Rewriting Targaryen History

Daeron flew for King’s Landing the next morning.

He did not leave as a captive, nor as a prince dragged unwillingly from one side of the war to another. He left in the open, before Highgarden, before my army, before the Tyrell banners, and before every watching lord who had spent the night wondering whether the blue dragon would remain a threat above the Reach.

Tessarion came at dawn.

She rose from beyond the southern fields with the light catching blue along her wings, beautiful enough that men forgot for a moment what beauty could do when it breathed flame. She was smaller than Meleys, far smaller than Dravvaxx, and nothing beside Vhagar, but no dragon was small to men standing beneath the sky. The camp fell quiet as she circled once and descended outside bowshot of Highgarden’s walls.

Daeron approached her alone.

He wore no crown, no green cloak, and no armour polished for display. His riding leathers bore the marks of travel, and the white strip fixed beneath his saddle was visible even from a distance. Peace banner. Safe approach. A message to King’s Landing before he ever reached its sky.

Before mounting, he came to me. "I will tell Queen Rhaenyra what I told you," he said. "I will not pretend this is easy, but I will not turn back because it is hard."

"I do not think she will ask you to pretend."

His eyes moved briefly toward Highgarden’s gates. "Lord Matthos believes I am either very brave or very young."

"Those often look alike until the consequence arrives."

Daeron considered that and gave a faint, tired smile. "Then I hope courage survives the journey better than youth does."

Rhaenys stood beside me, arms folded, her gaze fixed on Tessarion. "Approach the capital high and slow. Do not descend until directed. If scorpions turn toward you, do not panic and do not answer fear with fire. Let the white banner do its work long enough for command to reach the walls."

"I understand, Princess."

"Understanding before dragonback is easy. Remember it when arrows look upward."

He bowed his head. "I will."

Baela watched him from beside Moondancer, still suspicious, though less openly than the day before. "If you change your mind halfway there, everyone will know quickly."

Daeron looked at her. "That is one advantage of riding a blue dragon beneath daylight. Treachery becomes difficult to hide."

Baela seemed to accept that as almost sensible.

He mounted Tessarion a few moments later. The dragon shifted beneath him, restless but responsive, and when she launched herself skyward, the force of her wings sent dust rolling across the grass. Men watched in silence as blue climbed into pale morning. She circled once above Highgarden, then turned east.

Toward King’s Landing. Toward Rhaenyra. Toward a choice that would wound Aegon’s faction more deeply than a lost skirmish.

Oldtown could replace men. It could muster more swords, call more banners, and dress more refusals in law. It could not easily replace a brother who chose not to become its weapon.

Daeron’s absence stripped Aegon of one of the three dragons that had made the Hightower cause so dangerous in the Reach. More than that, it damaged their story. They could claim Rhaenyra ruled by fear, but Daeron had not fled from her. He had flown toward her.

Still, I did not mistake one good turn for victory.

Ormund Hightower would not fold because Daeron had chosen peace. Aemond would not lay down Vhagar because his younger brother had found a conscience. Aegon would not abandon a crown simply because one part of his claim had become inconvenient. Men who wanted war rarely stopped because their cause became less clean. They merely shouted louder over the stains.

By noon, I sat across from Lord Matthos Tyrell inside Highgarden.

The hall was as beautiful as the stories promised. Sunlight entered through tall windows, falling across carved wood, pale stone, and green-gold banners. Even the air smelled different there, sweet with flowers and polished wealth, as if the castle wished to convince every visitor that violence belonged somewhere less cultivated.

Lord Matthos had the face of a man born to inherit beauty and trained to fear damaging it. He was courteous, careful, and much younger in manner than his title required. Around him stood Tyrell cousins, stewards, knights, and silent advisers whose eyes measured every word before it left anyone’s mouth.

He had not received me as an enemy. He had not received me as a sworn ally either.

"My prince," Lord Matthos said, "Highgarden honours Queen Rhaenyra’s coronation and mourns King Viserys. No man here wishes to see the Reach consumed by war."

"No man ever says he wishes it," I answered. "The question is what he does when war reaches his road."

His mouth tightened politely. "You speak plainly."

"I have marched through five days of Fossoway traps and taken Cider Hall under surrender. Plain speech saves time, and we have little of it."

