Rewriting Targaryen History

The war ended with a raven from the Riverlands.

It arrived three days after Ormund, Hobert, and Gwayne Hightower were taken into custody. Oldtown’s gates stood open beneath Rhaenyra’s banners, the city watch had returned to its duties, and the first ships allowed through the blockade were carrying food rather than soldiers.

Matthos Tyrell remained occupied with guild representatives, septons, maesters, and lesser lords eager to explain that their support for Ormund had never extended beyond unavoidable obedience.

The Hightower prisoners were being prepared for transport to King’s Landing. They would travel under heavy guard aboard Velaryon ships, accompanied by enough Unsullied to prevent rescue and enough sailors to make escape into the Honeywine impossible. Otto Hightower, Larys Strong, Ser Crakehall, Jasper Wylde, and the other captured leaders of Aegon’s cause would stand beside them before Rhaenyra’s court.

The rebellion had been reduced to Aemond. That knowledge should have made the realm feel safer. Instead, every clear sky beyond Oldtown’s walls carried the possibility of Vhagar appearing above it.

The raven bore the trout seal of Riverrun.

It was brought to me inside the Hightower’s lower hall shortly before midday. I had refused to occupy Ormund’s private chambers, preferring rooms closer to the city and less burdened by the belongings of the men we had imprisoned. The chamber had become a temporary council room, its long windows overlooking the river and the Velaryon ships anchored beyond the quays.

Dick entered with the message in one hand. He did not make his usual observation about seals, handwriting, or the tendency of lords to bury urgent facts beneath ceremonial greetings. He crossed the chamber, placed the parchment before me, and remained standing. The silence warned me before I saw the name upon the outer fold.

Lord Oscar Tully.

I broke the seal. The first lines confirmed that the river host had begun reorganising after the defeat of Jason Lannister and the loss of Harrenhal. Lord Humfrey Lefford continued withdrawing towards the Golden Tooth with what remained of the western army. Jace and Vermax had returned east with Daemon, accompanied by river scouts and enough mounted men to watch the crossings.

Then Aemond appeared. Vhagar had been sighted near Harrenhal shortly after dawn, flying south across the Gods Eye. Caraxes rose to meet her before the river host could form or Jace could reach Daemon.

The two dragons confronted one another above the lake. I stopped reading. The room remained quiet except for the distant movement of ships upon the Honeywine. Ropes tightened against timber. Oars struck water. Somewhere below, a harbour master shouted instructions to a crew unloading grain. Ordinary life continued while the words before me opened a future I had spent years trying to prevent.

Dick had not read the letter, but he understood enough from my face. "What happened?"

I forced my eyes back to the parchment. The witnesses had been scattered across the shore, Harrenhal’s ruined towers, and the roads approaching the lake. Their accounts differed in details but not in conclusion.

Vhagar and Caraxes fought above the Gods Eye until both became locked together. They fell through cloud and smoke, striking the water with enough force to be heard across the surrounding countryside.

Vhagar disappeared beneath the lake. Caraxes reached the shore. The Blood Wyrm crawled from the water with one wing destroyed and his body torn open. He survived long enough to drag himself through mud and reeds before collapsing near the walls of Harrenhal. By the time Tully men approached, the dragon was dead.

Neither rider had been found.

Jace searched the lakeshore upon Vermax. He circled above the water until fading light made further flight dangerous, then returned the next morning with boats and men to inspect the reeds, shallows, and wreckage surrounding Caraxes.

There was no sign of Daemon. There was no sign of Aemond. No living man had emerged from the lake. Lord Oscar’s conclusion was cautious. Both princes were presumed dead. The death of their dragons was certain. I finished the letter and placed it upon the table.

"Aemond and Daemon met above the Gods Eye," I said. "Vhagar and Caraxes are dead. Neither rider has been found."

Dick closed his eyes briefly. He had never loved Daemon. Few men who worked around him did so without reservation. Daemon was too dangerous, too proud, and too willing to treat ordinary restraints as weaknesses intended for other people.

Yet he had stood beside Rhaenyra when the realm split, led the river campaign, guided Jace through his first battle, and carried enough fear with him that Aemond could not ignore his presence.

"Is the report certain?" Dick asked.

"Lord Oscar has confirmed both dragons. Vhagar sank in the lake. Caraxes died upon the shore. Jace searched the area and found no sign of either rider."

Dick looked towards the sealed windows. "A dragonrider may survive a fall into water."

"Not that fall."

"You sound certain."

I knew more than Lord Oscar had written. In the history I remembered, Daemon and Aemond had met above the Gods Eye exactly as they had now. Caraxes had torn into Vhagar while the older dragon ripped open his belly and tore away a wing. Daemon had unfastened himself from his saddle, leapt across the air between them, and driven Dark Sister through Aemond’s remaining eye.

The dragons fell. Vhagar struck the lake. Caraxes dragged himself ashore and died. Aemond’s body remained chained to Vhagar beneath the Gods Eye with Daemon’s sword through his skull. Daemon’s body was never recovered.

