Rewriting Targaryen History

King’s Landing began ringing its bells before the army reached the city.

The sound travelled across the fields beyond the Blackwater, carried by a clear wind that lifted banners and sent dust along the road. First came the deeper bells of the Red Keep and the Dragonpit, followed by the sharper voices of septs, guildhalls, and watchtowers. By the time the walls appeared fully ahead of us, the city seemed to be answering itself from every hill.

Men left their work to gather beside the road. Farmers stood upon fences and carts, while children ran alongside the first scouts until guards ordered them back from the horses. Closer to the city, the crowds thickened until gold cloaks had to hold a passage through them.

Flowers struck shields and saddles. Ribbons hung from spearheads. Women called Rhaenyra’s name, men shouted mine, and singers competed with the bells until none of their words remained clear.

They had prepared for the return of conquerors. I did not feel like one. Two months had passed since Humfrey Lefford lowered the western banners near Stoney Sept. The time between surrender and return had been consumed by work too dull for songs and too necessary to abandon.

The Westerland host had to be disarmed, fed, recorded, and released in stages. Officers required separation from common soldiers, prisoners had to be exchanged, and accusations from the Riverlands examined before vengeance disguised itself as law.

The roads east also needed securing. Small groups of western soldiers continued wandering without knowledge of the surrender, while brigands used discarded armour and dead banners to rob villages in the name of whichever side frightened people more. Lord Oscar Tully remained to restore order in the Riverlands. The surviving Winter Wolves began their journey north, carrying fewer banners and far fewer men than those Jace had brought south.

The war ended in a day. Its armies took months to become men again.

My own host approached King’s Landing with shortened lines. The Unsullied still marched in disciplined ranks beneath Black Rat, though the spaces left by Honeyholt could not be concealed.

The Dread Legion carried the purple field and white sword within its crescent wreath, its veterans joined by Reachmen who had chosen to remain in my service after the final surrender. Landrey’s cavalry rode upon the flanks, while Jasper kept the infantry moving at a pace the crowds could not disrupt.

Jace flew above us on Vermax. He had spent much of the journey on the ground beside the army, speaking with officers and watching how prisoners were handled, but the city expected its prince in the sky. Vermax circled beyond bow range of the walls before turning towards the Dragonpit, green wings bright against the morning.

Dravvaxx flew higher. His wounds had healed completely during the long return. The torn membrane of his right wing remained marked by a thick scar, but the weakness beneath the shoulder was gone. He climbed with the old power that had once made every wingbeat feel like a challenge to the air itself. His dark amethyst scales caught silver beneath the sun, and the roar he gave above the Blackwater silenced the nearest bells for a heartbeat.

The crowds answered more loudly. Dravvaxx had returned to full strength. He had killed Sunfyre, closed Ormund’s road to Oldtown, and survived wounds that should have grounded him for a season. To the city below, he was proof that Rhaenyra’s victory had been ordained by fire and blood.

To me, the scar through his wing was a record of how close I had come to losing him because I repeatedly waited until every choice became desperate.

We landed outside the Dragonpit. The great doors stood open, and dragonkeepers waited within the shadows. Dravvaxx descended with none of the weakness that marked his landings after Honeyholt. His feet struck the ground cleanly. The wings folded without trembling, and his head rose above the surrounding walls while smoke drifted between his teeth.

I remained in the saddle for several breaths. Beyond the pit, the city continued cheering. I could have entered King’s Landing upon Dravvaxx, flying above the streets as the victorious prince consort returned from the final campaign. The image would have pleased the singers. It would also have frightened thousands who still remembered dragons fighting above roofs and armies contesting the gates.

I dismounted. Dravvaxx lowered his head until his silver eye rested level with me. I placed one hand against his jaw. "You are home. You have earned enough rest that even I should struggle to invent another necessity."

His breath passed over my armour. The dragonkeepers approached with more confidence than they possessed after Honeyholt. Dravvaxx watched them without hostility, though one younger man still stopped when the dragon’s teeth became visible.

