Robert’s Second Chance: Dance of Dragons Rewritten

I pray Aegon's new dragon rider succeeded, Daeron thought as he scanned the horizon, swallowing a lump of fear in his throat. Because we cannot afford to fend off reinforcements from Driftmark.

At Daeron's back sailed ships from the Triarchy and the Arbor lead by Admiral Sharako Lohar, their banners waving proudly in the breeze, combined with Aegon's golden Sunfyre banner. Descending from the North sailed ships from House Manderly and the Sistermen, their sailors fierce and ready with arrows they would set aflame before loosing. Four formidable naval fleets lead by a team of experienced sailors…

And combined, they were only slightly larger than the Velaryon fleet. Not nearly the advantage that Daeron was hoping for.

The Velaryons had seen them coming and pulled out of their blockade formation, splitting in half to fight the enemies from the north and south. Massive war galleys caught the wind in their sails, sailing full speed ahead towards the Triarchy ships and letting out fierce battle cries that Daeron could hear from Tessarion's back.

But they don't have a dragon, Daeron thought, straightening his spine as he guided the Blue Queen towards the first war galley. There was not a cloud marring the clear sunny day, and not a trace of another dragon in the sky.

And nothing to save them from Daeron's fury.

"DRACARYS!" he cried, bathing the first ship in cobalt flames as cries of agony erupted from the deck. 

Several ships had deadly scorpions affixed to both bow and stern, but the clunky, heavy weapons were clearly intended to combat Vhagar and Dreamfyre, who were large, slow, and could not easily pivot out of the way. Tessarion was young, small, nimble, and Daeron flew her in asymmetric patterns that made it impossible for the scorpions to aim properly. No bolt flew close enough to offer even the threat of damage.

The arrows did. Each ship had archers on deck. Fast, adaptable archers capable of shooting gulls from the sky. Some arrows Daeron evaded, some he burned, but the volleys kept coming with every ship he incinerated.

Mercifully, the Green armada had archers and scorpions of their own, and so the Velaryon's focus was split between sea and sky. One arrow managed to find its way to Daeron, catching him in the shoulder blade, but his armor did its work in shielding him from the worst of it. Blood trickled from the wound and soaked the fabric beneath, but the arrowhead had not gone deep enough to cause any truly worrisome damage. Certainly not enough to stop him from fighting.

You'll have to put one through my eye to stop me from fighting, he snarled, commanding Tessarion to pivot out of the way of the next volley. I fight for my family! My King! For my Uncle Gwayne!

Gwayne…the name was a knife through Daeron's heart, and he let out a scream that was both a fearsome battle roar and a cry of grief as he set another ship ablaze: the largest of the Velaryon's war galleys.

Daeron had been so young when he was sent to ward at Oldtown, and it was several years before Gwayne returned to King's Landing to bolster the Green's presence at court. It was Gwayne who helped Daeron practice with the sword in between his lessons with his Master-at-Arms. Gwayne who took Daeron on tours through the city. Gwayne, amongst all his other Hightower kin, who helped Daeron to feel happy and at home in a strange city, despite his longing for his mother and siblings. Daeron had loved him deeply.

And they killed him. I knew I might lose him in combat, but they killed him for NO FUCKING REASON! Solely to cause us pain.

They had succeeded…and now it would be paid back a hundred-fold.

"DRACARYS!!" 

Ship after ship after ship burned, either by dragonfire or by flaming arrows. Cogs from both sides vanished beneath the waves, plummeting to the ocean floor below. Smoke polluted the air along with the screams of dying sailors. But from the sky, Daeron could see that it was the Velaryon ships that were sinking or retreating at a faster rate.

He flew after the ones that retreated, dousing them in cobalt flames, taking no chances of them making it back to Driftmark to return with reinforcements.

He might not have bothered had he known that the Velaryons already sent ravens to Driftmark as soon as they saw the Green armada on the horizon. Not that it mattered. There was no one on Driftmark to receive the ravens except for helpless servants, still bound in ropes and chains. Them…and the corpses of those that Aethan and his crew had left behind.

Nor did he know that relief was indeed on the way for the Velaryons…but it would not be coming from Driftmark.

Daemon

"Fucking hell," Daemon muttered as he removed another arrow from Caraxes' wing, inspecting the damage while his dragon hissed.

His Blood Wyrm was no young dragon; an arrow would not pierce his hard scales. But the volley of arrows had come from Crispin Fucking Cole's men. Between Cole, the Tullys, and the Lannisters, Harrenhal would be surrounded in a day or two, and so Daemon had attempted a pre-emptive strike, flying Caraxes to meet Cole's men before they could reach the castle.

