Rewriting Targaryen History

Morning came pale over the orchards of Cider Hall.

Mist clung low between the trees, softening the ground where men had died the day before and making the red apples on the branches look darker than they were. The Mander moved beyond the road, broad and quiet, as if it had not watched barricades broken, ambushes repelled, and men dragged from ditches with arrows in their throats. War had a habit of leaving the land unchanged enough to feel insulting.

By sunrise, the queen’s army was moving into position.

Fourteen thousand men stood before Cider Hall by the time the mist began to lift. The number was not only mine anymore. The Unsullied formed the centre, spearpoints level and shields dark in disciplined ranks. The Dread Legion held the flanks, veterans in hard leather, mail, and steel, my purple banners snapping above them with the white sword inside its crescent wreath.

Footly men stood beside them, joined now by Caswell riders and the first proper Ashford companies that had reached us before dawn. Reachmen in Rhaenyra’s cause were no longer only promises on parchment. They were present in mud, steel, and breath.

Above us, the dragons made the argument plain.

Meleys rested on a rise to the south, red scales catching the early light like banked fire. Moondancer circled higher, smaller and quick, her movement sharp enough that men on the walls turned their heads to follow her even when they tried not to. Dravvaxx stood behind our forward line, vast and dark, his silver eyes fixed on Cider Hall with a patience that unsettled even men who knew he was ours.

Three dragons. Fourteen thousand soldiers. A road taken by force.

Cider Hall’s walls were not weak, but walls were only as strong as the choices of the men behind them. Lord Owen Fossoway had already lost nearly half the strength he had dared place against us. His guerrilla attacks had slowed the march and bloodied my allies, but they had failed in the only measure that mattered. The queen’s army had reached his seat intact, ordered, and angry.

Now he had to decide what his house was worth.

I rode forward beneath a white peace cloth, though I brought enough escort to remind the battlements that courtesy was not helplessness. Black Rat rode with me, along with Landrey, Lord Footly, and two standard-bearers. Rhaenys remained with Meleys. Baela stayed high on Moondancer, watching the walls and the orchard roads beyond. I did not need her close enough to tempt some frightened archer into making history worse.

Lord Owen Fossoway appeared on the battlements before we reached speaking distance.

He was not the proud fool I had expected, or perhaps the last five days had scraped foolishness from him. He was broad-shouldered, grey at the temples, dressed in good mail beneath a red cloak, with the red apple of his house displayed plainly above the gate.

Several knights stood near him, though none looked eager. Behind them, archers lined the walls in uneven order. Some tried to hold themselves bravely. Others kept glancing toward the dragons.

Lord Owen looked over the army for a long while before speaking. When he did, his voice carried well enough. "Prince Othorion Galeris. You have brought a great host to my gate."

"I brought it along a road your men tried to close," I answered. "The result is visible enough for both of us."

His jaw tightened. "You have killed many Fossoway men."

"Your men chose ambush after refusing lawful command. I did not march here hunting your house for sport."

"No commander ever says he does."

"No honest commander needs to. You know what happened on the road. You spent near one thousand men trying to delay me and killed two hundred and seventy-two of mine. Mostly Footly and Caswell men, men of the Reach, who died because you chose Aegon’s cause and thought hedges would make the choice cheap."

That struck harder than mentioning Unsullied or Legion dead would have. Lord Owen’s eyes moved briefly to Lord Footly.

Footly looked up at him without softness. "My men were killed in your orchards and ditches, Owen," he called. "Do not pretend this is merely the queen’s foreign war brought to your fields. You chose your banner, and Reachmen paid for it."

Lord Owen’s face darkened, but he did not answer Footly directly. His gaze returned to me. "And now you mean to storm Cider Hall."

"I mean to pass west and reach Highgarden. Whether Cider Hall is stormed depends on you."

A murmur moved along the battlements.

