Robert’s Second Chance: Dance of Dragons Rewritten

Harrenhal was hideous.

Harwin had told her stories about it once upon a time. Back when they often shared a bed. Stories told of how he spent hours exploring its halls as a child. It didn't have half so many secret passageways as the Red Keep, but it was far larger; the largest in all of Westeros.

And now it was theirs, Caraxes circling around the towers and singing a squeaky love song to Syrax as she approached.

Even our dragons are in love, she thought sadly as she stared at her husband's blood-red dragon.

I adore you, Caraxes, just like I adore your rider, but right now, I despise him. And she was uncertain whether or not that would change. As much as she loved Daemon, it sickened her on a primal level that he had sent assassins into a nursery.

To Rhaenyra's surprise, when she landed, the only people there to greet her were a handful of servants and a few stray Lords wearing the sigils of House Darry and House Roote. The nobility of House Strong, presumably, were confined to their rooms. No hint of the great host of Riverlands Houses that Daemon had planned to gather, using Harrenhal as their rallying point. 

He has not been here long, she reasoned. He hasn't had much time to gather swords yet. It can take weeks to mobilize to march…

Daemon greeted her as a consort would greet a Queen, rather than the way a man might greet his wife, but the second they were away from prying eyes and ensconced in his suite of rooms, he moved in to wrap his arms around her…

And she slapped him across the face.

"How could you!" she cried, while Daemon recoiled, stung both physically and mentally. "Aegon's eldest children are SIX! His youngest is TWO! You sent assassins to slaughter three children, one of which is still a BABE!"

Daemon's eyes flashed, and for a second, she thought she saw a flash of regret.

"They killed all three?" he said darkly, his voice cracking. "That is NOT what I ordered. I told Mysaria to only kill his eldest, his heir, and to leave the rest of them untouched…"

She slapped him again.

"JAEHAERYS IS SIX YEARS OLD!" she screamed, her face turning blood red. "SIX YEARS OLD! MY NEPHEW! YOUR GREAT NEPHEW!"

"Is?" he asked. "Not was? They survived?"

"They all survived," she confirmed. "Otherwise, we would be in an all-out war long before we were ready because you decided to unleash your fury on a SIX-YEAR-OLD!"

And she slapped him again.

Daemon bared his teeth as his cheek began to pinken from her strikes. "Yes, six years old," he agreed, his voice scarcely above a growl. "Legally a child. Just like Lucerys was legally a child. That didn't save his life."

Luke…Her son's name tore through her like a sword through her chest, and for a moment, her knees trembled. But just as quickly as it came, her grief burst into a spark of rage.

You do not get to weaponize my son's death to win an argument.

"Luke would be alive if the Greens never usurped my throne," Rhaenyra agreed. "But we do not know if they are directly responsible for his death, and Aegon's behavior suggests that they believe it was a tragic accident. Even if you are right and they killed him deliberately, then that would justify killing AEMOND, or Aegon himself. It does not justify trying to kill an innocent child who likely doesn't even know that there IS a war brewing. That is not who we are, Daemon. That is not who I am. I am not a monster."

Daemon folded his arms, waiting calmly for her to finish speaking. Too calmly. Frighteningly calmly. As was the way he remained silent for several long seconds after she was done.

"No, we are not monsters," he agreed. "We are dragons."

"Daemon…"

Gesturing broadly at the castle around them, he challenged, "When Aegon the Conqueror burned this castle with Balerion the Dread, turning the inside into an oven, do you think it was only soldiers who were cooked alive?" He snorted. "No. There were innocents inside as well. Women and children. Should Aegon have avoided burning Harrenhal simply to spare them?"

