Rewriting Targaryen History

We left Highgarden behind with thirteen thousand men.

The remaining thousand Reachmen stayed under guard with the excess supplies, wagons, spare tents, heavier stores, and the kind of baggage that slowed an army when speed mattered more than comfort.

Lord Merryweather’s men and part of the Footly strength held the supply camp with strict orders to move only if threatened or summoned. They were not pleased to be left behind, but displeasure was lighter than a siege lost because our column crawled under the weight of every spare barrel.

Honeyholt was four days away if the roads remained kind. Roads rarely remained kind once men needed them.

The army marched in hard order from the first hour. The Unsullied formed the iron centre, their pace steady enough to make exhaustion seem like a discipline rather than a condition. The Dread Legion screened the sides and rear, while our Reach allies filled the middle ground between local knowledge and royal command.

Horses tired quickly. Men tired faster. Wagons broke, were repaired, and rolled again. At every halt, officers checked feet, water, straps, and tempers, because an army marching in haste could lose itself without a single enemy blade touching it.

I rode for most of the first day, then flew when I needed to see farther than scouts could ride.

Dravvaxx did not like the pace any more than the men did. He ranged wide, circling ahead or resting on distant rises, but he always returned when called. Meleys kept closer to the column, Rhaenys judging from above where the army stretched too thin or where the roads narrowed dangerously. Baela and Moondancer did the most delicate work, scouting ahead by short flights, never so far that a warning became a rescue.

On the second afternoon, Baela returned with mud on her boots and wind-tangled hair, landing near the forward halt before the outriders had finished watering their horses. She came straight to me.

"Honeyholt still stands," she said, breathing hard from the urgency rather than the flight. "Ormund’s men attacked at dawn yesterday and were repelled. The Beesbury defenders burned one ram before it reached the inner gate and pushed ladders from the eastern wall. I saw bodies outside the ditch, many of them Hightower men, but their host has not withdrawn."

The relief lasted only long enough for the rest of the report to follow.

"How close are they to another assault?" I asked.

"Close. They are cutting timber again. I saw men dragging shielded frames toward the northern approach. There are fresh camps beyond the orchards, and smoke from cookfires everywhere south of the castle. They were beaten once, but not badly enough to stop. They are preparing to try again."

Rhaenys had landed Meleys nearby and joined us before Baela finished.

"Did you see Ormund’s banner?" she asked.

"Yes. South of the main camp, near a pavilion with green towers on the cloth. I did not see Vhagar or Sunfyre."

"That does not mean they are absent," Rhaenys said.

"I know."

Baela did not bristle at the correction. A month ago, she might have. War was a poor teacher, but an efficient one.

I spread the map over a flat stone while the officers gathered. Honeyholt lay ahead, its surrounding lands marked from Beesbury’s late reply. The castle was not among the strongest seats in the Reach, but it was old, defensible, and held by men fighting for their own hearths.

"Can the army reach Honeyholt before the next assault?" Landrey asked.

"Not if the assault begins tomorrow morning," I said.

Footly looked grim. "If they already failed once, Ormund may press quickly before the defenders sleep enough to recover."

"He will," I said. "He wants Honeyholt fallen before we arrive. He knows exactly what it means if a house tied to Rhaenyra’s council survives his first strike."

Rhaenys looked toward the road. "You are thinking of flying ahead."

"Yes."

No one liked it. That did not make it wrong.

Grey Worm spoke after a quick exchange with Black Rat. "The army can continue under command. If you fly ahead, the host must know whether to march toward battle or prepare to receive attack here."

"They march toward Honeyholt," I said. "No slowing unless Ormund turns on them. Rhaenys remains with the column on Meleys. Baela scouts between me and the army, not near the Hightower lines unless ordered. If Honeyholt is close to falling, I need to be there before men reach the walls."

Rhaenys’s expression was severe. "One dragon against a host is not invincibility. You may stop an assault, but if Vhagar is hidden nearby, you could be drawn into exactly the kind of sky you have warned everyone else against."

"I know."

"Knowing is not the same as weighing."

"I am weighing it. If Honeyholt falls before the army arrives, every loyal Reach house hears that our protection is always four days late. If Dravvaxx can stop the fall long enough for the host to reach them, then the risk is worth taking."

Baela looked as if she wanted to offer Moondancer.

Rhaenys saw it first. "No. You will not follow him into a siege camp."

Baela’s mouth closed with visible effort.

I looked at her. "Your task matters. You keep the army informed, and you keep Rhaenys informed of me if you can do so safely. A dead scout is not bravery. It is missing information with a body attached."

She accepted that with a stiff nod. "I understand."

The army moved again within the hour.

I waited only long enough to send written orders through the command chain. Landrey would keep the forward movement steady. Grey Worm and Black Rat would preserve the centre. Rhaenys would hold the sky over the column and prevent any sudden Hightower riders from turning our haste into disorder.

The baggage was to be tightened further. Stragglers would be gathered or left with escort, but the army would not slow for pride, complaint, or broken wheels that carried nothing essential.