I drew the sealed parchment from beneath my cloak and held it up. "Queen Rhaenyra offers lawful submission. Open your gates. Surrender arms taken against her. Provide hostages for future obedience. Your men who lay down arms will not be slaughtered. Your lands will not be burned. Your house will live."

Lord Owen stared down at me, then past me to the host. His eyes lingered on Dravvaxx.

"If I refuse?"

I did not raise my voice.

"If you refuse, you choose siege against fourteen thousand men and three dragons after losing almost half the force you sent into the field. You may kill more of us. You may make Cider Hall famous for a few grim days. But your walls will fail, your sons will inherit ash if they inherit anything, and House Fossoway will be remembered as the house that mistook stubbornness for honour after the road had already been lost."

The words sat between us.

No one on the wall cheered. That told me more than bravado would have. Men who truly believed their lord could save them from the fire would have shouted defiance. These men listened because they were measuring the distance between pride and death.

Lord Owen looked toward Meleys again. Then Moondancer. Then Dravvaxx.

He had seen armies before. Most lords had, at least from the safe end of a levy. Dragons were different. Dragons made arithmetic crueller. A castle could be held against men. Against dragons, it became a question of whether the attackers wanted the stones afterwards.

"I declared for Prince Aegon," Owen said at last. "If I bend now, men will call me oathbreaker."

"You declared for a prince who fled lawful summons and shelters behind Oldtown while other men bleed in his name. Bend now, and some will call you coward. Refuse, and fewer will be left alive to call you loyal."

His face hardened at the word coward. I let it.

"Your pride is not the same as your house," I continued. "If you wish to die for Aegon, you can do so before noon. If you wish House Fossoway to survive this war, open the gate."

A knight beside him leaned close and spoke quickly. Owen did not look at him. Another man on the battlement crossed himself, though whether for courage or deliverance I could not tell.

Lord Owen’s silence lengthened. I did not fill it.

That was difficult. Command often made men impatient with waiting, but some choices had to ripen in the person making them. Push too hard, and pride answered where fear might have become sense. Say too little and hesitation hardened into defiance. The balance was narrow.

At last, Owen placed both hands on the stone before him. "If I submit, what becomes of my sons?"

There it was, though not in the way songs liked. Not a great lord asking for honour, banners, or terms of future command. A father asking what the price would be for the children who carried his name.

"They will be taken into my household under guard and honour," I said. "They will serve as cupbearers more than prisoners. They will be taught, fed, and kept safely so long as House Fossoway obeys the queen’s peace. They will not be harmed for your defeat."

"How many?"

"Two."

His eyes closed briefly.

I already knew their names from Footly’s reports. Martyn, ten years old. Garth, seven. Too young to understand why banners had made their father choose between them and a siege. Old enough to remember leaving home.

Lord Owen opened his eyes. "My eldest two sons, then."

"Yes."

"My wife will hate me for it."

"She would hate burying them more."

That answer reached him harder than threats had.

For the first time, the lord of Cider Hall looked old. He stepped back from the battlement and spoke to someone behind him. The men around him shifted. A few seemed angry, but not enough. More looked relieved before remembering that relief in defeat should be hidden.

When he returned to the wall, he carried no sword in his hand. "Cider Hall will open its gates," he called. "House Fossoway submits to Queen Rhaenyra and asks mercy for its men and lands."

The words carried across the field.

A sound moved through our army, not quite a cheer. The Unsullied did not make one. The Dread Legion muttered with the satisfied irritation of men who had been ready to work harder. Footly’s men reacted more sharply, some pleased, some resentful that surrender had come after so many of their own were already dead.

I turned in the saddle and raised one hand. The sound died before it grew. No triumph. Not yet.

"Your gates will open," I called back. "Your men will stack arms outside the walls in companies. Officers will be recorded by name. Wounded will be treated. Any man hiding weapons for later use will be hanged. Any soldier of mine stealing from your people will face punishment. Send your sons under escort when the gate is secured."