In the end, it proved both bold and foolish to attack an army without soldiers of his own. Daemon managed to inflict heavy casualties. Hundreds of Cole's men had burned in Caraxes' flames, and he'd destroyed at least two of their siege weapons. But it had come at a price he could not afford to pay. Apparently, the fucking Greens had taught Cole the best ways to incapacitate a dragon Caraxes' size.

At his age, he was still young enough to evade scorpion bolts, but old enough for his scales to have hardened into steel-like armor. The perfect war dragon…had the Green's not aimed their arrows directly for his sensitive wing membranes. One or two would not have caused any noteworthy damage, but dozens of them had struck home, leaving Daemon no choice but to abandon the attack and return to Harrenhal. The injuries weren't crippling, but it troubled Daemon that Cole's men knew just what to do.

Fucking Green idiots, he cursed silently as he freed another arrow, grimacing at the collection of holes. The dragons are House Targaryen's greatest asset. Telling Cole's men how to best incapacitate them is folly.

All I can do is pray the Greens were not fool enough to share that same information with the Tullys and the Lannisters, Daemon mused as he broke off another arrow shaft so he could easily tug out the head, rubbing Caraxes' torn wing consolingly. If they did, and Harrenhal is surrounded, they may pierce his wings with so many arrows that he cannot fly.

He needed Jace and Vermax. Daemon needed another experienced dragon rider to aide him in defending Harrenhal, or they were going to lose it and possibly Caraxes as well. Vermax had been injured by Vhagar's claws, but it was a superficial injury that was already scabbed over. It wouldn't impede him from fighting. Hugh and Ulf weren't experienced enough, and even if they were, Daemon needed them to focus on taking Maidenpool so the Velaryons could ferry in reinforcements from the Vale.

We need more soldiers. Desperately. The Freys are on their way, but they alone will not be enough…

"My Prince!" one of the Darry soldiers called to him, running with a letter in his hand. "A raven just arrived from King's Landing! From the White Worm!"

Daemon nodded, reaching for it and praying that it would be something useful. Even Mysaria's power was dwindling. After she helped Daemon with the failed assassination attempt on Jaehaerys, Aegon had offered a king's bounty on her head, and many in her network had been caught, tortured, and killed. He imagined it would have gotten worse after Gwayne Hightower's death.

She's heavily invested in seeing us win. She knows she will not survive long in the city if we lose. There are only so many crevices she can hide in before Aegon's men catch her.

Daemon took the letter, broke the seal, and quickly read it, his eyes freezing on the page.

Victory parade…

Two dead dragons…

Cannibal…

One was Seasmoke. The other, I could not identify. Its head was green with a white crest…

Every muscle in Daemon's body snapped rigid, a cold sweat soaking his shirt as he went numb.

Green with a white crest…

Green with a white crest…

Green with a white crest…

The dragon's crest wasn't white. It was pearl, but it would look white from a distance.

Moondancer. Seasmoke was at Driftmark…and so was Moondancer…and Baela…

No, surely Mysaria was either mistaken or outright lying. Or possibly this raven had not come from her at all. It was absurd. It was impossible that someone had managed to claim the Cannibal; he killed and ate all the dragon seeds that tried, and they were told not to approach him.

But we have a spy on Dragonstone. A spy who might know…

No. This raven had come from a Green who was impersonating Mysaria. They knew what Moondancer looked like. They were trying to get Daemon to fly to King's Landing in a fit of rage, and…

And regardless, he would not be able to breathe again until he knew his daughter was safe.

"It's a short flight to Driftmark, and we have at least a day before enemy soldiers are close enough to be a threat," Daemon said to the soldier as he tugged out the final arrow, then climbed onto Caraxes. "I can be there and back in a few hours, and I'll return with Prince Jacaerys and Vermax."

Rhaenys can finish teaching Hugh and Ulf. Even with Meleys dead, she is the most seasoned rider amongst us. 

After so many years of being bound as dragon and rider, Caraxes needed no commands, sensing Daemon's fear and roaring as he took off into the sky, flying as fast as his painful wings would carry him straight for Driftmark.

But as he grew closer, he realized his daughter would have to wait. For off in the distance, he saw massive plumes of smoke rising into the air from where he knew the Velaryon blockade was at its thickest…

Daeron

"YES!" he cried triumphantly as yet another Velaryon war galley burst into cobalt flames.

Win or lose, it no longer matters, he thought, grinning broadly. After hours at battle, nearly half the Velaryon ships were burning or sinking. Yes, their side had taken casualties as well, but not half so many. Not with the aerial support from Daeron and Tessarion.

I don't know how many reserve ships are left on Driftmark, but unless the cavalry is massive, they don't have enough ships for a full blockade anymore. And more are sinking by the minute.

Smiling proudly, Daeron spied another small group of Velaryon ships trying to turn and flee the fray, and he did not hesitate to chase after them. He bathed three of them in fire and was about to shout "Dracarys" again to burn the fourth…until a tiny, squeaky roar sounded from the deck.