She felt the sudden, violent urge to vomit, or at the very least go back outside. I'm standing in a massive stone coffin…

"Or when Queen Rhaenys died and the Conqueror and Visenya burned the castles of Dorne," Daemon continued. "Do you think they precisely targeted only the person who fired the Scorpion bolt at Meraxes? NO!" he shouted. "Because that is not how warfare works, Rhaenyra. The Greens deserve to suffer for what they did, and the death of one innocent child does not even begin to tip the scales. Not for the years of torment Alicent inflicted on you. Not for killing our unborn daughter. Not for killing Luke. Not for starting a war and forcing us to fight for what should have been handed to you peacefully. Hundreds, or fuck, maybe THOUSANDS of people are going to die because of the fucking GREENS! Likely dozens of them will be innocent children. And you want me to weep with remorse for trying to assassinate a single fucking child that neither one of us even knew?"

She felt herself beginning to shake, but she forced her spine to steel. I am a Queen. I am the blood of the dragon. If I cower before my own consort, I do not deserve the Iron Throne.

"If it comes to combat, then I have no qualms about burning Green soldiers," she said regally, her chin held high. "And if it becomes necessary to forcibly siege a town or a village, I can accept that collateral damage will happen. But where you are wrong, Daemon, is that Aegon the Conqueror was only as ruthless as he needed to be. He did not go out of his way to intentionally slaughter children for no militant advantage other than inflicting pain on their families."

Stepping in closer to Daemon, she looked him dead in the eye. "And it might serve you well to remember that you also contributed the war that may or may not follow. Before your assassination attempt, there was a chance we might have resolved this conflict without active warfare. We might have been able to convince the Greens that we could be trusted, and we may have been able to get them to agree to a surrender settlement. But by doing this, you have validated their fears and proven that we can't be trusted. Our negotiating power has dwindled because you have destroyed my credibility. Getting them to surrender now will be infinitely more difficult."

Daemon said nothing, but she recognized that flash in his eyes, a silent acknowledgement that she had made a valid point…and yet it didn't matter.

Because despite what he claims, he wants this war. And Rhaenyra simply had no idea what to do with that. She saw him differently now, both as her husband and her Master of War…but she had no idea what to do with those new feelings.

So I will set them aside for now.

"We act with honor and integrity, Daemon," she said commandingly. "We negotiate with honor and integrity, and if necessary, we fight with honor and integrity. Fire and Blood does not preclude honor."

Daemon eyed her quietly…and to her dismay, she caught the faintest hint of his disappointment. But whatever he was about to say, he held it in, her husband yielding to her Master of War.

"Honor and integrity might cost you the throne, Rhaenyra," he said ominously. "Did you notice a disturbing lack of supporters outside this castle?"

She had, but she folded her arms and frowned, waiting for him to continue.

"I very nearly recruited the Blackwoods to our cause," he explained. "I thought I had. They told me they were merely waiting for Elmo Tully to confirm their neutrality or their allegiance to us, despite what Grover wants. But I received a raven from them just this morning, declaring that they will not be marching for Harrenhal. What does that tell you?"

She blinked at him, then swallowed. "The Greens got to the Tullys…"

"And the Tullys are Lords Paramount of the Riverlands. Beloved Lords Paramount in the Riverlands. If the Tullys are supporting the Greens, then so will damn near everyone else here. The Darrys and the Rootes are the only Houses who agreed to support us regardless of what the Tullys want. I intend to fly to the Twins to speak with House Frey, but the odds of them defying their liege lord…" He turned from her, leaning over his desk and punching his fist against the wood. "And even if they do, our only real chance of victory here in the Riverlands is to use the dragons."

The dragons. She didn't want to use them. Not if she didn't have to. They had more than the Greens, it was true. Even after the death of Arrax. But most of their dragons were small, and her own Syrax had never been to battle. The only dragons she knew would fare well in combat were Caraxes and Meleys.

But if Aemond were to fight on Vhagar…

"We are fighting no battles yet, Daemon," she said. "Merely gathering swords for now. There is still a chance we may be able to negotiate a peace deal with Aegon before it comes to bloodshed."

She didn't need Daemon to turn and glare at her to know how naïve she sounded. 

