Rewriting Targaryen History

Ormund Hightower gave no answer by noon.

No white banner emerged from the forest. No herald rode into the open field. The trees remained quiet, their canopy concealing thousands of men who had heard my terms and chosen, for the moment, to endure hunger rather than surrender.

By sunset, I understood his answer was delay. He believed time might save him.

Perhaps he expected Vhagar to appear above the southern horizon, or Sunfyre to descend with Aegon upon his back. Perhaps he trusted Oldtown to send another host north. He might even have hoped that events elsewhere would force me to abandon Honeyholt and march to Rhaenyra’s aid.

None of those hopes were unreasonable. That was what made waiting dangerous for both of us.

For another week, the forest remained the centre of the war in the Reach.

We tightened our cordon where the ground allowed it, though I resisted every officer who suggested stretching our lines completely around Ormund’s position. Thirteen thousand men could not form an unbroken circle around a forest large enough to shelter his remaining host without becoming weak everywhere.

Instead, we controlled the roads, streams, and open ground beyond the trees. Companies watched in shifts. Cavalry patrolled the wider routes. Unsullied held the strongest crossings, while the Dread Legion guarded the places where local tracks emerged from the undergrowth.

Ormund tested us.

The first attempt came on the second night after the parley. Nearly four hundred men slipped from the western edge of the forest in small groups, carrying no banners and little armour. They moved through fields in loose order, hoping to resemble scattered deserters rather than part of an organised escape.

Our scouts saw the pattern before dawn.

I took Dravvaxx into the air but did not burn them immediately. Instead, I flew low enough beyond their route to drive them away from the open road and back toward the trees. Most turned when they saw us. A few continued south, perhaps believing darkness still protected them.

Dravvaxx burned the ground ahead of them.

The flame did not touch the first ranks, but it turned the field into a wall of heat and smoke. Men scattered. Some threw down their weapons and surrendered to Landrey’s riders. Others fled back beneath the canopy. A smaller group tried to hide among farm buildings and were discovered before midday.

The next attempt was larger.

Ormund sent cavalry from two different exits during heavy rain, one group riding east while another pushed south. He likely expected me to choose which column mattered and allow the other to escape.

I chose neither.

Dravvaxx drove the eastern riders back with a pass of flame across the road, while Black Rat advanced enough Unsullied to block the southern route without breaking the main defensive line. There was a short fight in the rain. Horses screamed, spears struck shields, and perhaps sixty men died before the survivors retreated into the forest.

No pursuit followed. Every failed escape strengthened the lesson I needed Ormund’s soldiers to learn. Leaving the trees did not mean freedom. It meant exposure.

Dravvaxx’s wounded wing continued healing, though the tear remained visible whenever he spread it fully. The dragonkeepers disliked each flight I made, and Dravvaxx disliked the dragonkeepers more.

He could still climb, turn, and breathe fire without difficulty, but his right wing tired sooner than before. I avoided unnecessary speed and never stayed low where the hidden ballistas might find another opportunity.

Those machines remained a threat.

Ormund moved them constantly. Scouts sometimes heard wheels or timber shifting beneath the canopy at night. Once, men watching from the northern fields saw canvas-covered wagons change position near a break in the trees, only for them to vanish again before dawn. Whether all contained ballistas or merely existed to make us cautious did not matter. The uncertainty achieved the same result.

I would not fly into the forest. Ormund knew it. I knew he knew it. That understanding became the wall between us.

He attempted to send ravens to Oldtown as well.

The first was spotted by a Beesbury bowman stationed in a high tower. The bird rose above the trees shortly after dawn and flew south. It was too far for an ordinary bow by the time the warning sounded, but Baela’s death had made every man beneath our banners attentive to the sky. A mounted archer stationed farther along the route brought it down before it crossed beyond our outer patrols.

The message was short and written in Ormund’s own cypher. Dick could not read the full contents, though the repeated references to Oldtown, relief, and dragons were easy enough to identify once one of the Beesbury maesters began working through the symbols.

The next raven flew at night. That one reached farther before a Legion scout saw it pass against the moon. An archer missed. A second man did not.

After that, we stationed trained bowmen along the likely southern line and set watchers on every tower, rise, and farmhouse roof within useful distance. Ormund sent six more birds over the following days.

None reached Oldtown.

One was recovered alive with a broken wing. Two fell into fields. Another disappeared after being struck and was found the next morning in a ditch. The remaining pair were lost beyond sight after arrows reached them, though neither continued flying.

There may have been others we never saw.

I could not assume complete success. A small raven against open sky was easier to notice than one released beneath cloud or darkness, but war punished anyone who mistook vigilance for certainty.

