Chapter Text
The defeat at Claw Isle had crippled my father’s war effort for the moment. In addition to losing most of his warships, he had lost nearly four thousand men, and nearly his own life in the process. Thankfully, he was saved from death by the timely-if crude-intervention of the ship’s crew and liberal application of bandages.
Nonetheless, he was still not in a good way when he returned to Gulltown, and then to Runestone in the days that followed. War however, does not wait for men to recover, and it was now that with a second army prepared, Prince Aemond and Criston Cole began their march on Harrenhal. Of course, this was exactly what my grandfather had planned.
Runestone
The dead were still being brought in. Runestone did not send the most men with the naval assault, but the numbers of dead were still felt; every wagon of bodies represented another family without a son, husband or brother coming home. The wounded were still coming in as well; Daevar among them. He had insisted on being transported with the rest of the wounded despite his injuries.
Though the ship he was on had been damaged badly by Vermax, it ultimately had been the quick work of the ship’s crew that had kept the blood loss from being too severe. He found himself thanking the Gods that the wounds had not been fatal, then immediately been filled with guilt at the sight of all the dead. He supposed the guilt came with being alive while others had died; no doubt Maester Barden would have some name for it.
The wagon he was on eventually was driven through the gates of Runestone and straight away, Kermit and Ben rushed up to him. “Are you alright?” Kermit said, helping his friend out of the wagon. “We’d heard you’d been wounded.”
“Spare your thoughts for them” Daevar said, nodding his head at the wagon full of dead that had just been wheeled in. Those that had anything to identify themselves would be taken back to their families for burial, while the others would likely be dumped into a mass grave. The injustice of it all was maddening to Daevar, but there was little that could be done about it. “They’re the ones who’ll never see their families again.”
Though he was limping, Daevar was still able to walk. He stayed among the wounded for a time before being helped inside the Great Hall and immediately was set upon by Helaena, smothering him in kisses. She was crying, though not as heavily as she might’ve; time at Runestone had toughened her after all.
“Oh Daevar . . .” She said before hugging him. “Please don't do that again.”
“I won’t, Ellie.” he said, his arms wrapped around her. “I won’t.”
“Your Grace, we should look at the situation in the war-” Barden started, only to be cut off by Helaena.
“Barden, Daevar’s still not recovered.” She said.
“Love, I’m alright, really. Just tired.” Daevar said. “But I think some of the wounded might benefit from a visit from their Queen.” He turned to Barden. “We can discuss the war tomorrow, Barden.”
The Maester looked like he had more to say, but didn’t say a word. After all, he did have the matter of the wounded to attend to as much as he could, and he would need any assistants he could find to help. Instead, he just nodded. “Very well. I’ll do what I can for the wounded.” he said before heading off to the chamber of the castle set aside for his experiments.
Daevar and Helaena left the Great Hall and made for the courtyard, where more wounded were still being brought in for treatment. The most severely wounded had been left at Gulltown, while those with lighter wounds had been brought to Runestone or some to the Redfort, where pressure could be taken off the aid stations set up by Isembard in Gulltown. Helaena knelt before one solder; the man’s surcoat had been bloodied, but she could make out the three black ravens of House Corbray.
“What is your name, Ser?” She asked.
“Harrold . . . Your Grace.” The man said weakly. “Took a bolt during the battle.”
Helaena nodded. She knew from what Daevar had told her that a crossbow bolt could be a very nasty wound on someone who was lightly armoured. “I’m glad you’re alive, Harrold.” She said, smiling slightly. “Where are you from?”
Harrold was a little stunned that the Queen was taking such an interest, but when the highborns asked a question, you answered. “Farm outside Heart’s Home, Your Grace. My wife and daughter live there now.” He said.
“Your daughter?” Helaena asked. “I have a daughter . . . Harrold, what does your daughter remind you of?”
“Your Grace?” He asked before a deep, hacking cough took over. He recovered before Helaena replied.
“My daughter reminds me of what I fight for, Harrold. A safe world for her to live in.” She smiled before running her hand over the surcoat. It was cotton; not something she liked. It felt like sandpaper on her skin and she was tempted to recoil, but her husband’s hand on her shoulder steadied her. “We must make the world safe for our children Harrold.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Harrold replied, a little in awe of the Queen who had come among them.
“I wish you and your family good fortune, Harrold.” She said before standing up and finding another wounded man to speak with. It was thus that Helaena Targaryen spent the afternoon walking among the wounded survivors of the Battle of Claw Isle, speaking with them about their families, their experiences, and their hopes for the future. This is what a Queen should do, Helaena told herself.
It was dusk by the time she and Daevar headed inside, but not before lighting enough braziers to leave the courtyard glowing in the night as Barden and his assistants tended to the wounded.