Two Weeks Later

Robert

It's all going according to plan, Lyanna, Robert thought as he stared into the fire, smiling sadly. And it's your brother I have to thank for it.

Robert would have loved nothing more than a cup of ale as he stared into the fire. Not wine; that was for when he wanted to get drunk and forget. Ale was different. Ale was shared with friends while laughing and telling stories over a hearty supper. Ale was the drink of happiness. Of camaraderie. And right now, Robert wished he could share a horn of it with Ned.

Remember when we were young men, growing up in the Vale? Robert thought, smiling as he watched the logs in his hearth crack and pop. We sparred together. We studied together. We hunted together. You were closer to my heart than my own brothers ever were. Closer than Jon Arryn, as much as I loved him.

And one of the ways they strengthened that bond was the long nights they would stay awake exchanging stories in front of the fire.

Robert told Ned stories of Storm's End, and how House Baratheon came to be, after his ancestor Orys Baratheon claimed the Stormland for Aegon the Conqueror. But most of the stories were shared by Ned. He had thousands of them, as House Stark's bloodline stretched back thousands of years to the time of the First Men. Ned's stories ranged from legends of the Others to historical accountings of the building of the Wall.

Robert remembered damn near every story that Ned shared with him, remembering the way his friend's eyes lit up when he recounted them. It made him less homesick while he was missing Winterfell.

And it is those stories you shared with me that may save thousands of innocent lives, Robert thought with a smile. You'd like that, Ned. Over a century from now, when you're born, you'll never know that it was you who saved Westeros. But you will have.

Ned's stories helped Robert in two ways. The first was the most obvious. Prince Aemond was flying to Winterfell as they spoke, after House Manderly encouraged Cregan Stark to receive him and hear his petition. Robert had prepared him thoroughly before he left (though he needed to pull quite a few creative excuses out of his ass to explain how he knew so much about Northern culture). Aemond didn't seem to truly believe the excuses, but he didn't call Robert out on them, promising to take his tips under advisement.

Hopefully, the tips he shared with Aemond would be enough to secure House Stark's loyalty.

Cregan Stark is still just a pup. He's not Old Man Winter yet. But hopefully, his core honor code is still there.

But Ned's most valuable story would not be benefitting Aemond. It would be benefitting Aegon.

It was one of the few stories Ned told him more than twice. The story of Torrhen Stark, the King Who Knelt. 

Perhaps Ned felt defensive about that story. Some Northerners saw it as a blight on the Stark family tree. But Robert didn't fault Torrhen at all for kneeling to the Conqueror. The man had three dragons, for fuck's sake. Was he supposed to serve his men up to be spit-roasted?

Nonetheless, Ned was defensive about it. Enough so that he told Robert all the plans Torrhen had considered when he still planned to attempt to defeat the Conqueror.

Most specifically, the plans of Torrhen's bastard half-brother, Brandon Snow.

Torrhen had stopped Brandon from putting his plans into action, surrendering instead, but nonetheless, it had been a good plan. A feasible plan. Still feasible, even today…

The Gullet

Hopefully, this will be my last day at sea, the fisherman thought as he stretched, his old bones creaking in protest.

At fifty-three, he was too old to spend day in and day out on the sea anymore. He wanted to rest and enjoy whatever years he had left on the shore. But a life of leisure required money, and the fisherman had never been able to earn more than what he needed to fill his belly for a few more nights.

Not anymore, he thought with a smile. Not now that Borros Baratheon has paid me a ten-percent deposit on the small mountain of gold he promised me. Enough for me to live comfortably until my death.

The fisherman had earned it, him and his sons both. They had spent the last two weeks observing the Velaryon fleet as they blockaded the Gullet. The Velaryons stopped merchant vessels from approaching or leaving the port, but they didn't bother with fisherman in small rowboats, and so he and his sons had been left unbothered. In exactly the right position to spy. Not on the Velaryons themselves, but on the dragon circling overhead.

