Rewriting Targaryen History

Another week passed beneath the shadow of the forest.

Ormund Hightower remained hidden among the trees, though the army he commanded was no longer the force that had marched upon Honeyholt. Every failed attempt to escape had cost him men, supplies, and whatever confidence remained among those who still obeyed.

The forest had once protected his host from Dravvaxx and concealed the ballistas that brought down Moondancer. Now it had become a prison whose walls were made from open fields, guarded roads, and the knowledge that dragonfire waited beyond the canopy.

The surrendering soldiers came more frequently as the days passed.

At first, they emerged in small groups beneath the weakest light before dawn. Five men would step from the trees with swords held above their heads, followed by another dozen carrying wounded companions between them. By the third day, entire sections of companies were abandoning Ormund together.

Some brought officers bound by their own belts. Others arrived without armour because they had traded steel for food within the forest or thrown it away to move more quietly past Hightower sentries.

They all told similar stories.

Rations had been reduced again. Horses were being slaughtered for meat. Grain had become so scarce that a handful of moulded oats could be divided between three men. Several wells within the forest had soured under the strain of thousands drinking from them, while the streams ran foul from mud, blood, waste, and bodies buried too close to the banks. Men with wounds from the battle were dying without proper treatment. Those still capable of standing were being returned to watch lines regardless of fever.

Ormund maintained discipline through the companies most loyal to House Hightower. Ser Jon Roxton commanded the patrols nearest the forest edge, and several knights had been placed among the common soldiers to prevent further desertion. The first men caught trying to surrender had reportedly been hanged from trees where the rest could see them.

The executions did not stop the flow. They only encouraged deserters to leave in larger groups.

Black Rat received them at the southern road, where the remains of burned wagons still marked Ormund’s last attempt to break for Oldtown. Unsullied searched each man, separated officers from common soldiers, and questioned them before allowing them into the guarded fields near Honeyholt. Those who surrendered were given water immediately and food after their names and companies had been recorded.

The reaction to the food disturbed me more than gratitude would have.

Some men cried when bread was placed in their hands. Others ate too quickly and vomited before trying to recover what they had lost from the ground. A Hightower levy who could not have been older than sixteen held a bowl of thin stew against his chest as though he expected someone to seize it.

Ormund had warned them that surrender meant execution, enslavement, or mutilation at the hands of foreign soldiers. Fear had kept hundreds beneath the trees longer than loyalty ever could.

We answered the lie by keeping the prisoners alive.

That required food we could not spend carelessly. Dick complained every time another group arrived, though his anger was aimed less at the prisoners than at the numbers that refused to remain manageable.

Honeyholt’s stores were substantial, and convoys continued arriving from Longtable and the surrounding loyal houses, but feeding nine thousand soldiers, thousands of wounded, and a growing body of captives consumed grain quickly.

The army that had marched from Highgarden with thirteen thousand men now counted barely nine thousand fit for duty.

The battle outside Honeyholt had cost us four thousand soldiers killed, wounded beyond immediate service, or missing. Fifteen hundred Reachmen had fallen from the Footly, Merryweather, Caswell, Beesbury, and allied companies. Some had died holding the western orchards. Others were lost during the cavalry fighting or among the front ranks after the Unsullied yielded ground to draw Ormund’s centre inward.

The Unsullied had suffered most. Two thousand were dead or too badly wounded to return to formation. They had received the first charge, held beneath repeated arrow volleys, and fought at such close range that spears became useless.

Their discipline had preserved the army, but discipline did not stop steel from entering flesh. Every company showed gaps where men had been removed, and even Black Rat had been forced to combine smaller units so the line remained functional.

The Dread Legion had lost five hundred.

That number hurt differently. I had known many of those men for years. They had followed me across Essos, through hunger, mud, sieges, rebellion, and the wars that built our name before Westeros learned to fear it.

Some had joined when the Legion was little more than a sellsword company with ambition larger than its purse. Others had trained beneath Jasper and Landrey until discipline became instinct. Their bodies now lay beneath fresh earth outside Honeyholt.

The Reachmen had buried their dead beneath the colours of their houses. The Unsullied were placed together according to their companies, with names spoken where names were known. The Legion graves were dug beneath the purple banner bearing the white sword within its crescent wreath.

There had been no time for a grand ceremony. War allowed the dead only what the living could spare.