I had changed so much.

Rhaenyra married me rather than Daemon. Laenor’s path ended differently. Our children were not the boys history had called Strong. Aegon died above Honeyholt rather than lingering in a broken realm. Daeron crossed sides to his sister. Corlys’s recognised heirs held Driftmark. Baela had died where history once allowed her to live, while others meant for early graves still breathed.

Yet above the Gods Eye, Daemon and Aemond found the same ending. The path had changed. The destination had not.

Dick watched me carefully. "You have seen this before."

It was not a question. I had used dragon dreams for years to explain knowledge no man should possess. Enough people close to me understood that the visions carried more detail than dreams normally allowed, though none knew of Dresden, Heinrich Adler, or the books in which their lives had once been written.

"I saw the possibility long ago," I said. "Aemond and Daemon were always drawn towards one another. Each believed the other was the only enemy worthy of deciding the war."

"Could it have been prevented?"

"I believed it had been."

Daemon had no reason to die for a throne he did not share through marriage. Aemond had lost Aegon, Daeron, Oldtown’s field army, the Stormlands, and nearly every alliance capable of sustaining the rebellion. There was no kingdom left for him to win.

None of that removed the hatred between them. Daemon saw Aemond as the greatest threat to Rhaenyra and her children. Aemond saw Daemon as the man whose death could still give his cause meaning. They had not needed the same history to arrive at the same sky.

A knock sounded upon the door before Rhaenys entered with Addam and Matthos Tyrell. The messenger who found them had clearly shared enough to prevent ceremony. Rhaenys’s face had already gone still in the way grief made familiar.

I handed her the letter. She read without sitting. Addam stood beside her, his attention shifting between the parchment and the river beyond the windows. Matthos remained nearer the door, giving Rhaenys room without making the gesture obvious.

When she reached the description of Caraxes upon the shore, her fingers tightened around the page. "No bodies?"

"Jace searched twice," I said. "Lord Oscar sent men along both shores, and boats examined the shallows. They found no one alive."

Rhaenys read the final lines again. "Daemon would not have fallen accidentally."

"No."

"He went onto Vhagar."

It was the same conclusion I had reached from memory rather than evidence. "Most likely."

Rhaenys lowered the letter. "Aemond wore chains across his saddle. Daemon would have known he could not drag him free. If he left Caraxes, it was to kill him before they reached the water."

Addam looked towards her. "Would anyone choose that?"

"Daemon would."

There was no admiration in her answer, but there was recognition. They were cousins raised beneath the same dynasty, both dragonriders and both familiar with the kind of pride that turned impossible acts into reasonable decisions.

Matthos approached the table. "If Aemond is dead, the rebellion has no claimant left."

"Some may attempt to raise Aegon’s children," Dick said. "Helaena’s son is still alive, and there will always be a lord capable of placing ambition inside a child’s name."

"Helaena and her children are in Rhaenyra’s custody," I said. "They have been treated with dignity, and no army remains capable of taking them from King’s Landing. Oldtown has yielded. The Stormlands have declared. The western army is retreating. The Redwyne fleet cannot sustain a war alone."

Matthos considered the position. "Then Aemond’s death ends organised resistance."

"Yes."

The word carried no triumph. For months, every plan had been shaped around Vhagar. Her absence threatened more than her presence because no road, city, army, or family member could be considered safe while Aemond chose where to appear. Now the largest dragon alive lay beneath the Gods Eye.

The danger was gone. So was Daemon. Rhaenys moved towards the window. Meleys rested outside the city beyond sight of the quays, but the connection between them seemed to pull her gaze towards the open sky.

"Rhaenyra must hear this before rumours reach her," she said. "A raven is not enough."

"I will send the raven immediately, but someone should carry Lord Oscar’s full account."

"I will go."

Addam turned towards her. "The fleet still needs you here."

"The blockade has completed its purpose. Oldtown has surrendered, the Hightowers are prisoners, and Captain Marq can carry them to King’s Landing under escort. Seasmoke can remain with the ships while Dravvaxx protects the army. Rhaenyra should not receive news of Daemon’s death from a maester reading a report before the court."

There was wisdom in that, though I suspected another reason lay beneath it. Daemon had been family long before the war made him Hand, commander, and danger. Rhaenys had lost Corlys and Baela. She would not leave Rhaenyra to meet another death surrounded by councillors watching how a queen grieved.

"You should leave before sunset," I said. "Meleys can reach King’s Landing more quickly if you stop once during the night rather than forcing the whole distance."

Rhaenys nodded. Addam remained silent until she left the chamber to make preparations. Then he looked at the letter again. "What happens to the river host?"

"Jace should remain with Lord Oscar until Daemon’s death is certain enough for command to pass formally," I said. "The riverlords recognise Rhaenyra, but armies become uncertain when the man directing them vanishes. Jace is her heir. His presence may prevent every lord from deciding separately what should happen next."