Meleys, the Red Queen, they called her. She was a fearsome beast who had frightened off more than a few merchant vessels who attempted to cross the Velaryon blockade, sending them running with their tails between their legs. But the fisherman was not there to marvel at Meleys. He was there to observe her. Her patterns. And after two weeks, he had them memorized.

Dragons, being lizards, didn't need to eat as often as other animals, but because Meleys spent hours a day flying, nonstop, she needed to eat every day. Because she spent little time on the land, she needed to hunt for her meals from the sea. And as luck would have it, her favorite meal was freshly caught shark. The larger the better.

Which was why his small fishing boat, and his sons', were packed with as many barrels of chum as they could carry, which they would dump along the area where Meleys liked to do her hunting.

The bloody chum would draw in hundreds of sharks, eager to sate their hunger with a taste of fresh blood. But little did they know that blood and fish parts was not all they would be dining on.

"Dinnertime, sharkies," the fisherman called in his warbly voice.

And soon after, dinnertime for Meleys as well.

Jace

"You'll be safe here," Jace assured Rhaena as she got settled into her suite of rooms at the Eyrie. "And Joffrey will be here soon. Mother isn't ready to let him leave Dragonstone yet. Not…" He snapped his jaw shut as he felt his throat tremble, not wanting Rhaena to hear him sob.

Not so soon after we lost Luke.

"But he'll be here soon," Jace continued, pushing past it. "Part of our deal with Lady Jeyne is that she wants a dragon rider here. He'll be along in a few weeks."

Rhaena nodded slowly as she sat down on her settee, raking her fingers through her hair. "I just wish it was Baela," she confessed softly. "Her and Moondancer. But they can't keep both of us in the same castle, because…"

Because if the Greens attacked, they could get to both of you. And that would be devastating for our faction. Enough to cost us the Velaryon's support.

Rhaena bit her lip, shoulders shaking. "I hate this," she lamented. "I HATE this! This isn't right! It isn't fair. Viserys promised the throne to Rhaenyra. The Lords of Westeros swore to her. She was named Princess of Dragonstone. SHE was the heir! The Greens had no right to steal her crown; the realm should be united against them. Why do we have to fight at all?"

"Because she had the audacity to be born a woman," Jace said darkly, sitting down next to her. "And I had the audacity to be born with brown hair."

They never discussed it, how he was so painfully obviously the bastard son of Harwin Strong rather than the trueborn son of Laenor Velaryon. A self-loathing so dark and deep he seldom talked about it with anyone, even Luke.

Rhaena gently touched his shoulder. "Jace," she whispered. "You would be an amazing King one day."

He didn't answer.

"Truly," she encouraged. "It was you who persuaded Lady Jeyne to help us, and it will be you who persuades House Manderly and the Sistermen when you fly north. You are a dragon rider, and most importantly, you have a good heart without being weak. And you are all of those wonderful things because that's who your mother raised you to be. It makes no difference who your father was. If Rhaenyra had been married to Harwin, no one would have batted an eye at the thought of you being her heir. You're the same person, marriage or no marriage."

I want you to be right…

"Plus, you will have decades to learn how to rule before your time comes," she assured him. "You will learn from your mother, after she takes back what is rightfully hers."

And after all the usurpers are either dead or rotting at the wall.

The truth was that Jace was afraid. Just yesterday, he had spoken to his mother when he returned to Dragonstone to pick up Rhaena, and it was all but confirmed that they had all but lost the Riverlands. The Westerlands and the Stormlands had already pledged for Aegon. They had no prayer of winning the Reach, not when House Hightower had such a heavy influence. So far, they had only the Vale, House Velaryon, and the handful of Crownlands Houses that remained loyal.

Even with superior dragon power, that was not going to be enough. Not unless they won the North. Not unless he won the North. If not, Rhaenyra would have no choice but to bend the knee, and shortly after, Jace knew in his heart that they would all be dead.

