'I swam oceans and crossed deserts. But of all the distant skies I witnessed, the finest place was by his side.'
—Taken from The Travels of Fyrio Fartold
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Rhaenyra was cupbearer no more.
In another life she might have remained so, even after being named heir — if she'd been an only child, left to flounder in ignorance.
Instead, her return had reshaped her.
A new dignity settled on her shoulders, as if her brother's absence demanded she shine for them both.
The search for her replacement became a welcome distraction for the widowed King. It took two full days before he reached a decision.
In the end, Lady Alicent Hightower was granted the post.
The weeks flew by as the King busied himself with preparations for the homage ceremony.
Rhaenyra sat beside him and helped plan each step.
They grew closer than they had been in years, and the Princess was glad to have Alicent at council.
Then the reports began.
First in whisper. Criers in the Crownlands offering work and coin; Black ships in the Bay of Crabs; Gold wings glimpsed over the Kingswood.
Pieces that made no sense, until the hammer fell.
It arrived as a letter. Ser Otto nearly soiled himself reading it.
"Your Grace!"
Grandmaester Mellos took the parchment from Otto's shaking hands, and his face drained of color.
"By the gods…"
The King was in no mood. "Spit it out, you two..."
"Prince Rhaenar," Otto said. "I fear he has raised an army in the Riverlands."
"Nonsense," said Ser Lyonel Strong. As Lord of Harrenhall, the idea that such a thing could happen without his knowledge was absurd. "We would have heard long before now."
"I fear it is no jest," Otto pressed. "A fleet ferried troops up the Trident. Saltpans and Maidenpool have both confirmed it."
"And not Wickenden?" asked Ser Corlys. To a sailor like him, it was impossible the port had seen nothing.
"The Lords of the Vale hold the Prince in high regard," Mellos said. "We should assume House Waxley is no different."
Rhaenyra sat at the King's right hand and frowned.
"This must be forged by my brother's enemies. It doesn't make sense. Why the Riverlands? Why now?"
Ser Otto answered, grave and certain.
"If the Realm were to fracture, the Riverlands would matter most. With one move Rhaenar has cut the connection between Three of the Seven Kingdoms."
"In theory," Ser Lyonel said, "but it's not so clean. The Westerland's still have the Golden Tooth. The North can raise its banners and close the King's Road. The South is held by the Crown. And the Vale — Lady Arryn is young, but not foolish. She won't commit her strength to this. If anything, the Prince has boxed himself in."
"Unless speed be his weapon," said the Grand Maester. "Rhaenar must have intercepted a raven— one to a lord summoned to swear fealty to the new heir. We should have expected he'd act before they arrived."
Rhaenyra yawned. "That was weeks ago, Mellos. If Rhaenar meant to act, he would have done it then."
Mellos pressed on. "We should not trust conventional wisdom. The Prince has never suffered it. If we do not muster at once, I fear—"
"Silence!" the King roared. "I'll not listen to this nonsense. Rhaenar is my son. Estranged or not, he would not raise a sword against our own people."
"I agree," Rhaenyra said. She thought of all the time her brother spent away from court —flying across the Crownlands, supping in village, sharing stories of the smallfolk with a kind of pride only he could muster. "After all the effort spent avoiding responsibility, he wouldn't seize it now. And not like this."
Ser Corlys leaned forward. "Furthermore, this lacks his nature. No flair, no spectacle. If the Prince meant to usurp the Crown, it wouldn't start in the Riverlands."
"Unless this was planned long in advance," Ser Lyonel said.
"Regardless," Ser Otto said, "we must raise a host at once and march to intercept him."
"Armies are useless against dragonfire," said the Grand Maester. "We need riders. Princess Rhaenyra is too valuable to risk. We must recall Prince Daemon at once, or call upon the Princess Rhaenys."
King Viserys stared at his council, baffled by how quickly they were building a war out of smoke. Veins rose in his neck.
"The dragon will not devour itself. Ser Harrold!"
The Lord Commander stepped forward.
"You will ride to Rhaenar's camp and judge his intent. If he means to march, remind every man under his banner that they still belong to the Realm."
"It will be done, Your Grace." Ser Harrold bowed and left, his white cloak trailing behind him.
"Disaster," Ser Otto muttered. "With Daemon gone, and the City Watch with him, our walls are thinly held."
Rhaenyra rolled her eyes.
"Forgive me if I do not share your concern, Lord Hand. This city is our home. Rhaenar would never dishonor Mother's memory by putting it under siege."