“I love you.” Daevar said as he laid down gingerly on the bed; his thigh wound was still giving him issues. “You know that right?”
Helaena removed her dress, leaving her in nothing but a thin shift. “I know.” She said, kissing him gently before resting her head on his shoulder. “It . . . it was the other one that was hit, right?”
“Yes, Ellie.” Daevar said, kissing her forehead. “Goodnight, love.”
King’s Landing
“Well, it appears Daevar has been given a bloody nose, then.” Aemond said, seated at the end of the Small Council table. The Valyrian Steel crown of the Conqueror was atop his head now; he had taken it when he took the title of Prince Regent. They had just been informed of the Battle of Claw Isle thanks to Larys and for once, Aemond had actually smiled. The only downside was that he had escaped, and that Helaena was now actively committing treason. Oh my sweet sister . . . soon you will learn the price of betrayal .
“This is true, but the war is in stalemate.” Tyland said. “The Blacks still hold the Riverlands and Lord Ormund is on the verge of defeat in the Reach.” He explained. The war was not going well for them, it was true; the only territory they held for certain were the Crownlands and the Westerlands, and even then, that was less than certain with the Greyjoys reading the coastline.
“That will change.” Aemond said. “Nesaena will prevent Lord Ormund’s defeat; which will give us the Reach. Meanwhile, we will execute our plan to bring my uncle to heel.” Aemond turned to Cole. "Ser Criston, are we ready to march?”
“Seven thousand swords are at the ready, My Prince.” Cole confirmed. He would’ve preferred waiting for more men to join them, but he had to make do with what he had with the casualties after Rook’s Rest. ‘We’ll be ready to march at your word.”
“Good.” Aemond said. “Ser Tyland, tell Lord Jason that we will begin our advance within the week. Our target is Harrenhal; we will take it and if my uncle dares challenge me, he will know defeat.” He said confidently. I look forward to vanquishing both him and his wretched son . . .
“The Riverlands are hostile to us.” Tyland pointed out. “The western Riverlords have all thrown in with Rhaenyra, and the eastern ones are still neutral.” He added.
“The Riverlands are not as sympathetic to Rhaenyra as one might believe.” Larys said. “True, I have lost Harrenhal, but there are still many contacts I have. Perhaps we can turn Daevar’s claiming of Vermithor to our advantage.”
“How?” Aemond asked, intrigued.
“I can have my contacts begin spreading information of it.” He said. “You know the power of symbolism, My Prince. No one has ridden Vermithor since King Jaehaerys, and now he is Daevar’s.” He elaborated. “I can have my contacts spread word of that, and perhaps also say that Vermithor chose Daevar as a successor to Jaerhaerys.” He went silent for a moment, letting the idea ruminate among the other Councillors. “The Lords might not believe it, but the people would.”
“Which means we cannot control how far it spreads or how seriously it is taken.” Tyland said. “My Prince, this is not a good idea. Yes, it will weaken Rhaenyra, but it will destroy our own standing in the Riverlands.”
‘If it will weaken Rhaenyra, Ser Tyland, it is an idea worth pursuing.” Aemond said. Tyland sighed, but nodded. It would not do his health any good to openly defy a man of Aemond’s temper, especially when Vhagar was more than able to back up any threats he made. “Lord Jason will advance on Harrenhal from the west; we will advance from the south and meet him there. My uncle will be pulled into battle where he and the little army he has gathered will be destroyed.”
“It will have to be battle that is aimed for.” Jasper Wylde said. “Harrenhal would be too difficult to lay siege to.”
“My uncle will not hide behind castle walls, Lord Jasper.” Aemond replied. “He will give battle, if only to save his reputation.”
“It is a gamble, but it is one that we can win.” Criston said. True, Rook’s Rest had been won narrowly, but it had been won. He didn’t mention either that only soldiers could take and hold ground; dragons could not do the same when the other side had dragons as well. “The only issue is that it would leave King’s Landing undefended. The Queen is not far from reinforcing Lord Ormund. Holding our ground may be more beneficial than we thought, My Prince.”
Aemond’s eye flicked towards Criston. The movement was almost imperceptible if someone wasn’t paying attention, but Criston could see the danger that one movement represented; what he said next could end up deciding his fate. He spoke carefully. “The Hightower army is the largest force we have that has engaged the enemy. Linking them up with the Lannister army gives us a good advantage in numbers; we could sweep the enemy armies aside and leave their dragons to pick off at will.”
“And we have control of Oldtown, Lannisport and King’s Landing; these three cities represent most of the realm’s economic power.” Tyland reasoned. “We got away with an aggressive attack because it was not expected; I don’t believe we’ll get away with it a second time. I would advise against this, My Prince.”