Then I went to Dravvaxx.

He stood beyond the line of marching men, dark against the late light, wings folded, head low. He watched me approach as if he already knew the decision. Perhaps he did. Perhaps my fear had reached him before my steps.

"We fly ahead," I told him, resting my hand against his neck. "Fast. Honeyholt is close to falling, and we may have to frighten an army before our own arrives."

He gave a low rumble. "Yes," I said. "I would prefer not to be killed either."

I mounted with my armour fastened and Rhaenyra’s banner tied behind the saddle. My own banner followed it, purple field and white sword within crescent wreath. Let the men below know whose dragon had come. Let Ormund know as well.

Dravvaxx launched into the evening sky.

The army fell away beneath us, thirteen thousand men reduced to lines of movement across the road. Fires, wagons, spearpoints, banners, horses, all made small by height. We flew hard toward Honeyholt, the land darkening below as the sun sank behind us. The Reach spread rich and green and unaware beneath dragon wings, though smoke ahead soon marked where peace had already been put to work feeding armies.

By night, I saw the first signs of Ormund’s host. Campfires.

Campfires. They spread south and east of Honeyholt in clusters, disciplined but vast, a second constellation laid upon the ground. The castle itself stood beyond them, dim against the last light, walls scarred by recent attack. I circled high, keeping distance until I understood the shape.

Hightower banners. Redwyne tents. Bulwer and Roxton markers among lesser colours. Siege frames near the northern approach. Timber dragged into place. Men moving in torchlight despite the hour.

They were preparing to strike again at dawn.

Honeyholt’s own lights were fewer. Some burned along the walls. Some within the keep. The defenders had survived the first assault, but survival had cost them. I could see black scars where fire had taken a ram. Broken ladders lay near the ditch. Bodies had not all been removed. The air smelled of smoke, trampled earth, and the sick sweetness of blood beginning to settle into mud.

I did not attack that night.

Darkness belonged to confusion, and dragonfire in confusion had a way of making truth irrelevant. I landed Dravvaxx on a ridge north of Honeyholt, far enough that no panicked archer on the wall could mistake us for the enemy, close enough that the defenders might see a dark dragon against the moon and understand that help had come.

A horn sounded from Honeyholt after a while. Then another. Not alarm alone. Recognition. I stayed awake through most of the night, watching the Hightower camp prepare.

Near dawn, they moved.

The assault began with horns from Ormund’s lines, deep and numerous, followed by drums that carried through the morning mist. Men formed behind shielded frames. Archers moved forward under cover.

A new ram, heavier than the one Beesbury men had burned, was drawn toward the northern gate beneath wet hides. Ladders came against the eastern wall. Their first assault had failed. The second had learned from it.

Honeyholt answered with bells and arrows.

For a while, the defenders held well. Stones fell from the walls. Arrows struck men dragging the frames. One ladder broke before reaching the parapet. But Ormund had numbers enough to spend pressure until courage became exhaustion. More men came forward. The ram reached the gate. The first crash carried up to the ridge where Dravvaxx crouched beneath me.

I waited three more breaths. Not from hesitation. From certainty. The second crash came. Then the third.

A section of the eastern wall erupted in movement as Hightower men reached the top of a ladder and Beesbury defenders rushed to throw them back. On the northern gate, the ram struck again, and this time the sound changed. Not broken yet, but damaged. Honeyholt was close to being forced open.

I gave Dravvaxx the command. He leapt from the ridge.

We came out of the north with the sun behind cloud and the mist beneath us. For a moment, the Hightower men did not see us. Then a shout rose from the rear lines, thin at first, then spreading like fire through dry grass. Heads turned. Formations wavered. Horses screamed.

Dravvaxx roared. The sound struck the battlefield harder than any horn. Men at the ram looked up too late.

I did not burn the gate. I did not burn the wall. I did not loose fire into the defenders I had come to save. I drove Dravvaxx low across the northern approach and gave the word as we passed over the siege engine.

"Dracarys."

Black-purple flame poured from him in a violent sheet, hot enough that the air itself seemed to tear. The wet hides steamed, blackened, then burned. The ram vanished beneath fire, men scattering from it in every direction. Some burned. Some threw themselves into mud. Others ran so blindly they collided with their own shield frames.

We climbed before arrows could rise properly.

Below, the southern assault broke apart.

I turned Dravvaxx toward the eastern wall. Hightower men on the ladders were already scrambling down, some falling in their haste. I did not burn the wall. I burned the ladder base and the cluster of spare ladders behind it. Men fled from the flame before it reached them, though not all were fast enough. The smell changed at once, wood smoke becoming something uglier.

Honeyholt’s defenders began cheering. The sound was ragged, desperate, and half-disbelieving.

I circled once above the castle, low enough that the Beesbury banners snapped in the wind of Dravvaxx’s wings. Men on the wall raised swords, bows, and bloodied hands. Some were wounded. Some stood only because the man beside them held them upright. Their gate had been moments from failing.