"He has eaten," I told them. "He is not likely to take offence unless someone gives him reason."

The eldest keeper looked at me. "Your definition of reason has caused difficulties before."

"He is fully healed. You may complain without fear of proving useful."

Dravvaxx gave a low rumble, perhaps agreeing with the keeper. I left him beneath the Dragonpit and entered the city on horseback.

Jace joined me near the Hill of Rhaenys after seeing Vermax settled. The people recognised him immediately. His name moved through the crowd in waves, accompanied by cheers for the prince who secured the North, fought above the Riverlands, and returned after the death of Daemon and Aemond.

Jace accepted the attention with a restraint he had not possessed before the war. He raised a hand when expected, acknowledged banners, and kept his horse moving without allowing the crowd to draw him too near. The first battle had taught him discipline. The Gods Eye had taught him what discipline could not prevent.

"You should ride ahead," I said as we approached the Street of Sisters. "Your mother has waited long enough."

"She has waited for you as well."

"She knows I am behind you."

Jace looked towards the Red Keep rising over the city. "She asked that we enter together."

The request sounded simple. It was not. Rhaenyra had lost Daemon while I remained in Oldtown. She had received the news from Rhaenys rather than from me, then spent months ruling while the last army surrendered and the realm slowly accepted that no rival remained. Our letters had continued, but they were filled with prisoners, roads, supplies, pardons, and every practical matter that kept grief from being spoken plainly.

"I will remain beside you," I said.

Jace nodded and did not force the conversation further.

The city celebrated without knowing how to contain its relief. Wine flowed from open casks near the markets. Bakers threw small loaves into the crowd until men began fighting over them and gold cloaks intervened. Effigies of Aegon, Aemond, and Ormund appeared above several taverns, though I ordered the watch to remove those carrying Hightower heads or painted flames.

Victory required less encouragement than humiliation. The people shouted that the usurper was dead. They called Jace the future king and me the dragon prince who broke Oldtown. Some cried that Rhaenyra would reign for a hundred years. Others simply repeated her name because it was easier than naming every fear that no longer had to be carried.

I understood their joy. Aegon would never reclaim the capital. Aemond would not appear upon Vhagar above their homes. No Hightower army marched towards the gates. The Westerlands had surrendered, the Stormlands declared, and Oldtown recognised Rhaenyra.

For the people in the streets, the war had ended before touching most of them directly.

They had paid through shortages, taxes, rumours, conscription, and the knowledge that dragons might turn their city into another Harrenhal. Many had lost relatives in armies they never saw. Now the danger was gone, and cheering was the only answer large enough for the relief.

I could not join them. Every flower striking my armour reminded me of a body left somewhere along the road to victory. Daemon beneath the Gods Eye. Corlys in his chamber upon Driftmark. Baela carried from the forest beneath a canvas after I refused Ormund’s terms.

The crowd praised restraint because Oldtown remained unburned. They did not know how often restraint had merely been another name for waiting until someone else paid the cost. I had known more than anyone. That was the judgement I could not escape.

I knew the hatred between Rhaenyra and Alicent’s factions would not settle itself after Viserys died. I knew Otto would use every office, appointment, marriage, and grievance to prepare Aegon’s succession.

I knew Aemond would become dangerous enough to shape the war around Vhagar. I knew Daemon’s pride and violence would eventually draw him towards the nephew who reflected too much of himself.

I had seen the possible future. Then I spent years trying to alter it without doing the things that might have prevented it completely.

I did not demand Otto’s permanent removal while Viserys still possessed the strength to enforce it. I did not force the court to confront Aegon’s ambitions before his supporters crowned him. I did not move against Aemond while he was only a prince with grievance rather than an enemy upon the largest dragon alive.

There had always been reasons.

Law. Family. Rhaenyra’s reputation. The fear of becoming a tyrant by preventing crimes not yet committed. The uncertainty created by every change I had already made. I told myself I could not imprison men for a future only I remembered, could not murder princes because history said they would one day become enemies, and could not tear Viserys’s family apart while peace remained possible.

Those arguments had been correct. They had also led to war.