What?

"Umbās!" he commanded, telling Tessarion to wait before she burned the final ship. And a second later, he was grateful that he did, because a dark gray hatchling emerged from a hold below the deck, taking off into the air with a screaming, silver-haired child clinging to his neck for dear life.

Stormcloud…Daeron realized immediately, stiffening like a hound scenting a rabbit. That must be Rhaenyra's son, Aegon. She must have thought…

Well, it didn't make a damn bit of difference what she thought. Because Stormcloud was clearly far too young to carry a rider, sluggish and slow with the weight of the boy who was not even sitting properly on his back.

My brother commanded me not to battle enemy dragons…but this hardly counts as a battle.

"Angōs!" he commanded. Attack! Tessarion obeyed immediately, swooping into a dive with her bronze claws raised.

Stormcloud's feeble efforts to escape were in vain. He could barely stay airborne as it was. Tessarion caught up to him within seconds, lashing out with her claws and slashing open his throat while he breathed fire wildly, too terrified and inexperienced to aim properly. Blood poured from the smoking wound, staining the sea below it a vivid crimson, and the young dragon let out a sickening gurgle, body jerking as he plummeted towards the sea.

Daeron was not proud of it, but for a moment, he considered letting young Aegon plummet into the sea with him. The young boy would surely drown.

Let him, a dark voice inside of Daeron commanded. Let him, and let Daemon learn what it feels like to lose a son. Let him learn the pain that he subjected my grandfather to. Avenge Gwayne…

But then the young boy let out a terrified cry, and Daeron blinked, guilt replacing his fury.

He's only a child, like Jaehaerys, Jaehaera, and Maelor are only children. This war is not his fault. If I let him die, I'm no better than Daemon.

And so in the nick of time, he reached over, grabbed Aegon by the back of his shirt, and hauled the screaming, crying boy onto Tessarion's back, quickly securing him with a rope while Stormcloud fell, vanishing beneath the waves.

"Hold still!" Daeron commanded him as he knotted the rope more tightly. "Unless you wish to slip off and fall into the sea. I'm not going to kill you; I'm taking you as a hostage."

It did nothing to slow the young boy's tears, nor did it do anything to stop the scent of piss that followed seconds later. A scent that only served to double Daeron's guilt for considering allowing him to die.

Fucking hell… But he would not be harmed in King's Landing. He was far too valuable.

But just as Daeron commanded Tessarion to turn back to the fray, prepared to ignite a few more ships before flying back to the capital, a far larger roar sounded over the horizon. A roar that Tessarion answered bravely, although Daeron could feel her tremble beneath him with fear.

Turning in the saddle, he saw the vague red outline of a massive dragon. A massive dragon that had clearly spotted Tessarion as well, flying towards her and letting out a high-pitched, squeaky roar.

Caraxes.

Daeron snarled, lips curled over bared teeth as his blood boiled in his veins.

Daemon.

You killed Gwayne.

You tried to kill my mother! My sister! Her babes.

You serve Rhaenyra! You fly her most powerful dragon!

And there was nothing Daeron wanted more than to turn Tessarion around and meet his uncle in the air. To kill the hideous Blood Wyrm and his rider, even if Daeron himself went down in flaming glory alongside him. It would be worth it to rid the world of both of those monsters. It might win the war for the Greens.

But just as Daeron grabbed hold of the reigns to do exactly that, Aegon caught sight of Daemon and Caraxes as well.

"FATHER!" the boy screamed with every puff of air in his lungs, thrashing to sit up. "FATHER! HELP! HELP ME!"

And judging from Caraxes' answering roar, Daemon had heard him.

Aegon's cry snapped Daeron out of his blood rage, and his King's words echoed in his ears. "You and Tessarion will assist the Triarchy only if there are no Black dragons in the sky. That is not a suggestion, it is an order from your King."

His King had given him an order, and he would never forgive Daeron if he disobeyed and got himself killed, losing a valuable hostage in the process.

But…Daeron smirked. I could still work this to my advantage.

"I HAVE YOUR SON!" Daeron taunted across the distance in High Valyrian. "IF YOU WANT HIM, YOU'LL NEED TO KILL ME!"

Caraxes roared, redoubling his speed as he charged towards Daeron, but it was no use. Caraxes was not an old dragon, but he could not match Tessarion's speed or nimbleness, even with the weight of a passenger. Daeron could have outpaced his uncle easily, but he commanded Tessarion to fly slightly slower than her top speed. Just enough to keep out of range of an attack from Caraxes, but not so fast that the Blood Wyrm would fall too far behind.