“You supported such an attack not that long ago, Ser Tyland.” Aemond said. “What made you change your mind?”
Tyland sighed. “I had thought that the war in the Vale might go on longer than it did.” He replied. “The fact that it ended so quickly changed the situation.”
“It has changed nothing.” Aemond said. “We will defeat my uncle and end the rebellion in the Riverlands. Once that is done, we will turn our attention to the Vale and bring them to justice.”
“Ser Tyland’s counsel is not without merit.” Criston said. “They will be epxecting us to follow up Rook’s Rest with another assault. Going back to the defensive would force them to react to a defeat.”
Aemond drummed his fingers on the table. “You were the one who counselled an aggressive strategy, Ser Criston. That is why you were named Hand.” He said. “The quicker we end the war with the Blacks, the sooner we can turn our attention to the Bronzes. Ser Criston, prepare to march.”
Harrenhal
So . . . my son is not invincible after all, Daemon thought. He had gotten the raven carrying the message about the Battle of Claw Isle barely a few minutes ago. Though the message was short, he was able to piece things together. A clumsy naval assault had been crushed easily and Daevar had only been saved from complete destruction by the timely intervention of Helaena and Daeron. The latter he had expected; the former he had not. Maybe Helaena was not the type to hide after all.
Much as he appreciated the information, staying at Harrenhal had been getting tedious. His days were filled with drilling the soldiers he had, as well as tending to reports from the Brackens that several of their patrols had gone missing on their land, even as they began assembling a force to attack the Blackwoods. Daemon had little doubt that the Blackwoods were using this chance to settle accounts with the Brackens, but that was a small matter right now.
The next stage of his strategic plan was simple: goad the Greens into an offensive towards him at Harrenhal before flying into King’s Landing unopposed. The risks of such plan had been apparent to him from the start, but fortune favoured the bold. After all, I would never have won the Stepstones War by being cautious, he thought. Of course, the situation in the Vale would have to be considered, but it would take Daevar time to recover from Claw Isle; all they would have to do was make sure that a watch was being kept on the Vale
Daemon looked down onto the courtyard. There were fewer soldiers there now; most had gone to join the Brackens or were preparing to march west against the expected Lannister offensive. Plans were in place for the seizure of King’s Landing, and the sooner those plans were put into action, the better. Mysaria still had her contacts in the city and much of the City Watch would still obey his every command.
All that they were waiting on was for Aemond to commit to his offensive against Harrenhal. When that happened, the whole thing would be essentially decided; King’s Landing would fall and the war would turn decisively in their favour. All that would be left after that would be the mopping up of the Greens and then dealing with the Bronzes. Whoever controls the capital controls the country.
He headed down into the courtyard to survey the men briefly. Every day, he had been reminded of the power of his family; the charred ruins of the biggest towers stood as the greatest monument to the Conqueror that could’ve been conceived. Now our blood is being diluted . . . The rot had begun when Otto Hightower had become Hand to his grandfather. Oh yes, Jaehaerys was an exception ruler, but he let that interloper make too many decisions, take over too much of the country’s governance; his brother had been more that happy to let that continue.
And now, they were at war with a family that was trying to force House Targaryen off the Iron Throne to put their own filthy blood up there, while his son wanted to discard all that made them superior to the people they ruled. To become Westerosi and leave their Valyrian heritage behind . . . it was unconscionable.
And it confirmed that his son, whatever his virtues, was not a Targaryen.
And yet, he leads armies like one. He fights like one. He inspires loyalty like one.
To say that the situation was confusing would have been an understatement. For all of his son’s embrace of his Royce heritage and Runestone as his home, he fought like a leader of old Valyria would have. His victories in the Vale had been nothing less than impressive, especially considering it involved coordinating two armies and a dragon for maximum effect.
He could almost hear Laena laughing at the situation. She had always wanted him to thaw relations with his son, and he had rebuffed her every time she asked. It was strange that she had such an affection for a boy she had never met, but maybe she had the right of it. After all, Baela and Rhaena loved hearing the stories about Robar Royce.
It’s a bit late to be having regrets now, isn’t it?
He sighed and looked up to the sky. It was clouding over again.
Fortune pisses on me
It would be several days and weeks before my father would be ready to return to the war. In that time, things would change dramatically. This war of House Targaryen had so far been limited on its use of dragons, save for Rook's Rest. That was all about to change as people began answering Prince Jacaerys's call for riders. The choice for riders would range from the honourable to the hateful; a contradiction that our house seems to have embraced over the years, particularly when one compares two of my brothers to each other.
It is perhaps true that my grandfather would express some regret for the way things had turned out at this point, but I doubt it. Daemon Targaryen was not a man given over to introspection, and I have difficulty believing that he would come to genuinely care for my father.