Lord Matthos glanced toward one of his advisers, then back to me. "The Reach is divided. House Hightower gathers strength. Redwyne, Bulwer, and Roxton have joined Lord Ormund. Fossoway has bent to you after loss. Merryweather, Footly, Caswell, Ashford, Tarly, Blackbar, and Beesbury stand with the queen in varying degrees of exposure. If Highgarden declares now, it may draw every green sword south of the Mander toward my walls."

"If Highgarden refuses, those same swords will decide your caution belongs to them."

"I am not refusing."

"You are not declaring."

He accepted the correction with visible discomfort. "I am preserving the Reach from a wider fire."

"Lord Matthos, the fire is already wider than your walls. Daeron’s departure gives you a chance to stand for lawful succession without three dragons looming from Oldtown. If you will not declare for Rhaenyra today, then at least deny Ormund the use of Highgarden’s name, roads, stores, and banners."

That was the point I had come prepared to make. I did not have time to court him properly, flatter every cousin, dine beneath roses, and spend three days convincing cautious men that caution could kill them. Honeyholt, Blackbar, and Tarly lands remained threatened. The army could not sit beside Highgarden waiting for neutrality to become courage.

Lord Matthos looked down at the table between us. "You would accept neutrality?"

"For now. Not forever."

His eyes lifted.

"Highgarden’s neutrality must be real," I continued. "No men to Ormund. No grain. No passage. No letters promising future support to Aegon while you give me courtesy in person. You keep your banners within your lands, maintain order, and allow Rhaenyra’s loyal houses to move through roads already opened by our advance. In return, I do not place your castle under pressure today, and I report to the queen that Highgarden has not joined her enemies."

One of his older advisers frowned. "That sounds like neutrality under threat."

"It is neutrality in a realm where armies are already moving. If you wished comfortable neutrality, you should have been born in a quieter age."

The adviser bristled, but Lord Matthos raised a hand.

"What of Daeron?" Matthos asked. "If he kneels to the queen, will she use him against his brothers?"

"She will use his oath to shorten the war if she can. That may include asking him to speak, to witness, and to show the realm that Aegon does not command every son of Viserys. Whether he fights will be a different question."

"And if Oldtown calls him traitor?"

"Oldtown likely decided the word before he finished turning east."

By the time we left the chamber, Lord Matthos Tyrell had not declared for Rhaenyra.

He had also not declared for Aegon.

More importantly, he agreed to written neutrality: no support to Hightower forces, no denial of passage to the queen’s envoys, no shelter for armies moving under Aegon’s claim, and no use of Highgarden’s stores against Rhaenyra’s sworn supporters. It was not enough for the war. It was enough for the hour.

A raven arrived before sunset.

It came from the south-west, relayed through a Beesbury contact and carried on by a rider who had changed mounts twice before reaching Highgarden’s outer camp. The seal was cracked from haste, the script cramped, and the message short enough to tell me the writer had valued speed over dignity.

Ormund Hightower had moved. His host was reportedly laying siege to Honeyholt, the ancestral home of House Beesbury. I read the line again, though I had understood it the first time.

Honeyholt. Lord Beesbury’s blood, lands, and house seat, now under pressure from the very cause that had already tried to unmake Rhaenyra’s crown. The Hightowers were not waiting to see how Daeron’s choice settled. They were striking at a loyal house, one tied to the queen’s council and old enough in the Reach to make the message clear.

Bend, or be made example.

Rhaenys read the letter after me, her face hardening. "How far?"

"Four days by hard march if roads hold. Longer if Ormund has men watching crossings."

"Then he means to force you away from Highgarden before Matthos can be drawn further."

"Yes."

"And punish Beesbury loyalty before other Reach houses decide it is safe."

"Yes."

Baela stood nearby, still in riding leathers, Moondancer restless behind her. "We cannot leave Honeyholt to fall."

"No," I said. "We cannot."

Lord Footly, Merryweather, and the Caswell envoy were summoned before the hour ended. Lord Matthos sent a representative as well, which was wise of him. Neutrality did not excuse ignorance when a siege began within reach of his influence.

The council gathered in my command tent rather than Highgarden’s hall. I wanted mud beneath boots and maps under lamplight, not roses and polished tables.

I placed the Honeyholt marker south-east of our current position.