Oldtown may already have known Ormund’s position. Aemond may already have been coming. Aegon may have decided the Reach mattered more than whatever safety Sunfyre gave him elsewhere.

Every morning I searched the horizon. Every evening it remained empty.

Within the forest, hunger began doing quieter work.

More men emerged alone. Some surrendered without weapons. Others carried blades but dropped them when patrols approached. They described shrinking rations, fouled water, wounded men dying without proper treatment, and arguments among the lesser commanders. Ormund still maintained order, but order grew harder when soldiers smelled cooking from Honeyholt’s camps while chewing moulded grain beneath damp trees.

Not every deserter told the truth.

Black Rat questioned them carefully through Grey Worm. Some contradicted themselves. Others knew too little to be useful. One man claimed Ormund intended a full assault on Honeyholt within two days, but another from the same company insisted the lord meant to wait for Vhagar.

Both could have been lies sent deliberately. We treated every report as a fragment, never a picture.

On the fourth day, Ser Jon Roxton appeared briefly at the forest’s edge beneath a peace cloth. He did not bring Baela’s body.

He asked only whether the surrender terms remained. "They do," I told him from the centre of the field.

"Even after the attempts to break your lines?"

"Common soldiers who lay down their weapons will be spared. Officers will be held and judged according to their conduct. Lord Ormund will surrender himself and the hidden ballistas."

Ser Jon remained mounted, one gloved hand resting on his saddle. "You know he will not accept imprisonment."

"That is his choice."

"You have left him no honourable road."

"I offered him the road before his men attacked Honeyholt. I offered it again after his retreat failed. Honour does not require sixteen thousand men to die because one lord dislikes admitting he has lost the ground beneath him."

Roxton’s expression gave little away. "He has not lost yet."

"Then tell him to come out and prove it."

The knight studied me for several moments.

He looked tired. Not frightened, not broken, but worn by the burden of carrying orders he had not chosen. Ormund’s men were not one creature with a single mind. Some remained loyal from belief, others from duty, and many because walking away from a lord beneath enemy eyes was more dangerous than staying.

"Princess Baela’s body remains under guard," Roxton said.

The mention was deliberate, though less cruelly delivered than Ormund had managed. "You should return her."

"I do not command Lord Ormund."

"You command yourself."

His jaw tightened. "Not while I wear his badge."

"Then decide how much of his dishonour you are willing to wear with it."

Roxton turned his horse without answering. The forest received him again.

By the end of the week, the war around Honeyholt felt frozen. Ormund could not reach Oldtown.

I could not enter the forest without accepting losses that might cripple the army before a greater battle. The Hightower host was weakening, but slowly. My men remained fed and protected, yet their patience frayed under the strain of watching the same trees day after day.

Soldiers began inventing rumours simply because uncertainty required entertainment. Some claimed Vhagar had been seen over the Honeywine. Others insisted Aegon was dead, Daeron had seized Oldtown, or Rhaenys had burned Vaemond alive on the steps of High Tide.

None had proof. I allowed harmless talk where it did not affect discipline. Men needed something to say while waiting for war to become visible again.

Dick found me on Honeyholt’s wall near dusk on the seventh day. He carried a tally board beneath one arm and looked offended by the sunset, as if its arrival meant someone had failed to complete their work.

"We have enough grain for several weeks at present consumption," he said. "Longer if the next convoy reaches us from Longtable. Fodder will become the greater concern first, particularly if Landrey continues sending horses across every field between here and the forest."

"Tell Landrey to rotate patrol routes and reduce unnecessary galloping."

"I already did. He informed me that horses dislike being advised by ledgers."

"Horses are proud creatures."

"So are cavalrymen, except the horses are more useful."

I looked south toward the forest. Thin smoke drifted above the trees in several places, though never enough to show where Ormund had concentrated his men.

"How long before hunger forces him to act?" I asked.

Dick rested his board against the parapet. "That depends upon what he carried into the forest and what he has managed to forage. Deserters claim his rations have been reduced twice. If that is true, he may have another week before the common men begin deciding that loyalty tastes worse than surrender."

"And if Oldtown sends relief?"

"Then our arithmetic changes."

Everything came back to that. Oldtown. Vhagar. Sunfyre. A road opening somewhere our patrols had missed. The war had narrowed into waiting for the first force that could break the balance.

A maester found us before darkness settled.

He came quickly but not breathlessly, carrying a raven message sealed in black wax marked with the crowned dragon. The bird had arrived from King’s Landing through Harrenhal, with several additions written in different hands as news moved east.

I broke the seal.

The first lines concerned the capital and Driftmark. Rhaenyra remained in control. Daeron had repeated his oath publicly before several lords. Alicent and Helaena had been permitted greater movement within guarded parts of the Red Keep. No further word had yet come from Rhaenys regarding Corlys’s murder or Vaemond’s claim.