Dick brought the final count to me on the second evening of the week. I stood outside Honeyholt while dragonkeepers worked upon Dravvaxx’s wing. The leather reinforcement had been removed after the flight against Ormund’s breakout, revealing a wound worse than before. The membrane remained torn nearly to the main bone, while the muscles beneath the shoulder had swollen until each movement caused the dragon visible pain.

He would not fly again soon. That left our nine thousand men without a dragon capable of taking the sky.

Dick waited until one of the dragonkeepers moved away before giving the report. "The number fit to form by tomorrow morning is nine thousand and eighty-three. That includes men who can stand with a shield but should not be asked to march far. If you want only those capable of another full battle, the number is lower."

"How much lower?"

"Perhaps eight thousand five hundred. The healers disagree with several officers who have decided that a man remains fit so long as he can lie convincingly about a fever."

I looked toward the forest. "Ormund may still have six thousand beneath the trees."

"Possibly fewer. Nearly eleven hundred have surrendered since the failed breakout, and another hundred were captured trying to forage beyond the western edge. Deserters claim deaths from wounds and sickness are increasing."

"That still leaves enough men to hurt us if he concentrates them."

Dick folded the tally sheet and slid it beneath his belt. "It also leaves us with enough men to stop him, provided you do not mount that dragon again before his wing can hold the weight."

Dravvaxx lifted his head at the sound of Dick’s voice. Dick took one careful step farther from the dragon before continuing. "I am aware that he does not enjoy criticism. I am also aware that neither of you has shown the judgement required to avoid earning it."

"He cannot fly."

"I know. I asked the dragonkeepers to tell me plainly before you persuaded them that necessity had developed another meaning."

"I will not force him into the sky with the wing in this condition."

Dick studied me as though searching for the concealed part of the statement. "That sounded almost responsible. I hope the burn took only your eyebrows and not whatever part of your mind produces recklessness."

"Your concern remains touching."

"My concern is practical. Vaeron would make my death unusually unpleasant if I allowed you to kill yourself after surviving Sunfyre."

I looked back at the forest. "Vaeron would first explain exactly where you failed, with references to every letter he had sent predicting it."

"That is what makes the prospect so terrible."

Dick’s humour faded as he followed my gaze. Thin smoke drifted above the canopy, less than before. Ormund had reduced his fires to conserve fuel and prevent us from judging where the remaining companies gathered.

"How long do you think he can continue?" I asked.

"His common soldiers may begin surrendering faster than we can count them within another few days. The household retainers and knights can survive longer because they will receive food first. Ormund may preserve three or four thousand of his best men after everyone else leaves or dies."

"That would still be enough to attempt one final attack."

"It would, although I suspect the men chosen for that honour may object once they understand the rest have been permitted to starve for them."

Dick left to inspect the prisoner stores before darkness. I remained beside Dravvaxx while the dragonkeepers cleaned the wound. He endured their work with less anger than usual, which worried me. Pain had exhausted him beyond irritation. His silver eye followed the men around him, but he made no attempt to snap when one pressed too near the swollen shoulder.

I placed a hand against his neck. "You have done enough for now. The ground belongs to the army until you heal."

Dravvaxx answered with a low rumble that might have been agreement or resentment.

The waiting continued. Our patrols tightened around the forest without advancing beneath the canopy. Black Rat placed the strongest Unsullied companies along the southern and western roads, while the Dread Legion watched the narrower tracks. Reach soldiers held the approaches nearest Honeyholt and rotated frequently enough that exhaustion did not create openings.

The prisoners became useful sources of information, though every account was treated cautiously. Ormund had divided his remaining food between three principal camps. Ser Jon Roxton held the western camp and most of the surviving cavalry.

Lord Ormund remained near the centre with the Hightower household guard. The eastern camp contained many of the wounded and lesser Reach levies, which explained why most deserters emerged from that side.

Some claimed another breakout was being prepared. Others insisted Ormund meant to burn the forest and charge through the smoke. One man swore Aemond and Vhagar would arrive before the next moon, while another said Ormund had admitted no raven had reached Oldtown in more than two weeks.

The contradictions were expected. Hungry soldiers heard fragments, invented explanations, and mistook officers’ confidence for knowledge. We gathered what details repeated across separate companies and discarded the rest until evidence appeared.

No evidence of Vhagar came. Every rider watching the southern horizon searched for the immense shadow, but the sky remained empty except for ravens, clouds, and carrion birds gathering above the battlefield graves. The possibility of Aemond’s arrival still shaped every formation.