And that drunken, usurping traitor will have the honor of House Targaryen, of the Royal Line, passing through him.

It couldn't happen. It couldn't happen. 

"I'll stay here tonight to ensure you've settled in," he told her. "And then I fly for White Harbor on the morrow. Winterfell shortly after."

The Starks may be our only hope.

Aemond

"Gods be good…" Aemond marveled from Vhagar's back as he looked across the horizon, where Winterfell awaited him.

He knew it was the second largest castle in all of Westeros, second only to Harrenhal, and the sight of it robbed his breath from his lungs, even after growing up in the Red Keep. Tower after gray stone tower surrounded by a massive retaining wall. The interior was more a small town than it was a single dwelling, and Aemond easily could have landed Vhagar in the courtyard like a horse without disturbing a single building.

Of course, that would be rude, and so he landed her outside the walls instead, dismounting and giving her permission to hunt the herd of moose they had passed awhile back. "Cregan Stark sent a raven giving his word to grant me guest right," Aemond assured her in High Valyrian. "He won't go back on his word. That's not the Stark way."

Aemond had already known that, even before Lord Borros repeated it. Along with a small list of other Northern customs that he shared with Aemond to help make his stay more productive.

As for how Borros knew those customs without ever having set foot that far North? Aemond had no idea, and he did not believe the excuses Borros gave him about his multiple exchanges with sailors from White Harbor. Sailors liked to talk about ale and wenches, not about ancient Northern honor codes.

Perhaps Borros had spies in the North. Perhaps he made secret trips there. Perhaps he had a Northern mistress that he kept secret from his wife. Whatever the reason, Aemond decided to trust his information…largely because Helaena urged him to.

"You must trust him, brother," she told him. "Especially on a mission this important."

Though of course, remembering Helaena right now made Aemond's cheeks flame red.

I may be seeing her naked soon, he thought, flushing deeper. Or…or she may be seeing me naked? I don't know how Aegon is planning for the evening to unfold. And him telling me that we'll 'play it by ear' does not ease my anxiety at all.

But Aemond wanted to do his duty, and he wanted to help his siblings. It was important for Aegon to have as many children as possible to secure his succession, and conception was difficult for him and Helaena. She didn't like to be touched, and his ego could not handle his partner's dissatisfaction.

I'm better and relaxing Helaena than anyone in our family, and I want her to be relaxed, comfortable, and feel safe during the act, he thought. And I don't want Aegon to be reluctant to do his duty, because it may take them many attempts over many months to get her pregnant.  

And if helping his siblings meant that he would need to be in their marriage bed with them? Well, then he would simply have to swallow his embarrassment and endure it.

If he were being honest, it wouldn't be so much a matter of 'enduring' it. His lessons with Aegon were enjoyable, and Aemond loved Helaena deeply. And if he were being TRULY honest, he could admit that he'd been jealous of Aegon more than once, imagining himself in Helaena's bed. Now, he would get to be with both of them in some capacity.

And the first time we try will be when I get home from Winterfell, because that is when the Maester told Helaena that it would be a good time to start trying…

But for now, thoughts of carnality would have to wait, because he had to focus on securing Northern support before any Blacks arrived to try to lay claim to the North.

Three Days Later

Rhaenys

"What do you mean she isn't eating?" Rhaenys said frantically in High Valyrian as she followed the Keepers to the dragon mount. "You fed her as I instructed?"

"Yes, Princess," the head Keeper answered her respectfully. "Exactly as you commanded. A small herd of goats. Still living because she likes them fresh. But she wouldn't rouse to eat them. Even when we slaughtered one first so she could smell its blood. She just lowered her head and went back to sleep."

That isn't like her, Rhaenys thought, half-running to the dragonmount's cave where Meleys was nesting. She has a ravenous appetite, and goat is her favorite meal.