Ormund’s lines were not destroyed. A lesser commander might have broken entirely beneath the sight of a dragon arriving at the point of victory, but Ormund’s army was not a mob. Horns sounded from the rear.

Men withdrew in rough order where officers could still reach them. Archers loosed at height, more to defend pride than with hope of hitting. I kept Dravvaxx moving, not lingering above one place long enough for scorpion crews or lucky bolts to matter.

I searched for Vhagar. Nothing. No vast shadow. No green-bronze death rising from behind a hill. Sunfyre did not appear either. That did not comfort me fully, but it allowed me to breathe.

I made one more pass, not with flame, but presence. Dravvaxx flew along the space between Honeyholt and Ormund’s camp, roaring again as he turned. The message was simple enough for every soldier below to understand.

The castle had not fallen. The queen’s dragon had arrived. The army was coming. After the Hightower assault withdrew beyond immediate bowshot, I landed inside Honeyholt’s outer yard.

There was barely space enough. Dravvaxx settled with displeasure, claws scraping stone, tail curling dangerously near a stable wall. Men stumbled back from him, then remembered they were supposed to cheer and did so with the strained enthusiasm of people standing beside living fire.

A Beesbury knight came toward me, helmet dented, face streaked with soot and blood. He bowed so deeply he nearly fell.

"My prince. I am Ser Alester Beesbury. Lord Humfrey holds the keep, but he was wounded in the first assault. You came at the turn of the gate."

"I saw."

His eyes were wet, though whether from smoke or relief I could not tell. "Another quarter hour and they would have been inside."

"Then we will be grateful for the quarter hour we denied them."

He gave a shaking breath. "Is the army close?"

"Two days for the full host if the march holds. Perhaps less for the first elements. Rhaenys is with them on Meleys."

That news moved through the men nearby like water into dry soil.

Ser Alester looked toward the burned approach beyond the gate. "Will Ormund attack again before they arrive?"

"He may. He has numbers, pride, and reason to finish this before my army reaches him. But he has lost his ram and ladders, and his men now know Dravvaxx is here."

The dragon rumbled at his name, which made several defenders flinch. "Can you hold?" I asked.

Ser Alester looked around the yard, at men binding wounds, carrying arrows, dragging broken beams, and fetching water. His fear was plain. So was his resolve.

"We can hold better than we could an hour ago."

"That may be enough."

It had to be.

By midday, Honeyholt had changed from a castle nearly taken to a castle braced around relief. I walked the walls with Ser Alester and saw the price of the first assault and the second near success.

The southern gate was cracked but not broken. We reinforced it with beams from inside the yard. The eastern wall had blood on the stones where Hightower men had reached the parapet. The defenders had lost many, though not enough to break if hope remained visible.

Dravvaxx became that hope.

He rested beyond the inner yard after I brought him back outside the walls, his dark form visible from both castle and enemy camp. Every time Ormund’s men looked toward Honeyholt, they saw him. Every time the Beesbury defenders looked outward, they saw the same thing and read a different meaning.

Near afternoon, Baela arrived on Moondancer.

She did not land inside the castle. She obeyed sense and came down on the northern ridge. I rode out to meet her with a small escort while Dravvaxx watched the enemy lines.

"The army is pushing hard," she said as soon as I reached her. "Rhaenys says the vanguard may reach by tomorrow evening if the road holds, with the main body behind. She saw smoke from the assault and guessed you had engaged."

"I burned the ram and ladders. Honeyholt still stands."

Baela looked past me toward the castle, then to Ormund’s camp. "His men are not leaving."

"No. They are deciding whether their next attempt is worth doing under a dragon’s eye."

"And if Vhagar comes?"

"Then you leave."

Her face tightened. I continued before she could answer. "You leave and warn Rhaenys. That is not cowardice. That is the order that keeps everyone alive long enough to answer properly."

Baela drew a sharp breath, then nodded. "I will obey."

"I know you will."

This time, I let the praise stand.

As evening fell, Ormund’s camp remained where it was.

They had been repelled once by Honeyholt alone and stopped the second time by dragonfire moments before success. They were not dissuaded. Not yet. I could see movement among their lines, officers riding, men dragging ruined pieces away, new timber being shifted, archers repositioned. Ormund would not abandon Honeyholt simply because one assault had been burned apart. The castle mattered too much now. To him, to us, to every Reach house watching.

I stood on Honeyholt’s wall as darkness gathered.

Below, men repaired the gate by torchlight. Beyond the fields, Hightower fires burned in long rows. Behind me, Beesbury wounded groaned in the yard, and healers moved from man to man with water, cloth, and tired hands. Dravvaxx lay outside the wall, still as a hill until his eyes opened and caught firelight silver.

I had arrived in time.

The army was still on the road. Rhaenys was coming. Thirteen thousand men marched toward a siege that had not yet ended. One thousand Reachmen guarded the supplies behind us, and every mile between those two points could still become trouble if Ormund found the right knife.

Honeyholt had not fallen.

But night settled over the castle with the enemy still at its throat, and dawn would ask whether one dragon and exhausted walls could hold long enough for the queen’s army to arrive.