Owen bowed his head once. It was not a graceful submission. Grace would have been obscene.

The gates of Cider Hall opened slowly.

Men love to say gates groan as if stone and timber understand shame. These did not. They moved with the heavy reluctance of old hinges and iron bands, revealing a courtyard full of men who had expected either glory or death and received neither.

Fossoway soldiers emerged first in groups, carrying spears, swords, bows, and shields. They laid them in piles where Grey Worm directed them. Their officers gave names to Dick’s clerks, who wrote everything down with the merciless calm of men who knew memory could become argument if not trapped in ink.

The wounded came next.

Some were ours, captured in earlier skirmishes and now returned pale, bandaged, and ashamed of needing help to walk. Others were Fossoway men, many hurt badly from the road fighting and abandoned hope of hiding it.

Orwyle’s assistants were not with us, but our field surgeons and healers did what could be done. I had ordered equal treatment for wounds that could be treated. That pleased no one fully, which was usually a sign of a necessary order.

Lord Owen came down last among his fighting men. He had removed his sword belt. He walked through the gate with dignity, though not with pride. Pride had cost him enough. Behind him came two boys.

Martyn Fossoway was ten, thin-faced and trying desperately not to cry. He wore a fine tunic too formal for fear, and his hair had been combed carefully, likely by a mother with shaking hands. His younger brother Garth held his sleeve. Seven years old, rounder in the face, eyes red, clutching a small wooden horse as if no one had told him, hostages did not bring toys.

I dismounted before they reached me.

Lord Owen bowed. "My prince. Cider Hall submits under the terms given."

"Your submission is accepted under Queen Rhaenyra’s authority. Your men will remain under watch until the arms are counted and your officers sworn. Your lands are under royal peace. Break it, and this mercy ends."

"I understand."

The boys stood beside him.

Owen placed one hand on Martyn’s shoulder and the other on Garth’s. "These are my sons, Martyn and Garth. They are given as hostages for my house’s obedience."

Martyn flinched at the word, though he tried not to. I crouched slightly so I was not looking down on them from full height. That felt important, though I could not have said whether it was for them or for me.

"Martyn. Garth. You will travel with my household and serve as cupbearers. You will not be mistreated. You will be expected to behave with courtesy, learn quickly, and remember that your father’s peace protects your house as well as yourselves."

Martyn swallowed. "Are we prisoners, my prince?"

Behind him, Lord Owen’s face tightened.

I did not lie. Children remembered lies more bitterly than hard truths. "Yes. But not in chains, and not in a dungeon. Hostages can be honoured, or they can be abused. In my camp, they will be honoured so long as the peace holds."

Garth looked up at his father. "Can I keep my horse?"

The wooden one. Lord Owen’s composure almost broke.

I answered before he had to. "You may keep it."

Garth clutched it closer. "His name is Apple."

Landrey, standing behind me, made a sound that might have been a cough. I chose not to look at him.

"Then Apple comes with us," I said.

Martyn looked embarrassed on his brother’s behalf, which was perhaps the first normal thing I had seen from him.

Rhaenys approached then, her presence making the Fossoway guards straighten even without weapons. She looked at the boys, and the hardness in her face changed into something older and quieter.

"They will be placed with suitable attendants," she said. "Not among common soldiers."

"Thank you," Lord Owen said, voice rougher than before.

"Do not thank me yet," Rhaenys replied. "Obey, and they will have little to fear. Betray your oath, and you make their position darker than any of us wish."

Owen nodded.

He understood. That was the cruelty of hostages. Their safety depended on the honour of people who were no longer free to act only as fathers.

The formalities took the rest of the day.

Cider Hall’s stores were inspected, not seized blindly. Grain was purchased under record, horses counted, armouries sealed, and the gatehouse placed under a mixed guard of Fossoway men who had resworn, Footly officers, and a hard centre of Unsullied who did not care whose grandfather had quarrelled with whom.