"Ormund has begun siege or encirclement of Honeyholt," I said. "Reports are early, but consistent enough to act. We are four days away if we march hard. We cannot remain at Highgarden to coax a declaration while a loyal house is being punished for standing with the queen."

Merryweather leaned over the map. "If Honeyholt falls quickly, the Hightowers will claim the Reach cannot be protected."

"Which is why it must not fall."

Footly nodded grimly. "My men can march, but they are tired from the Fossoway road."

"So are mine. Tired men can still move if the alternative is giving Ormund time."

The Tyrell representative, a polished knight named Ser Gwayne Longbottom, cleared his throat. "Lord Matthos will maintain the neutrality agreed. He cannot send Highgarden’s banners to Honeyholt."

"I did not ask for them," I said.

His face coloured slightly. "He does not wish Ormund to believe Highgarden has turned against him because your army departs from our lands toward the siege."

"Ormund will believe whatever helps him sleep. Tell Lord Matthos that neutrality is measured by conduct. If Highgarden does not aid Ormund and does not hinder us, I will not waste time arguing with his shadow."

Ser Gwayne bowed stiffly. "I will carry the words."

Rhaenys looked at the map. "If Ormund has his full host near Honeyholt, you are marching toward a larger army."

"Not all of it will be tightly placed around the siege. He has over twenty thousand, but feeding that many around Honeyholt will spread them. If he expects us to linger at Highgarden, he may not be ready for a swift approach."

"And if he is ready?"

"Then we find that out before Honeyholt burns."

Baela’s eyes sharpened. "Moondancer can scout ahead."

"You will scout," Rhaenys said before I could answer, "but not beyond the second day’s march until Meleys or Dravvaxx can support you. If Tessarion is gone east with Daeron, that leaves Vhagar and Sunfyre as the greater concerns. We do not assume the sky is safe because one blue dragon turned away."

Baela accepted the order with more discipline than she would have shown a month earlier. "I understand."

Landrey pointed to the roads. "The army will move slower if we keep every wagon. We can send a faster vanguard with cavalry, Legion light infantry, and selected Unsullied, then bring the main body behind."

Black Rat answered through Grey Worm. "A vanguard too far ahead can be destroyed before the host arrives. Better to lighten the whole march, leave non-essential baggage under guard near Highgarden or Longtable, and move the army in fighting order."

Dick looked personally wounded. "Non-essential baggage is a phrase men use before asking where the spare bowstrings went."

"We are not abandoning supplies," I said. "We are stripping the march down for four days, not crossing a desert. Food, water, arrows, medical carts, smiths, and essential camp tools move. Excess baggage goes back toward Longtable under guard. Prisoners and hostages remain with the protected centre."

At the word hostages, I thought of Martyn and Garth. They would march again. Children carried because fathers chose banners, then chose survival. The order sat poorly with me. I gave it anyway.

By midnight, the camp was moving before it had slept.

Officers went company to company. Fires were reduced. Wagons were sorted under lanterns. Men cursed quietly and rolled blankets with the particular resentment of soldiers woken before dawn by orders that refused to wait for daylight. Horses were fed early. Scouts left in pairs. Ravens flew to Longtable, Tumbleton, King’s Landing, and any loyal Reach house between our route and Honeyholt.

One letter went to Lord Beesbury in King’s Landing. I wrote it myself: Honeyholt is reportedly under siege by Ormund Hightower. We march at once. I will do what I can to preserve your house and people. Send any knowledge of stores, walls, hidden approaches, or family still within the castle by fastest bird.

I sealed it and hoped the old man would not have to read of his home burning before my next message reached him.

Before dawn, I walked the edge of the camp with Rhaenys.

Highgarden loomed behind us in darkness, beautiful and undecided. Its neutrality had been secured on parchment. Perhaps that would hold. Perhaps it would not. I had no time to make it stronger.

At first light, the army marched.

Highgarden remained behind us, green and gold in the growing dawn, neutral for the moment and therefore useful enough. Ahead lay four days of hard road, a siege at Honeyholt, Ormund Hightower’s growing host, and the knowledge that Daeron’s absence, however damaging to Aegon, had not softened the men who still chose war.

We had no time to celebrate a dragon turned toward peace. Another house was already under threat.

So the queen’s army turned from roses toward honey, and haste became our only mercy.