I wanted a victory in which my hands remained clean enough for Rhaenyra to rule without inheriting hatred created by my methods. Instead, I received a war that covered everyone’s hands in blood and left the dead unable to care whether I had preserved my conscience.

Daemon, Corlys, and Baela had died inside the space created by my caution. That made their deaths mine.

The Red Keep’s outer gates stood open. Rhaenyra waited within the first courtyard beneath the black-and-red banners of House Targaryen. She wore no armour. Her dark gown was edged with crimson, and the crown rested upon hair gathered away from her face. Vaeron stood at her right with Celeste nearby. Daeron waited farther back beside Alicent, Helaena, and the twins, all under guard but not displayed as captives.

Our younger children crowded close enough to the front that Lorent Marbrand had positioned knights behind them in case excitement overcame instruction. Aemma broke first.

She ran across the courtyard before any herald completed the announcement, her dress gathered in both hands to keep from tripping. Rhaegar was still at Driftmark, but Aerion and young Viserys followed more carefully, trying to preserve the dignity Aemma abandoned without hesitation.

I dismounted before she reached me. She struck my armour hard enough to make the breastplate sound. "You took too long."

"I was informed that wars become untidy when people wish to end them properly."

"That is not an answer."

"It is the answer Dick allowed me to carry."

Aemma tightened both arms around my waist. She had grown during my absence, though not enough to make the embrace reach much higher.

Aerion came next, maintaining composure until I pulled him close. Viserys followed. Maelor remained beside Rhaenyra, old enough to recognise me and young enough to become uncertain when the man from memory appeared in burned and scarred armour.

I knelt. He studied my face before looking towards Orphan-Maker. "Is that your sword?"

"It is now."

"Did you kill a monster with it?"

The courtyard quieted around the question. "A man used it to hurt people who could not defend themselves. I took it from him after he was captured."

Maelor considered whether this qualified as a monster. "Did you kill him?"

"Yes."

Rhaenyra’s expression shifted faintly. Maelor stepped closer and placed one small hand against my cheek, touching the scar left by Sunfyre’s flame. "You were hurt."

"I healed."

That answer satisfied him more easily than it satisfied me.

I rose and faced Rhaenyra. For months, I had imagined the reunion through councils, battlefields, and sleepless camps. Sometimes she struck me for taking Dravvaxx into another fight while wounded. Sometimes she held me without speaking. Sometimes we argued about Jace, Daemon, Baela, and everything the war had demanded from our children.

The real moment was quieter. She walked towards me until the space between us disappeared, then placed both hands against my face as if ensuring the city had returned the same man who left it.

"You look older," she said.

"So do you."

"That was poorly chosen."

"I spent months among soldiers. Courtly skill has suffered."

Her thumb moved carefully over the scar near my temple. "Rhaenys told me how close Sunfyre came."

"She also told you that Dravvaxx won."

"She told me that you mounted him again while his wing was torn and burned a thousand men on the road from the forest."

"Ormund would have reached Oldtown with an army."

"You nearly fell from the sky before he reached it."

The anger remained, but it had aged beyond the urgency of a fresh report. She had already imagined my death, survived the waiting, and governed while unable to do anything about either.

"I am sorry," I said.

"For which part?"

"All of it."

Rhaenyra studied me. "That is too large an apology to mean anything."

She was right. The children, guards, councillors, and gathered court remained around us. This was not the place for confession, and the courtyard celebration was not the hour in which years of guilt could be explained without becoming performance.

"I am home," I said. "We can speak when the city no longer requires us to stand before it."

Her hands lowered from my face. "You are home," she repeated, then embraced me.

The courtyard cheered. I held her while the sound rose around us, conscious of her warmth, the crown near my cheek, and the tension she had not allowed the court to see before now. For several breaths, I almost believed returning could be enough.

The feast began before sunset. King’s Landing had prepared more food than the returning army could consume, despite Dick’s repeated warnings that public celebration did not excuse waste. Lords, captains, maesters, septons, and representatives of the city filled the halls of the Red Keep. Wine moved more quickly than sense, and songs about Honeyholt appeared despite no singer having witnessed the battle.