Dravvaxx could not meet Vhagar in his present condition, and Meleys was somewhere between Honeyholt and Driftmark or already helping Rhaenys settle the chaos after Corlys’s murder.

If Aemond came, nine thousand men would have to survive beneath the largest dragon alive without one of our own capable of answering. That knowledge made Ormund’s delay more dangerous than his hunger alone suggested. He may have been waiting for rescue. I could not know whether the rescue had already chosen another field.

The report from the Riverlands arrived on the fifth afternoon. A rider reached Honeyholt carrying a message that had travelled from Harrenhal through several loyal keeps before being sent south by raven. The seal belonged to Daemon, though another strip of parchment had been added in Jace’s hand.

I opened it in Honeyholt’s hall with Black Rat, Grey Worm, Dick, Landrey, Jasper, and several Reach commanders gathered around the repaired table.

Jason Lannister was dead.

The western host had marched beyond Pinkmaiden and found the Riverlands closing around it. Blackwood riders harassed their scouts. Mallister men struck supply wagons. Smallwood and other loyal riverlords destroyed bridges, fouled fords, and attacked any company that strayed from the main column.

The Westerlanders remained heavily armoured and well supplied when they entered the region, but every mile east consumed food and horses while offering no secure ground in return.

They had never been allowed to fight the battle Jason wanted. The attacks came from every side. Archers fired from woods and vanished before the western knights could form. Cavalry struck the rear, withdrew across known crossings, and returned somewhere else before nightfall.

Wagons burned. Scouts disappeared. Local guides led companies into flooded ground or abandoned them near hostile villages. Men slept in armour because no camp remained safe long enough for proper rest.

Then the Winter Wolves arrived.

Lord Roderick Dustin’s three thousand northmen met the western army with the kind of purpose only older soldiers carried. Many had gone south expecting death and therefore found little reason to fear it. They struck Jason’s host while the riverlords tightened around the flanks, forcing the Westerlanders to fight hungry, exhausted, and far from the Golden Tooth.

Daemon had not committed Caraxes to burning the army wholesale. The letter made that point carefully, perhaps because he knew what Rhaenyra would ask. He used the dragon to control movement, shatter cavalry concentrations, and deny crossings without turning the Riverlands into ash.

Jace had flown beside him on Vermax. It had been my son’s first true battle.

Vermax had performed well. The young dragon remained smaller than Caraxes but fast enough to answer movements across the field. Jace had attacked western supply wagons, broken an attempt by Lannister cavalry to cross a shallow ford, and used flame against open ground to force a company away from the riverlords rather than burning men already entangled with friendly ranks.

He had obeyed Daemon’s signals. That detail brought more relief than pride.

Jace possessed courage. He had inherited enough of it from both parents to become dangerous to himself. What he needed in battle was restraint, and the report suggested he had shown it. He had entered the sky for the first time with men trying to kill him and returned without confusing boldness for command.

Jason Lannister had died during the collapse of his centre.

Accounts differed over how. One claimed Lord Roderick Dustin killed him in the fighting. Another said Jason fell beneath several river knights after his horse was brought down. Daemon’s message refused certainty where none existed. Jason’s body had been recovered from among his household guard with enough wounds that no single man could honestly claim the killing stroke.

His death broke the confidence of the western host, though it did not destroy it.

Lord Humfrey Lefford assumed command before panic became complete. He gathered the surviving knights, restored enough order to protect the wounded, and began withdrawing toward the Golden Tooth. The riverlords continued harassing the retreat, but Lefford kept the force moving west and prevented the sort of collapse that had scattered a third of Ormund’s army after Aegon fell.

The Westerlanders had lost heavily. The report did not offer a final count. Thousands were dead, captured, wounded, or missing. Their supply train had been mauled, and much of Jason’s heavy baggage was abandoned during the retreat. Yet Humfrey Lefford still commanded an army rather than a fleeing mob.

The Fishfeed had not become a perfect repetition of the history I remembered. It had become bloody enough.

Landrey read the message after me and rested both palms upon the table. "If Lefford reaches the Golden Tooth, the western army may recover behind the pass."

"Perhaps," I said. "The riverlords will pursue carefully. The Golden Tooth favours the defender, and Humfrey Lefford knows the ground better than Jason did."

Dick’s attention remained on the supply losses. "Without the wagons, the western retreat will depend upon taking food from the lands it crosses. The riverlords can make that expensive."

"They will," I said. "Daemon will also know that pushing too hard against a retreating army can turn success into an ambush."