Chase me, uncle, Daeron silently coaxed, grinning broadly. Chase me all the way back to King's Landing. Where Vhagar is circling the city. Where Dreamfyre is circling the city. Maybe Sunfyre as well. Where scorpions decorate the castle. Do you like those odds, uncle? Three or four against one? When one of them is Vhagar?

Daemon chased him for several miles, until the outline of King's Landing came into view over the horizon.

Come on, uncle. We're nearly there. I have your son. Vhagar is waiting for you…

But although the Rogue Prince was brave and reckless, sadly, he was neither an imbecile nor suicidal. He very obviously understood Daeron was trying to lure him into a trap. He knew he would never survive an attack on King's Landing alone, and he certainly would not be able to save his son.

Daemon's scream of rage echoed across Blackwater Bay, as did Caraxes' roar, but the Rogue Prince relented, turning his dragon around and undoubtedly heading back to the sea battle still raging off in the distance. Daeron knew without question that he planned to vent his fury upon Triarchy sailors. 

Fuck… Daeron winced. He wished he could turn around and return to the fray, but doing so would be both idiotic and against his King's command. All he could do was hope that the Triarchy had caught enough of a glimpse of Caraxes to either retreat or be prepared for him. Otherwise, the Green armada would now be the ones at a crippling disadvantage.

But it doesn't matter, he reminded himself. We've broken the blockade. They don't have the ships to maintain it against another assault. And I have a war hostage who may be more valuable than even that…

Alicent

I do not care if I am judged for not wearing black, Alicent thought as her green gown swished around her heels. The color had become her armor in a way, worn proudly in a show of loyalty to her House. Her symbol of power and authority as she left behind the little girl she once was, evolving into the Queen…Queen Mother, now.

In the wake of Gwayne's death, social custom dictated she wear black for a period of time, but she was grateful to leave the morbid gown behind in her chambers. Her brother's death still pained her heart and soul, but the heavy black fabric only exacerbated her grief, providing none of the strength that the vivid emerald awarded her.

She needed that strength now, as she climbed the steps to the Tower of the Hand, where she had spent her youth before wedding Viserys.

I need more than merely the strength of fabric. I need my father. We all need him.

But Otto had not emerged from his room in days, nor did he answer when she knocked and announced her presence.

I know he needs to grieve. And I am going to allow him to grieve. But not alone. Not anymore.

And so even though Otto had not granted her permission, she grabbed the door handle and let herself in.

The smell hit her like a slap in the face as soon as the door was open. The stench of a musty room mingling with the unplesant aroma of unwashed body. It took every bit of decorum she possessed not to start gagging…and that was even before she looked over to where Otto sat, staring blankly out the window.

Otto also did not wear black mourning clothes, but unlike her, he was not dressed like a member of the royal family. He wore stained nightclothes that clearly had not been changed in days. His hair (usually meticulous) was lank and greasy, and his cheeks were sunken. More worryingly still, he did not even look up to greet her as she walked into his chamber and threw the windows open to tempt in a fresh breeze.

"Father," she said, her voice softly deprecating. "This is not healthy, and it is not what Gwayne would want."

Otto scarcely moved a muscle, his face devoid of all expression. "He doesn't want anything anymore. He's dead."

The cold reminder sent tears pricking at her eyes, but she blinked them away before they could form.

"But you know as well as I do that this is not what he would want," she corrected. "Gwayne loved you. And me. And my children. He loved our entire family. He was proud to wear the Hightower green. He was ready to fight for his family. Give his life if that was it took. He would not want us to sink into despair while the war rages."

Finally, Otto blinked, but when he looked at her, the grief Alicent found there nearly broke her.

Her father's eyes were always so keenly intelligent. Always on alert for potential threats, contemplating ways to mitigate them. Always cataloging every little detail for potential use later. It was always as though she could see the cogs in his mind turning. Otto Hightower had possibly the most brilliant mind in the Seven Kingdoms.

But not today. Today, his eyes looked only hollow.

"I gambled, Alicent," he confessed. "A calculated gamble, it's true, but a gamble. I believed if I laid the groundwork in exactly the right way, all of us could be happy. My children in positions of high esteem. Yours as royalty. My grandson a king, and my great-grandson after him. I thought I could give us an ending worthy of a fairytale…and my gamble cost Gwayne his life…" His voice cracked, last words fading away as he squeezed his eyes shut.

She forced herself to suppress whatever anger she felt at her father for arranging her marriage to Viserys. Whatever anger she felt for his relentless advancement of Aegon as heir. It would not serve to rub salt into raw wounds. Not when it would change nothing.

Especially when he was not wrong, she thought, rubbing at her long-healed wrists and remembering how the rope chafed when she tried desperately to free herself from Rhaenyra's assassins. Her faction has proven they have no qualms about murdering babes. Aegon was in danger from the moment he took his first breath.