Lord Owen was left in his castle under restriction, with orders to provide road access, supplies at fair royal price, and messengers to confirm his submission to nearby houses. Some of my men wanted harsher treatment.

I heard it in the camp before evening. Fossoway ambushes had killed friends. A surrendered lord felt insufficient to men who had buried companions beneath orchard soil. One Footly sergeant said loudly enough for half his company to hear that mercy came easier to dragonriders whose sons had not died in ditches.

I had him brought before me. He did not deny the words. "My prince, I spoke in grief," he said.

"You spoke where grief could become discipline breaking."

His face was hard. "My nephew was killed on the road."

"I know. His name was Alar. He died at the second barricade with an arrow under the ribs. He was nineteen."

The man’s anger faltered because I had given the dead a name.

I continued. "I will not ask you to forgive House Fossoway today. I will not ask you to like my terms. But you will obey them. If our army becomes revenge with banners, we lose every lord watching to see whether Rhaenyra brings order or another excuse for slaughter."

He looked down. "Yes, my prince."

"You may bury your nephew with honours tonight. Take two men from your company and see it done properly."

His voice changed. "Thank you."

"Do not waste that thanks by making me hang you later."

A rough answer, perhaps, but grief sometimes needed edges more than softness.

By sunset, the red apple banner still flew above Cider Hall, but beneath it flew Rhaenyra’s dragon. That image mattered. Not conquest alone. Submission.

House Fossoway had declared for Aegon, bloodied our road, lost near half its fighting men, and then chosen survival when faced with the full weight of what resistance would cost. Other houses would hear of it by tomorrow. Some would call Lord Owen wise. Some would call him craven. Most would understand the message beneath both judgments.

The queen’s army could be slowed. It could not be stopped by orchard traps and pride.

That evening, Martyn and Garth were brought to my command tent. They had been given food, clean cloaks, and space enough to sit without being stared at by soldiers. Martyn stood when I entered. Garth tried to stand too quickly and nearly dropped Apple the wooden horse.

"You do not need to leap up every time I enter," I said. "Standing once is enough unless ceremony requires more."

Martyn nodded. "Yes, my prince."

Garth looked at the cups arranged on the small table. "Are we cupbearers now?"

"Not tonight. Tonight you are tired boys who have had a bad day. Tomorrow you will begin learning what that service means."

Martyn’s chin lifted. "My father said cupbearers hear things."

"They do."

"Are we meant to tell him?"

"No. You are meant to learn when silence is part of service. Your father gave you as hostages, but I will not train you as little spies and then punish you for being children."

Martyn considered that with wary seriousness. "Will we see him again?"

"If he keeps faith, yes."

Garth’s lower lip trembled. "What if he forgets?"

"He will not forget you," I said.

That much was not a promise of politics. It was simply true.

A servant brought watered wine, bread, cheese, and sliced apples, because someone in the camp had an unfortunate sense of humour or no sense of irony at all. Garth took an apple slice, then looked guilty.

Martyn whispered, "You can eat it."

I pretended not to hear. When I left them with their attendants, Rhaenys waited outside.

"You handled them gently," she said.

"They are children."

"Many men remember that only when the children are their own."

I looked back toward the tent. "I have too many memories of children paying for men’s banners."

"As do most old houses."

The light had nearly gone. Beyond the camp, Cider Hall’s walls stood dark against the evening, no longer an obstacle but not yet a friend. Dravvaxx rested on the rise beyond, his eyes half-closed. Meleys was farther off, a red shadow beneath the first stars. Moondancer shifted near Baela’s tent, small by comparison and still enough to frighten any sane man.

Three dragons. Fourteen thousand soldiers. One lord had looked from his battlements and decided his house’s future mattered more than dying prettily for Aegon. That was not peace. But it was something better than a siege.

Tomorrow we would turn our eyes west again, toward Highgarden, toward Lord Matthos Tyrell, and toward whatever shadow Tessarion had cast across the rose.