Landrey gave me a tired look. "I suspect that lesson has become popular recently."

"It should have been popular before."

Black Rat had read the translated copy while we spoke. He looked toward me and asked in High Valyrian, "Your son remained under command?"

"He did. Daemon reports that Jace followed the agreed signals and used Vermax carefully around friendly ranks."

"That matters more than the number he killed."

"Yes."

Black Rat returned the parchment. "Then his first battle taught him the correct lesson."

I hoped so.

First battles taught whatever lesson survival allowed. A man might learn discipline, fear, cruelty, pride, or the false belief that living once made him difficult to kill. Jace had performed well, but success could be as dangerous to a young prince as failure. He would hear men praising his courage. Singers would make Vermax’s flames broader and the enemy’s numbers greater.

Daemon needed to ensure Jace remembered the burned men on the ground rather than only the banners that cheered above them.

I moved to the window overlooking Honeyholt’s inner yard. The news from the Riverlands was a significant victory for Rhaenyra. Jason Lannister was dead, his great host retreating, and the road toward Harrenhal no longer threatened by the full strength of the West. The Winter Wolves had proven their worth. The riverlords were gathering behind Daemon rather than fracturing around old rivalries.

Most importantly to me, Jace lived. The relief arrived with guilt attached.

Baela’s body remained somewhere beneath Ormund’s control. She had been Jace’s betrothed, his friend since childhood, and part of the future Rhaenyra and I had tried to secure without forcing either child into it. Jace had won his first battle without knowing, unless Daemon had already told him, that Baela lay dead in a forest far to the south.

He would return from the field older than he entered it. The news waiting for him would finish what battle began.

A second message was prepared for King’s Landing before sunset. I reported Jason’s death as confirmed by Daemon, praised Jace’s conduct without disguising the danger he had faced, and included the latest position at Honeyholt.

Our effective strength stood near nine thousand. Ormund’s supplies were failing. Surrenders increased daily, but the remaining Hightower core still numbered several thousand and might attempt another desperate action.

I added a private line for Rhaenyra:

Jace has acquitted himself well and followed Daemon’s command. I know that will not make his presence at Harrenhal easier for you to accept, but he survived his first battle and did not misuse Vermax. He is becoming the prince we hoped to raise, though I wish the realm had allowed him longer to remain only our son.

I sealed the message before the words tempted me to add more.

By the end of the week, nearly two thousand Hightower soldiers had surrendered since the failed breakout.

They filled guarded fields beyond Honeyholt, organised by company where possible and separated from knights who might attempt to restore authority among them. Dick arranged work details for those willing to help carry water, bury dead, repair roads, or prepare temporary shelters. Prisoners received better rations when they worked, though none were denied enough food to live.

Ormund’s fires within the forest grew fewer.

His patrols no longer moved with the confidence they once had. Scouts reported Hightower sentries abandoning outer positions before our men came near. Several arrows had been found stuck into trees beside discarded green cloaks, signs of disagreements turning violent beneath the canopy.

Still, Ormund did not surrender. The green tower banner was occasionally visible through gaps in the leaves, moved deliberately so our watchers knew it remained. Ser Jon Roxton continued organising the inner patrols. Whatever food remained was being concentrated around the most loyal companies.

The men leaving the forest described a commander who understood he was losing but would not accept that surrender was the same as survival.

I stood upon Honeyholt’s wall at dusk and watched another band approach the southern road with their weapons raised. There were perhaps sixty this time, several carrying wounded men upon makeshift litters. Unsullied stepped forward to receive them while archers watched the trees in case Ormund used the surrender as cover for an attack.

No attack came.

Behind me, nine thousand soldiers held the line that remained. Fifteen hundred Reachmen, two thousand Unsullied, and five hundred Dread Legion soldiers had been taken from our strength in the battle. Their absence showed in shortened formations, combined companies, and the space around cookfires where familiar voices no longer spoke.

Far to the north, Jason Lannister was dead, and Lord Humfrey Lefford was leading the remains of the western host toward safety. Riverlords and Winter Wolves followed them. Jace flew above the pursuit on Vermax, blooded now and proven in his first battle.

The war was moving again beyond Honeyholt. Here, it remained a contest between hunger and pride. Ormund’s supplies were almost gone. His soldiers were leaving him by the hundred, and every report from beneath the trees described a host shrinking around its commander.

He could not remain forever. The only question was how many more men he would take with him before he finally accepted it.