"It is too late to take back the gamble, Father," she reminded him. "The past is in the past. But today, now, you have three grandsons who need your wisdom and guidance as they navigate a war. Three grandsons, and our cousins, and…"

Otto shook his head. "Let Borros Baratheon handle it," he sighed, exasperated. "Gods only know where he got it, but the man has a mind for warfare that I cannot match. We are winning this war only because of him."

"And for that, I have advised Aegon to name him Master of War," Alicent agreed. "But Hand of the King is far more than that. Lord Borros himself admits he has little aptitude for politics or for the day-to-day ruling of the realm. We may be fighting a war, but Westeros still needs its rulers, and Aegon is not ready to do it without your help."

Because until very recently, to her chagrin, Aegon had no interest in his birthright and thus had little knowledge of the minutiae of it. Little knowledge of politics or logistics, despite his earnestness to learn when he was a young child. He'd lost that enthusiasm before his tenth nameday. Perhaps in her own fear, she had pushed him too hard. She knew for certain that Viserys's neglect had broken his spirit. He spent his adolescence drinking, indulging himself, and spending countless hours on the back of his dragon, flying for the sheer joy of it.

Mercifully, as of late, that had begun to change, and for the first time in a decade, she was truly starting to believe that her son might have the makings of a good king. But he was far behind on his lessons, and he needed a competent Hand to show him the way.

"You'd be just as good a Hand to him as I would be," Otto sighed. "I ruled the realm for the last six years of Viserys's reign. You were effectively my Hand."

"Yes, Aegon needs me as well. As his mother. As his advisor. But he needs you as his Hand."

For a moment, she saw a spark of something in his eyes. A flash that was gone before she could put it to words. But he didn't answer her. All he could do was sigh yet again.

I shall have to keep trying.

"It is too late to save Gwayne, Father," she said, her brother's name catching in her throat and making her voice crack. "But it is not too late for you to save the rest of us. It is not too late for you to act in the best interest of the realm. Especially not now that the Velaryon fortune is ours to use. Imagine all the good we could do for our people! Everyone from here to the Wall. Tyland Lannister is an excellent Master of Coin, but he is no more than an accountant. We need you to help us decide where that gold is best utilized."

Otto had not yet been told that the mission to retrieve the Velaryon fortune was a success, and the mention of the gold sent another spark igniting in his eyes…or rather, she thought it was the mention of the gold."

"Wall…" Otto muttered. Another spark, and his spine straightened. "The Wall! The Wall! That's it!"

Flying to his feet, Otto ran for the door, yanked it open, and called for a servant to bring him a raven.

"And Borros Baratheon! Send him in here at ONCE! I don't care if you need to yank him off his chamber pot!"

"Father!" Alicent chided, jaw dropping at his crassness, though she did not object to his burst of energy. "What in the name of the Gods…"

"I know how to get the Northerners on our side!" he cried happily.

Alicent's eyes widened, but before she could say a word, a second servant ran into the room just as the first servant fled to retrieve Lord Borros.

"Queen Mother Alicent," he greeted her respectfully, bowing to her and Otto in turn. "My Lord Hand. Prince Daeron has just been spotted flying over the city…"

Robert

Thank the gods I didn't send that raven last night, Robert mused as the black bird took flight, making its long journey to Winterfell. He meant to, but it had taken him time to get the wording right. And then with Daeron leaving this morning and Aethan returning shortly after his departure, Robert had not yet gotten to sending it.

Now, the bird bore a message from Otto Hightower that the maester had copied for the history books…and an elongated message from Robert that the history books would hopefully never see, if Cregan had the sense to burn it.

But for now, there are more pressing matters to attend to.

The raven was not the only winged creature circling the sky. All five Green dragons patrolled the city, flying in carefully coordinated patterns.

Aegon, Aemond, and a freshly patched-up Daeron all wore their armor. Aethan did not yet have a full set (though Aegon had commissioned one for him), and so for the time being he wore mismatched pieces that fit him well enough. The other Green dragons seemed to be keeping a wary eye on the Cannibal, but under the circumstances, they tolerated his presence.

Queen Helaena wore no armor, and neither did the terrified, ashen-faced Queen Mother Alicent, who needed to be helped into Dreamfyre's saddle alongside her daughter. Helaena would not be participating in any combat that may or may not happen. She and Dreamfyre were circling the city as deterrents only. If any actual fighting broke out, Aegon had ordered Helaena to fly herself and their mother to the safety of Highgarden with Princess Jaehaera.

As for whether or not that fighting would actually break out? Well, that could go either way, what with their new 'guest'.

When Daeron arrived with Aegon the Younger (Aegon III as Robert had known him in the original timeline) in tow, the King did not have time to make a proper decision on what to do with him. Not when Daemon could be arriving at any moment with Caraxes and the rest of the Black dragons to rescue the boy. They had to ready themselves for battle, and so for the time being, Aegon III was locked in the nursery under the supervision of Robert's personal guards, cared for by Prince Jaehaerys's old nursemaids.