One song claimed I severed Sunfyre’s head with Orphan-Maker while riding between dragons. I left before learning how the third verse explained the distance involved.

The children kept me at the high table longer than I expected. Aemma demanded the story of Oldtown’s surrender, but objected whenever politics interrupted the dragons. Aerion asked about the Unsullied formations at Honeyholt, while Viserys wanted to know how Velaryon galleys closed the Honeywine. Maelor fell asleep against Rhaenyra before the second course ended.

Jace sat beside Daeron. Their conversation remained careful but not hostile. Daeron asked about the Riverlands, and Jace described Vermax’s first battle without embellishment. Neither mentioned Aegon or Aemond directly. They were Jace’s uncles, brothers through a divided family, and survivors of a war that might have forced them to kill one another had Daeron chosen differently.

Rhaenys attended but did not remain long. The empty place beside her belonged to Corlys in every way the court could not name. Addam had returned to Driftmark after escorting the Hightower prisoners, while Alyn and Rhaegar continued restoring order there. Rhaenys accepted the court’s honours for defending the fleet, then withdrew before the songs became louder.

I followed her into the corridor. She heard me but did not stop until we reached a gallery overlooking the darkened yard.

"You should remain at your feast," she said.

"It belongs to the city more than me."

"It believes otherwise."

"The city did not see Honeyholt."

Rhaenys rested both hands upon the stone rail. "Cities prefer the end of wars to the truth of them."

I stood beside her. "I should have prevented Corlys’s death."

She looked towards me. "I knew Vaemond might move against Addam and Alyn," I continued. "I knew Driftmark would become vulnerable once Corlys’s health and authority weakened. I left too much to letters and assumptions."

"You did not place the knife in Corlys’s chamber."

"I gave the men around him enough freedom to reach it."

"And Baela?"

"I confined you because I believed your grief would make you burn the forest. I refused Ormund’s offer because accepting would have released his army. Both choices may have been militarily correct, but she still died where I failed to bring her back."

Rhaenys’s face hardened. "Do not use Baela to punish yourself while pretending it honours her."

The words struck more sharply than anger. "I am not pretending."

"You are counting every death as proof that you should have become more ruthless sooner. That is not responsibility. It is grief wearing command’s armour."

"I knew what could happen."

"You knew fragments. You changed those fragments until some became useless and others found new roads. Corlys died because Vaemond wanted Driftmark. Baela died because she disobeyed your scouting order and Ormund hid weapons beneath the trees. Daemon died because he chose Aemond."

"I might have stopped them."

"You might have killed half the realm in advance and claimed every grave prevented another. Perhaps that would comfort the dead."

I looked away. Rhaenys did not soften the judgement, but she lowered her voice. "You made choices. Some failed. Some cost lives. Some saved them. Oldtown stands because you waited. Driftmark stands because you sent me home instead of keeping Meleys for your battle. Addam rides Seasmoke, Alyn holds the fleet, and Rhaegar is learning what command means because you did not decide that every uncertain person must be destroyed before becoming dangerous."

"That does not absolve me."

"No. It means the account is larger than the column containing your guilt."

She left before I could answer.

I returned to the feast but did not remain until the end. Rhaenyra found me later in our chambers, standing beside an open window while the city continued celebrating below. The Iron Throne cast no shadow there. No councillors watched. She had removed the crown and changed from the formal gown into a simpler robe.

"You left your own victory feast twice," she said. "The singers will take it personally."

"They have already made me leap between dragons with a sword. Their relationship with truth has survived greater wounds."

She joined me near the window. For a time, we listened to the city.

"I do not feel victorious," I said.

"I did not expect you to."

"I was too passive."

Rhaenyra did not dismiss the claim immediately.

"I knew Otto’s intentions. I knew Aegon could be used against you and that Aemond would become the greater danger. I kept searching for a path that preserved peace without doing anything unforgivable. While I waited, they prepared."