The next part came from the Riverlands.

Jason Lannister had finally moved from the Golden Tooth.

The Westerlands host had crossed the pass in force and was marching east toward Pinkmaiden. Jason had gathered knights, heavy cavalry, levies, and long supply columns from the wealthiest western houses.

His banners were numerous enough that scouts had struggled to count them cleanly. He intended to push into the Riverlands before Daemon could unite the region fully beneath Rhaenyra’s cause.

That was the obvious reading. The less obvious one was that Jason Lannister was walking into a country already preparing to close around him.

Daemon held Harrenhal and could move south or west depending on where the Lannister host committed itself. Jace remained with him, adding Vermax to the threat above the river roads. Blackwoods, Mootons, Mallisters, and other loyal riverlords were gathering men, while surviving Bracken support remained divided after the bloodshed around Burning Mill.

The northern force had also entered the Riverlands.

Three thousand men under Lord Roderick Dustin, the Winter Wolves Jace had secured, were marching south after crossing the Twins. They were older warriors in many cases, men who had left younger sons to preserve their homes through winter. They had come expecting not to return.

That made them dangerous.

Jason had numbers, wealth, armour, and the confidence of a lord who believed the Westerlands could march through poorer neighbours by weight alone. Yet every mile east carried him farther from the Golden Tooth and deeper among rivers, hostile keeps, burned crossings, and lords who knew the country better than he did.

Pinkmaiden lay ahead. Beyond it were the roads and fields where several hosts might meet.

The Fishfeed. I knew the name from another life.

In the history I remembered, it became one of the bloodiest battles of the Dance. Men died in such numbers that corpses choked the lakeshore and turned the water red. The Winter Wolves, riverlords, and western army ground one another apart until victory looked little different from ruin.

But this history had already changed.

Jace had survived his journey north and remained with Daemon. Daeron had chosen Rhaenyra. Corlys had died by assassination rather than illness or battle. Baela had fallen with Moondancer in a forest near Honeyholt. Ormund Hightower remained trapped beneath trees while I stood hundreds of miles from the field I remembered.

I could not trust the future to repeat itself cleanly. I could trust men to make many of the same decisions.

Jason Lannister was marching east with a great army. Daemon would not allow him to pass freely. The riverlords would gather. The Winter Wolves had not travelled south to watch from a distance.

Dick read the message after me. His expression darkened as he reached the final lines. "If Jason is defeated, the Westerlands lose their largest field army."

"If he is defeated."

"You think he may avoid the trap?"

"I think Daemon knows where he is going. That does not mean Jason is blind. He may change course, fortify Pinkmaiden, or wait for support."

"Support from where?"

"Perhaps the Brackens, perhaps western reinforcements, perhaps Aemond if Oldtown decides the Riverlands matter more than Ormund."

Dick looked toward the forest. "Would you welcome that?"

"Vhagar leaving the Reach would make our position safer."

"And make Jace’s much worse."

"Yes."

There were no clean answers left.

Every dragon moved danger rather than removing it. Every army saved in one region threatened another. If Aemond flew toward Jason, Honeyholt could breathe while Harrenhal faced the largest dragon alive. If he came here, Daemon might crush the western host without interference while Dravvaxx and I fought for survival above the Reach.

I folded the letter. "Send copies to Black Rat, Landrey, and the senior Reach commanders. They should know the wider war is moving."

Dick took it back. "Will you tell the men?"

"Tomorrow. Not with prophecy or promises. Tell them Jason Lannister has entered the Riverlands and friendly armies are moving to meet him. Nothing more."

"No speeches about inevitable victory?"

"Inevitable victory is usually announced by men standing far from the place where it needs to be won."

"That is unusually sensible."

"Waiting has damaged me."

Dick left with the message.

I remained on the wall as darkness settled over Honeyholt.

Before me, Ormund’s forest grew indistinct beneath the fading light. His soldiers remained trapped, hungry, and dangerous. Behind me, thirteen thousand men waited for the order to fight or continue waiting. Dravvaxx rested beyond the ditch, his injured wing folded carefully against his side.

Far to the north-west, Jason Lannister’s banners were moving through the Golden Tooth and toward Pinkmaiden.

Soon, he would find the Riverlands closing around him.

The Winter Wolves were coming from the north. Riverlords were gathering across the crossings and fields. Daemon Targaryen watched from Harrenhal with a dragon and the patience of a man who preferred his enemies committed before he struck.

The war around Honeyholt had slowed until every day felt like the last.

Elsewhere, thousands of men were marching toward the Fishfeed, and the realm’s next great slaughter was already beginning to take shape.