They'd be fools to attack the city now, Robert thought as he scanned the sky outside the castle, his war hammer heavy in his hand, armor gleaming in the sun streaming in through the window. It's five dragons against five dragons, and two of ours are Vhagar and the Cannibal. Regardless of which side wins, the victor would suffer heavy losses. Even if the Blacks were the last ones standing, they have no armies within range, and I cleared out the last of Daemon's supporters from the City Watch. It's tactically stupid…

Though to be fair, the Blacks had made some incredibly tactically stupid moves in the original timeline, so Robert could not bank on them thinking intelligently. And so Robert, along with the rest of the castle guard, stood armed and at the ready in case the worst happened.

No matter what happens, those fuckers are not taking this castle with me alive, Robert thought, gripping his war hammer. I'll split their skulls open before I let the ancestors of Rhaegar Targaryen take the Iron Throne. I will die a warrior's death. It was a far better way to go than death by pig.

Fortunately, it seemed Robert would not by dying that day, by pig or by dragon. As day faded into night and the sky grew black, Helaena and Dreamfyre made their way back to the castle, landing by the cliffs outside, and the rest of the Green dragons quickly followed suit.

She must have 'seen' that it was safe…he mused as he ran out of the castle towards the cliffs to greet the Green dragon riders.

"I wanted to wait until I was certain," Helaena announced to Robert and her brothers as they gathered, speaking lowly. Understanding her reluctance, Robert waved the guards away to minimize the chance of them being overheard.

Last thing we need is some close-minded shit thinking she's a witch.

Aegon nodded gratefully before turning back to his wife. "And now you're certain?"

She nodded confidently. "They will not be attacking the city tonight."

Aemond folded his arms across his chest. "We'll just have to pray that you'll get forewarning if that changes."

But we don't know how infallible her gift may or may not be, Robert thought grimly. So we'll have to take other preventative measures to ensure they do not attack.

"We must draft a message to send to the Blacks at once, Your Grace," Robert said. "A message promising that we will treat the boy gently so long as they cooperate."

There was a flash of anger in Aegon's eyes, and for a moment, Robert's heart grew sick. No…surely not. Gwayne Hightower has already been avenged several times over. The boy is roughly the same age as Aegon's own son…

But Robert knew better than anyone that war did not spare innocent babes. Rhaegar Targaryen's children had been even younger when their corpses were laid at Robert's feet. Yet another Aegon and his sister Rhaenys.

Ned had been angrier than Robert had ever seen him, denouncing it as the vilest of murders. But Robert had swallowed his own horror. He needed Tywin Lannister's support, and he needed to take a firm stance against Rhaegar's line. Keeping his face impassive, he coldly declared, "That's war" and referred to the babes as 'Dragonspawn'. 

The truth was that the sight of their tiny bodies had robbed him of sleep for many years to come. 

It's one thing to kill for practical reasons. Or an unavoidable death in combat, like Joffrey. But this boy is far more valuable as a hostage. Killing him is an act of senseless cruelty.

Rhaenyra's son may grow up to try to press his own claim for the throne, but if the Greens won the war, there were other ways Robert could negate that threat.

But before Robert could say a word to the King, Helaena beat him to it, reaching over and gently grabbing Aegon's forearm, looking up at him with eyes filled with worry.

"Husband," she reminded him. "He's as innocent as our own babes."

For a moment, for a brief, horrifying moment, Robert thought that Aegon was going to shake off her hand. Memories of what happened in the original timeline swam through Robert's brain. Memories of how vengeful and bloodthirsty Aegon II had become…

But to Robert's relief, the spark of anger faded from Aegon's eyes just as quickly as it arrived. The blood of House Hightower balancing the blood of the dragon.

"Our allies and the rest of the realm are watching," he said wisely. "Watching and judging what kind of King I shall be. I shall not start my reign by butchering children needlessly. I will not prove myself a second Maegor."

He brushed Helaena's cheek reassuringly. "We'll keep him comfortable, as is befitting his station. No harm will come to the boy."

Helaena smiled beautifully, rising up on her toes to kiss him sweetly on the cheek, and Robert could not hold back his own smile.

In the original timeline, he delivered fire and blood ruthlessly. The only reason he did not kill Aegon III was because he needed him to deter the remaining Black armies from attacking.

But the Aegon II of the original timeline was a different man. A man who had lost his son to Daemon's assassins and descended into a black fury fueled by vengeance and strongwine. A man driven mad by the loss of damn near everyone he loved. A man in horrific pain, unable to walk. A man who was never given the chance to grow into a good king because he was fighting a war that was so badly mismanaged.