"He searched for Daemon himself."

"He would have searched until Vermax collapsed if Lord Oscar allowed it."

Jace had already lost Baela. Now Daemon was gone above the same waters that history had always reserved for him. I imagined my son circling the lake upon Vermax, searching reeds, waves, and broken pieces of dragon saddle for a man who had spent months teaching him how to command. Daemon was infuriating, dangerous, arrogant, and impossible to separate from the violence around him.

To Jace, he had also been an uncle who treated him as a prince rather than a child.

"Will you call Jace back to King’s Landing?" Addam asked.

"Yes, once the river host is settled. He has done enough."

Matthos looked towards the map of Westeros spread across a side table. "With Vhagar dead, the army no longer needs to remain concentrated here. Highgarden’s men can return north, and your forces can escort the prisoners towards the capital."

"The occupation must be stabilised first," I said. "Oldtown submitted because its factions believed our terms. If we empty the camps too quickly, Hightower loyalists may decide the surrender can still be reversed."

"You do not believe the war is truly finished."

"I believe battles have ended. That is not the same as peace."

Aegon’s cause had lost its king and every commander capable of sustaining it. Yet thousands of men had lost sons, brothers, lands, and pride beneath Rhaenyra’s banners. Trials in King’s Landing would reopen every argument about guilt and obedience. Houses that bent late would expect mercy, while loyalists who suffered from the beginning would demand punishment.

Winning the war had removed the enemy everyone could see. It did not resolve what victory meant. Still, Aemond’s death changed the realm more completely than Oldtown’s surrender. No dragon remained on the Green side. No prince remained free to rally resistance. No lord could claim another great battle might reverse the succession.

The war was over.

I dismissed the council after assigning the necessary messages. Dick prepared copies of Lord Oscar’s report for King’s Landing, Driftmark, Highgarden, and the commanders holding our northern roads. Matthos sent riders through Oldtown warning that Aemond’s death had been confirmed and that resistance in his name would receive no political protection.

Addam left for the fleet, carrying instructions to prepare the Hightower prisoners for transport. I remained alone with the original letter.

For years, Daemon’s death above the Gods Eye had been one of the clearest events in the history I remembered. I had considered ways to prevent it before I ever understood how difficult changing one life could become. Keep him from marrying Rhaenyra. Remove Aemond’s reason to pursue him. Deny them the war that placed Caraxes and Vhagar in the same sky.

I had achieved the first. The second failed. The third changed shape without disappearing.

Perhaps there were events too deeply rooted in character to be diverted through circumstance. Daemon could not tolerate Vhagar remaining a threat to Rhaenyra. Aemond could not accept a world in which Daemon survived him. Each man saw the other as both rival and reflection, carrying the same violence with different loyalties.

When the realm stripped everything else away, they chose one another.

I folded the parchment and left the chamber. Oldtown’s streets carried the news before I reached the outer gate. Bells sounded, not in alarm but in uncertain celebration. Some citizens cheered because Vhagar would never descend upon their roofs. Others stood quietly, understanding that a prince had died even if he had been their enemy.

The Hightower beacon remained dark. Beyond the city, Dravvaxx rested upon the northern ridge. His scarred wing shifted when he saw me approach. I climbed the slope and placed one hand against the scales of his neck.

"Vhagar is dead," I told him.

His silver eye opened fully. "Aemond met Daemon above the Gods Eye. Neither returned."

The dragon released a slow breath, smoke passing across the grass. He understood death differently from men. There were no trials, inheritance disputes, songs, or histories in it. Another dragon existed until it did not. The sky that once held Vhagar would never hold her again.

Dravvaxx had lost the only living dragon I considered his true equal. Rhaenyra had lost Daemon. Jace had lost another part of the family he expected to return to. The realm had lost two princes and two dragons in a single fall.

I looked east towards King’s Landing, though Oldtown’s walls and the distance beyond them concealed everything.

Rhaenys would carry the news to Rhaenyra. She would speak it plainly and remain when the court withdrew. There was nothing I could write that would soften it, and nothing I could say from Oldtown that would make Daemon’s absence less complete.

Aemond’s death ended the war.

Men would celebrate it in camps, castles, and streets from the Reach to the Crownlands. Ravens would carry the news to lords already preparing to explain why their loyalty had always belonged to the victor. Captives would understand that no dragon was coming to free them. Soldiers would begin thinking of home.

The relief was real. So was the loss.

I had changed kingdoms, marriages, battles, and the lives of children who once belonged only to a history written in another world. I had pulled Aegon from one fate and killed him in another. I had given Daeron a path towards his sister and placed Rhaenyra upon the Iron Throne before her enemies could close around her.

Yet Daemon Targaryen had still gone to the Gods Eye. Aemond had still waited for him above it. Their destiny had remained unchanged.

The war ended where I had always known part of it would. It ended with Vhagar beneath the water, Caraxes dead upon the shore, and two riders lost where no living man could reach them.