are proud of their lands, and Reach lords do not burn food lightly. If they grow desperate, perhaps. For now they will want to show they can block us without ruining what they claim to defend."

"That may change once they lose," Landrey said.

Footly looked at him. "Reachmen remember who ruins orchards."

"So do hungry soldiers," Dick said. "Which is why I prefer not to begin that contest."

We adjusted the march before dawn.

By the third day, the road had changed. The land opened and narrowed by turns, fields giving way to hedges, hedges to small woods, then back to farms that watched us from behind shut doors.

The weather stayed clear, which should have been a blessing. Instead, it made every distant movement visible enough to become suspicious. Dust on the horizon might be riders or cattle. A flash of metal might be a scout or a farmer’s tool. War taught men to mistrust ordinary things.

Near midday, Rhaenys took Meleys higher than usual. That made the column quieter.

When a dragon climbed with purpose, men below began imagining what she had seen. I let them wonder for a while, because speculation sometimes kept men attentive. Then Baela returned faster than expected, Moondancer descending in a tight line beyond the forward scouts. She dismounted before the dragon had fully settled, which told me the report mattered.

Rhaenys landed shortly after her, not far enough away to let the matter remain private.

Baela came straight to me.

"I saw a dragon near Highgarden," she said.

The words moved through the officers like a blade leaving its sheath.

"What colour?" I asked, though I already knew before she answered.

"Blue. Not large like Vhagar. Not gold like Sunfyre. Blue, bright against the cloud, moving near the fields east of Highgarden before turning south."

Tessarion. Daeron.

For a moment, the road, the army, and the map in my hand seemed to narrow around that single fact. The boy who had hesitated outside Oldtown was now near Highgarden with his dragon, or at least his dragon had been sent close enough to be seen. Whether Daeron rode her himself or Tessarion had been moved as warning, the meaning was clear. Oldtown was reaching east with more than ravens and banners.

Rhaenys looked at Baela. "How far from you?"

"Far enough that I turned before she could close. I do not think she saw me clearly. If she did, she did not pursue."

"You did well," Rhaenys said.

Baela’s face changed, because praise from Rhaenys was not cheaply given.

I looked toward the south-western sky. "Tessarion near Highgarden means Ormund is either pressuring Lord Matthos Tyrell or warning us away from him."

"Or both," Footly said grimly.

Rhaenys folded her arms. "Daeron may be near enough to support the Fossoways if they choose battle."

"He may also be there to frighten Highgarden without committing to battle," I said. "But we cannot plan as if the kinder version is true."

I sent orders down the column before we resumed.

The men were told enough, not everything. A blue dragon had been sighted in the distance. The army would maintain looser spacing where ground allowed. Wagons were to be kept under tighter guard. Horn signals were repeated until every officer could recite them half-asleep.

If a dragon appeared overhead, men were not to bunch beneath banners like fools offering one target. Shields were to be raised only on command, fires smothered if ordered, horses controlled or cut loose depending on proximity, and no archer was to waste arrows at a height where vanity mattered more than aim.

It was not enough. Nothing was enough against dragonfire if the dragon came low and hungry. But men who had instructions feared less uselessly than men left to imagine death without shape.

That evening, I went to Dravvaxx.

He had flown apart from the column for much of the march, hunting when he could and landing beyond camp when I called him. He disliked the smell of so many men and horses, though he tolerated it better now than he once would have. I found him on a low rise overlooking the camp, dark scales drinking the last light of the day until the silver of his eyes seemed brighter than the sky.

He lifted his head when I approached. "Hey," I said softly.

His nostrils flared. Warm breath rolled over me, smelling of meat, smoke, and storm.

I placed a hand against his neck. "There may be another dragon soon. Blue. Younger than you. Fast, perhaps bold. Not the great old one, not yet."

Dravvaxx rumbled. I did not know how much he understood of names, factions, crowns, and boys raised under Hightower roofs. He understood my tension. He understood sky-threat. He understood that I was asking him to be ready not merely to fly, but to fight if the day demanded it.

"I would rather not," I said. "You know that, I think. But if Tessarion comes for the men, or for Baela, or for Meleys, we answer. Not chase. Not rage. Answer."

His head lowered until one silver eye regarded me closely.

For all his size, there were still moments when I remembered the shy, wary creature he had been when our bond first formed. Dragons were terror to men below, but each had a nature. Dravvaxx was not a beast that loved crowds or noise. He did not glory in being watched. Yet beneath that wariness lived immense power, and I was preparing to spend it.

That felt like another kind of guilt.

I checked the saddle straps myself. The leather had been oiled. The buckles inspected. The harness adjusted for longer flight if needed. My armour was ready nearby, dark steel and gold detail laid out with the practical care of soldiers who knew beauty did not stop flame. The crescent wreath marked the fittings. My gloves had been repaired. My sword belt hung from the saddle rack.

Rhaenys approached while I worked. "Meleys is ready," she said.

"I assumed she would be."

"Meleys is always ready. I am telling you because men like to pretend preparation makes danger more obedient."

I tightened one strap and stepped back. "Does it?"

"No. It makes fear less sloppy."