How different it could have been…No, how different it would be. Because Robert was going to ensure that he got that chance to grow into the king he wanted to be.

"Let us draft the message to my sister, Lord Borros," Aegon declared.

Robert smiled proudly. "Let us ask your grandfather to assist us, Your Grace," he countered happily. "The Hand is ready to resume his duties."

Daemon

Parents aren't supposed to have favorite children. At least not that they admit, even to themselves. But Daemon had never been one to abide by the rules, and he was no different as a father.

It started when the girls were young. He loved Rhaena, he did. But Baela was the best of both himself and Laena. It was no surprise that her egg had hatched whereas her sister's had not. Baela came into this world swinging her fists, and she'd only grown fierier with every year that passed. She was fearless. A true Fire and Blood Targaryen. The proud descendant of Old Valyria.

For a moment, he was back in their manse at Pentos. Baela was no more than a little girl, smiling and beaming brightly as she learned High Valyrian while sitting on his knee. While they read the histories together as father and daughter. While he dreamed of the day they'd fly together. Dreamt of the beautiful future she would have in the Free Cities, free of the restrictive nightmare she'd endure growing up in Westeros.

We should have stayed in Pentos. I never should have come home after Laena died. I knew it. I knew I never should have come back here.

If he had stayed in Pentos, he might be looking at his daughter's beautiful, smiling face right now. Not what was left of her face after the crabs had eaten most of it off her skull. After they had dug the eyes from her skull and exposed her cheekbones to the elements.

Behind him, Corlys screamed the wordless animal bellow of primal grief and horror, but Daemon's own body was frozen as he stared at Baela's face. He couldn't move. Couldn't breathe…

Until yet another crab tried to scurry up Baela's chest to dine on what was left of her flesh, triggering his own primal instinct to protect his young. Snarling like an angry dragon, Daemon drew his dagger, slapped the crab away from Baela, then stabbed it as it fell to the sand. Stabbed it once. Twice. Thrice. Again and again and again until all that remained was twitching cartilage, and Daemon collapsed, exhausted and panting into the sand.

It was then he saw the hammer. The hammer. The hammer that had taunted him for years. The hammer he'd be able to pick from an array of hundreds. 

Drahar, Daemon thought, reaching out to wrap his hand around the handle.

Three years Daemon had fought in the Stepstones. Three years of enduring injury after injury. Three years of growing filthier by the day, smelling more and more rancid. Three years of his bone-deep need to prove himself as a fierce Dragon Prince. Three years of wanting Drahar's head on a spike more than he wanted air to breathe, all the while the Crabfeeder evaded him every time.

Splitting Drahar in half with Dark Sister and claiming his hammer had been the most satisfying moment of Daemon's life, before or after. Delivering the hammer to Viserys had been Daemon's greatest victory…

And now that same hammer had been used to condemn Daemon's most beloved child to a slow, horrifying, painful death, just as Drahar had done to Velaryon soldiers all those years ago. Stealing Daemon's greatest victory and transforming it into his greatest defeat, as if the Crabfeeder was taunting him one last time. As if Drahar had gotten the last laugh while he burned in the Seven Hells.

But Drahar was long dead. And the only one who could have gotten ahold of the hammer was the usurper.

Screaming at the top of his lungs, Daemon hurled the hammer into the sea.

She suffered for hours before being granted the sweet relief of death. She suffered while they nailed her hands to the post. While the crabs…His fearless, wonderful little girl would have died terrified. Screaming. And the fucking Greens hadn't even given her the dignity of allowing her to remain clothed. They'd stripped her down to her small clothes, easy for the crabs to shred their way through and access more of her flesh. 

A dragon rider. The daughter of the legendary Rogue Prince. Granddaughter of the Sea Snake. And none of it was enough to save her.

No more than I could save my eldest son when Daeron stole him. Aegon was as good as dead now. The Greens would surely kill him, if they hadn't already. All Daemon could do was pray that he got a cleaner death than his sister.

Pray…and avenge him.

"Very well," Daemon said in a strangled voice as he rose to his feet, fire burning his chest and searing the heart within to a blackened charcoal. "Very well. It seems Aegon has chosen the execution method for his own children."

Behind him, Corlys stopped screaming, but Daemon did not know whether or not he heard him. Nor did he care.

"Once the war is won," he continued. "Once the Greens are within our grasp, we will ensure they feel Baela's pain tenfold. I will bind Aegon in chains and make him watch while I stake all three of his children to the dungeon floor. He will watch as the castle rats devour them while they still live and breathe. Then his wife. His mother. His grandfather. His two cunt brothers. Only then will he have my permission to fill the bellies of the rats himself."

But rather than growling his enthusiastic approval, Corlys whipped up his head and glared at Daemon, lips curled back in rage.

"Bluster," Corlys spat his accusation. "We've lost."