"What would you have done differently?"

"Removed Otto permanently. Seized Aegon and Aemond before Viserys died. Forced the court to swear again under threat rather than ceremony. Perhaps killed the men I knew would begin the war before they had the chance."

"And would I have thanked you?"

"No."

"Would Viserys have allowed it?"

"No."

"Would the realm have accepted my rule after my husband murdered my brothers and imprisoned half the court because of dreams no one else could verify?"

"No."

Rhaenyra looked at me. "Then you are condemning yourself for refusing choices that would have destroyed us differently."

"They might have lived. Daemon, Corlys, Baela."

"Others would have died. Perhaps Jace. Perhaps our younger children. Perhaps you would have become the enemy every lord united to remove."

"That possibility does not make these deaths lighter."

"It should not. Daemon died protecting my cause and our family. Corlys died because his brother wanted what Addam inherited. Baela died because war found her where courage carried her. We will mourn them, honour them, and remember the choices that brought them there. We will not simplify their deaths until they become yours alone."

I turned towards her. "I cannot look at what happened and believe I did enough."

"Neither can I." The admission held no comfort, which made it honest. "I sat beside my father while his strength failed and allowed him to believe the succession would hold because he had spoken it aloud. I left Alicent’s faction inside the capital because confronting them would have made every supper another battlefield. I believed love, memory, and fear of dragons would keep my brothers from taking what had been promised to me."

She rested one hand upon the window ledge. "We were both wrong. That does not mean cruelty would have made us wise."

Below us, another bell began ringing. The city would celebrate through the night. Tomorrow, the streets would still be crowded, but the work of peace would resume. Prisoners waited in cells. Lords expected pardons or punishment. Families wanted bodies returned. Armies needed dismissal, debts required payment, and half the realm was already deciding which version of the war would protect its reputation.

Rhaenyra looked towards the sound. "The trials begin in three days."

"I know."

"Otto has requested permission to defend his conduct before the full court. Ormund demands judgement according to the rights of his rank. Hobert has written three petitions arguing that he followed his house rather than Aegon personally. Gwayne says almost nothing."

"Larys?"

"He has offered information about everyone else."

"That sounds like him."

"Ser Crakehall insists the Westerlands acted lawfully after Aegon’s coronation. Jasper Wylde claims Borros Baratheon’s later declaration invalidates nothing he did before it."

"They are preparing separate defences."

"They should. I will not hold a single performance and call it justice."

The trials would be public enough for the realm to witness but controlled enough to prevent the hall becoming another battlefield. Charges had to be divided between treason, conspiracy, unlawful coronation, murder, raiding, and crimes committed under military authority. Witnesses were arriving from Oldtown, Driftmark, the Riverlands, and the Crownlands. Captured letters and council records filled guarded chambers beneath the Red Keep.

Vaeron had spent weeks arranging the legal order. Grand Maester Orwyle prepared testimony concerning Viserys’s final illness and the council held after his death. Alicent would be called, though whether as witness, accused participant, or both had not yet been decided. Daeron requested leave to speak regarding Oldtown’s plans and his own reasons for submitting.

Rhaenyra would sit in judgement. I would stand beside her as Master of War, witness to Aegon’s death, commander against Ormund, and captor of several men who now awaited sentence.

Victory had returned me to the capital. The trial would decide whether victory became justice or merely another form of vengeance.

The following morning, the throne room was closed. Carpenters built raised benches for witnesses and scribes. Gold cloaks established separate routes for prisoners, lords, and members of the public permitted to attend. Vaeron reviewed the charges at a long table near the Iron Throne, while Orwyle’s assistants arranged sealed records according to each accused man.

Chains were inspected. Guards were assigned. The names were written in order. Otto Hightower. Ormund Hightower. Hobert Hightower. Gwayne Hightower. Larys Strong. Ser Crakehall. Jasper Wylde, and the others whose actions had carried the realm from coronation to civil war.

Outside, King’s Landing still celebrated the return of its victorious army.

Inside the throne room, the realm prepared to judge the men who had made that victory necessary.