Her beloved dragon began acting strangely two days ago. Normally the fastest dragon in the world, Meleys was flying sluggishly. And despite being fairly young, she was getting tired quickly, wanting more and more breaks on the small rocky islands to rest. Fearing she was pushing her too hard, Rhaenys brought her back to Dragonstone for a few days to rest. But rather than getting better, Meleys seemed to only be getting worse.

When she arrived at the cave, Rhaenys's heart froze, muscles going tense and rigid as she stared at the once proud and fearsome Red Queen. Meleys was flopped over on her side, her breathing labored. Once bright and vibrant, her green eyes were clouded and dull. She did not lift her head to greet Rhaenys when she came into the cave, as she always did. She didn't move at all, as if unaware that Rhaenys was even there.

But what struck Rhaenys the hardest was not how Meleys looked. It was how she smelled.

Dragons, unfortunately, had a strong odor. An unpleasant odor of thick smoke and eggs. It was part of the reason why dragon riders had specific clothes worn only for riding; that stink was impossible to get out of fabric. So Rhaenys was not expecting Meleys to smell like a rose garden.

But she was not expecting this.

The stench had Rhaenys gagging, grabbing her nose and desperately forcing back the urge to vomit. The cave did not stink of dragon. It stunk of decay. It stunk of a bloated, rotting corpse. It stunk of death.

"Meleys!" Rhaenys cried, running to her dragon's side and kneeling before her to look into her dull eyes.

The smell is coming from her mouth, Rhaenys thought, grabbing her face in horror. She smells like she's rotting from the inside out!

"Meleys!" she cried, calling to her dragon, shaking her face, doing everything she could to rouse her. "Meleys! Wake up!" Wheeling on the Keepers, she ordered, "She's sick! She needs medicine!"

But even before the Keeper responded, Rhaenys new it was useless. No medicine existed for dragons, because no dragon in the history of Westeros (or Old Valyria, to her knowledge) had ever gotten sick. Like many Targaryens, they were immune to illness.

Then why is this happening?

For hours, Rhaenys stayed by her dragon's side, trying to soothe her, trying to anger her, trying to plead with her, trying everything she could think to do, but the rancid stench only grew worse and worse, Meleys's breathing growing more and more labored.

Until at last, the once proud, fearsome Red Queen breathed no more. As the last beat of her dragon's heart faded away, Rhaenys felt a small piece of her own wither and die in her chest.

No, she cried silently. No!

She allowed herself an hour to weep, to let her tears flow freely as she screamed and grieved for her beloved friend. We've been together since I was thirteen! Before I wed Corlys. Before I had my children…

And she was dead. And it was more than Rhaenys thought she could bear.

Eventually, Rhaenys forced herself to stand, wiping the tears from her eyes. There would be time to mourn later. For now, she needed to act.

"Burn her body," she instructed the Keepers as she left the cave, making her way back to Dragonstone's castle. "Do not allow crows or any other scavengers to feast on it."

With every step she took, Rhaenys's fire returned. Her determination. Meleys was gone, but Rhaenys was still the blood of the dragon, and she could not allow herself to crumble. Especially now.

When she arrived in the throne room, she ignored her husband, charging straight to Rhaenyra, too angry and upset to greet her the way a princess should greet her Queen.

"Lord Bar Emmon was innocent," Rhaenys said. "You killed the wrong man."

Rhaenyra blinked at her, dumbfounded at first, then angry. "How could you possibly…"

"The traitor is still here on Dragonstone," she declared. "And they have found a way past the Keepers. My dragon is dead."

Rhaenyra stiffened, her blue-purple eyes slowly widening. "Meleys is…"

"Dead," Rhaenys confirmed. "Poisoned. And it must have happened here on Dragonstone, because all of her other meals were caught in the wild."

Rhaenyra brought her hand up to cover her mouth, muffling her words. "Arrax first…now Meleys…"

Rhaenyra did not need to say it.

The Greens have four rideable dragons. Now, we have only six, and most of ours are too young and small to fight, ridden by inexperienced riders. They have Vhagar…

Unless something changed, and fast, they were all dead.