We will have lost when I am dead, and not one minute before.

"WE'VE LOST!" Corlys roared, leaping to his feet. "We started this war! We fought, and we LOST!"

WE started this war? "THE GREENS STOLE THE THRONE!" Daemon roared back. "STOLE THE THRONE FROM MY BROTHER'S RIGHTFUL HEIR! From your good daughter! The throne that will one day be your grandson's…"

"JACAERYS IS NOT MY GRANDSON!" he bellowed, spitting a wad of phlegm into the sand, as though Jace's name tasted foul on his tongue. "He is a bastard born to Harwin Strong!"

Daemon grimaced, gritting his teeth, but he could not bring himself to lie to Corlys now. He didn't give a shit about maintaining the lie or appearances anymore…fuck, he didn't give a shit about the throne itself anymore. It could burn in dragonfire for all he cared, along with the rest of the kingdom. So long as he watched the Greens die first.

"Jacaerys is not mine," Corlys repeated. "And we have lost the war."

"We have lost a battle," Daemon corrected.

The Greens had not won bloodlessly. After Daeron escaped with Aegon, Daemon had returned to find the Triarchy and Arbor ships retreating. He chased after them and burned a fair few before he was forced to relent, the endless volleys of arrows too much for Caraxes to endure with no naval support of his own.

"House Velaryon has lost the war, Daemon," Corlys's shoulders deflated as he sighed. "While you chased after the Triarchy, House Manderly and the Sistermen took advantage of our absence to sack Spicetown. Everything of any potential value was stolen; silks, spices, other wares."

"A costly loss, but House Velaryon does not lack for gold…"

Whatever was left of Corlys's sanity snapped, and he began to laugh, an unnerving sound that made Daemon flinch.

"Gold?" Corlys laughed. "Gold? GOLD?"

He pointed to Baela's corpse, then gestured broadly to High Tide's burned harbor. To the smoldering castle. 

"This was done last night, Daemon. You think they left my gold behind? They stole it when they burned my castle and slaughtered my men. After today, only a quarter of my ships remain, and I have no money to pay sailors to pilot them for me!"

You kept nothing in the Iron Bank? No…no, of course he hadn't. Corlys would never trust his gold to the Braavosi after what happened with Laena all those years ago.

"Before I threw my lot in with Rhaenyra, I had the largest fleet in the world!" Corlys laughed harder. "I was the wealthiest man in all of Westeros! My wife's dragon guarded my castle. And now my fleet is burned, my castle is burned, the Driftwood throne is burned, Meleys is dead, and my trueborn granddaughter fills the bellies of the crabs!"

Harder and harder Corlys laughed until his laughter morphed into screams once again. Screams and epithets hurled at the sky. Cursing Rhaenyra. Cursing Daemon. Cursing the gods themselves.

He's useless until he calms down, Daemon thought coldly as he turned from the manic Sea Snake and made his way towards the scorched castle, where recently-freed servants were sharing the tale of what transpired last night. But not half so useless as he alleges. The Greens have broken our blockade, yes, but all that wins them is the ability to trade internationally again.

A quarter of the Velaryon fleet is more than enough to ferry Lady Jeyne's soldiers from Gulltown to Maidenpool. And it is still larger than the royal navy in Blackwater Bay. If we can burn Aegon's naval allies, Corlys's remaining ships will be enough to help us take King's Landing by sea.

But for now, he needed to interrogate the servants who had survived the Burning of High Tide.

"Which one of them did it?" Daemon asked, grabbing a servant by the front of his shirt. "Which Green? Which of their dragons?"

Mysaria had claimed the Cannibal was circling King's Landing, but surely…

The servant began to cry. "I could not see the beast, my prince," he protested. "The night was so black. I could only see its green fire…"

Green fire. So it was the Cannibal.

Fuck, Daemon swore. That complicated things. The Cannibal was smaller than Vhagar but not substantially, and he had far more battle experience. Even Caraxes feared the Cannibal, though like most predators, the beast tended to prefer prey that would put up less of a fight.

"Did you see his rider?" Daemon asked, though he knew it was likely useless. It had to have been one of the dragon seeds who turned cloak and was offered a better deal by Aegon.

But to his astonishment…

"Yes, my prince," the servant confirmed. "Some of the other servants thought it was you."

"Me?" He narrowed his eyes, and the servant nodded.

"My prince, I have served on High Tide since you were a young man. The Cannibal's rider looked so much like you that for a moment, even I was fooled. But he was nearly thirty years your junior…"

Could he be one of my dragon seeds? Daemon blinked. It wasn't impossible. Daemon had no idea how many women (and occasionally men) he'd taken to bed in his youth.

"Did he say his name?"

"He didn't, my prince, but I heard one of the Hightower soldiers refer to him as Aethan…"