"That may be enough for tomorrow."

Rhaenys looked toward Dravvaxx. He watched her but did not threaten. That was progress of a sort.

"Tessarion is young, but do not dismiss her," she said. "A young dragon can be quick and eager, and a young rider may mistake survival for skill after the first pass."

"Daeron did not look eager for war outside Oldtown."

"Boys who hesitate in councils can still burn men once surrounded by songs telling them courage requires it."

I thought of Daeron’s face. His question about Alicent. His silence after Ormund corrected him. His failure to take the road Rhaenyra had left open.

"If he comes," I said, "I would rather drive him away than kill him."

Rhaenys gave me a long look. "Hold to that if you can. Do not die reaching for it."

The fourth day brought Longtable.

House Merryweather’s lands were rich enough to make the army painfully aware of how much food war could destroy if fools were allowed to command it. Fields stretched broad and green, orchards stood in orderly lines, and the roads improved as we neared the seat. Longtable itself had begun changing before we arrived.

Tents were already rising beyond the walls. Banners of lesser eastern Reach houses appeared among the camps. Men-at-arms gathered in uneven numbers, some well-equipped, some clearly called too quickly from farms and village musters.

Lord Merryweather came out to receive us.

He had attended Rhaenyra’s coronation, and that mattered more now than it had in the Dragonpit. Men could not say he had drifted into loyalty after the armies formed. He had stood witness when the crown was placed on her head.

"My prince," he said, bowing deeply. "Longtable stands for Queen Rhaenyra. My stores, roads, and men are at your disposal."

I dismounted and clasped his forearm. "Then Longtable becomes the gathering point for every eastern Reach lord willing to fight for the lawful queen. Their men are to be counted, fed, and placed under clear command. No private companies wandering in and out. No banners joining for honour while ignoring orders."

Merryweather nodded. "I expected as much. Some of the lesser lords may need careful handling."

"They will receive careful handling first."

"And after?"

"Clear handling."

He understood and did not ask me to soften it.

By sunset, our camp had joined the mustering grounds around Longtable. The Footly men settled with visible relief among allies. Caswell riders had arrived ahead of their main support, bringing word that Bitterbridge remained open.

Ashford scouts were harrying Fossoway movements south of the main road but had not yet forced a fight. The Fossoways were still gathering, still preparing, still testing how close they could stand to defiance before being struck.

And somewhere near Highgarden, Tessarion had flown.

That night, I held council beneath Merryweather’s roof rather than in my campaign tent. The hall was smaller than any royal chamber, but it had food, fire, and a table large enough for the map. Around it stood Rhaenys, Baela, Lord Merryweather, Lord Footly, Caswell’s envoy, two Ashford riders, Grey Worm, Landrey, Dick, and several officers.

I placed a blue marker near Highgarden.

"This changes nothing about our purpose," I said. "It changes how carefully we reach it. The Fossoways remain the immediate obstacle. Highgarden remains the political prize. Tessarion’s presence means Oldtown knows both facts."

Baela stood straighter, as if the sighting had become a personal responsibility. I looked at her. "You did well today. Tomorrow, you rest Moondancer until called. A scout who sees a dragon once may be tempted to search for it again. You will not."

She wanted to argue. She did not. "Yes, my prince."

Rhaenys looked approving, though faintly.

I turned to the others. "The men are to be prepared for battle, but not told we expect dragonfire at dawn. Panic travels faster than orders. Officers will repeat anti-dragon spacing and horn commands by company. Archers are to conserve arrows unless a target is low. Wagon masters prepare wet hides where possible. Cavalry stays flexible, not bunched on roads. If Tessarion appears, the army opens space and follows command. Dravvaxx and Meleys will answer in the sky if needed."

Merryweather swallowed but kept his voice steady. "And if the Fossoways attack while the blue dragon circles?"

"Then we fight the men in front of us without giving the dragon a feast. Harder than it sounds. That is why officers will know the plan before soldiers need it."

Landrey nodded. "I will drill the cavalry at first light."

Grey Worm translated Black Rat’s comments, then added his own. "The Unsullied can adjust spacing by horn. They will hold under fear better than most. But if fire falls directly, no formation remains perfect."

"No formation needs perfection," I said. "It needs enough discipline to survive the first shock."

Rhaenys added, "And enough sense not to stare upward while men with spears approach."

That earned grim nods.

The council ended late.

Outside, Longtable’s fields glowed with hundreds of fires. The eastern Reach was beginning to gather around us, not yet enough, not yet secure, but real. Footly, Merryweather, Caswell, Ashford, and others would form the first shape of Rhaenyra’s strength in this part of the realm.

To the west, Highgarden waited behind uncertainty. Between us stood the Fossoways. Beyond them, a blue dragon had crossed the sky.

I stood in the dark for a while after the others left, listening to the sounds of men preparing for a battle that might come by road, by field, or by flame from above. Dravvaxx rested beyond the camp, a darker shadow against the night. Meleys lay farther off, restless and old in her own fierce way. Moondancer was quiet at last, though I suspected Baela was not.

The march from Tumbleton had ended.

The next road would not be passed by marching alone.