The King exhaled in relief. At least someone in this council still spoke sense!
And at least the chamber had its small comforts these days. He smiled as Lady Alicent refilled his cup; she always seemed to know the moment his throat ran dry.
He was just settling back into his chair when another sweaty fool burst in.
"Report! The Prince is on the march!"
Ser Otto lurched to his feet.
"So it begins. Ring the bells! Prepare the city for siege. Your Grace, we must consider your evacuation—"
"You're mistaken, m'lord. The Prince rides not for the south!"
Confusion rippled through the room.
It was the King who broke the silence. "If not here, then where in the seven hells is he heading?"
.
..
...
..
.
Further upriver from the mouth of the Trident stood the Crossroads Inn.
Nearly a hundred and seventy tents ringed the site, each one flying the banner of Dragonstone.
A festive energy carried through the camp as Rhaenari troops reunited and traded news of their projects; the children born; the bridges repaired; the posts they'd held; the work they'd done.
After months scattered across this holdfast or that township, it was a joy to gather again.
Friendly rivalry sprang up almost immediately: whose squad could brew the best stew, whose shield wall held tightest.
There was much to catch up on. Captain Asher stalked the grounds as rigid as ever, inspecting shields, testing blades, and scolding anyone whose kit lacked polish.
Captain Zane booed and jeered at him the entire way, stopping only when Pheonix passed by, whose Unsullied discipline commanded silence without a single word.
Campmaster Evelyn kept everything running with her usual iron precision, barking for proper latrines, orderly trenches, and a wall of stakes around the perimeter.
Chit Chattington talked nonsense at his usual pace, with Gorgeous George cackling at every joke.
Hayden Cuckwright and Dick Mason lectured fresh recruits on engineering principles.
The steward boys listened wide-eyed as Deadeye Ronny retold how he'd survived the Cannibal, or how Breacher had been first through the line against the Mountain Clans.
The whole gang was back together. Scores of young scholars shadowed Brien and Theodore, hanging on every debate about myth and economy.
Sari Sicai spent his hours sparring anyone bold enough to try him, and to everyone's amazement, the undefeated pit fighter had somehow grown more deadly.
They waited for one man. When the roar split the sky, they knew he had come.
Cheers erupted as Sundance swept overhead, banking in three tight, showy circles above the camp.
Prince Rhaenar lifted a fist; the Rhaenari answered with raised spears.
The dragon touched down in a smooth, heavy thud.
Rhaenar dismounted.
"Gather up! I will address the men!"
They formed ranks at once. Two thousand strong, captains at the front.
"Welcome," Rhaenar began. "Welcome all. It does my heart good to see you again, hale and high of spirit."
Spears punched the air three times.
"A'oo! A'oo! A'oo!"
He settled them with a simple gesture.
"Last year, I swore to walk this land and know it well. That oath was cut short by our campaign in the Mountains, and I would not force you any farther. But now you are rested, and though this venture is voluntary, it seems you all decided to come anyway. Fine by me. I've accepted I'll never be rid of you bastards!"
Laughter rolled across the ranks.
"Don't count us out!"
"Can't let you have all the fun!"
"I had to get away from my wife!"
Rhaenar raised a hand. The noise fell away.
"As you know, this tour is more than sightseeing. Hard work lies ahead. We will train. We will build. Feet will blister, lips will crack in sun. But I would have it no other way. Would you?"
"No!" they roared.
"Fuck that soft shit!" a squad bellowed.
"Who needs boots anyway?!"
A squire hurried forward leading the white steed now called Moonsong.
Rhaenar mounted and drew Blackfyre with a bright shing. Valyrian steel flared in the sun.
"Good. Now grab your packs, you lot. Let's go see that fucking Wall!"
"A'oo!"
They set off. Rhaenar rode brazenly at the front, his scholars falling in beside him.
"On the road again," Brien sighed.
Theodore snorted. "Lost your sense of adventure?"
"I was rather enjoying the library back home."
"The sun will do you good," Rhaenar said. "And every keep we pass has a hoard of knowledge. We'll rely on you to pull whatever you can find."
That lifted Brien's spirits. "You're right. There are still mysteries to be found."
"Good man." Rhaenar turned to Theodore. "The plan stands. You and five hundred will take the Kingsroad. Repair whatever's broken. Lend hands where needed. All that shit."
Theodore opened his mouth to object, but Rhaenar cut in.
"Yes, yes. Worry not. We'll gather every ledger we come across. You can drown yourself in dead man's finance when we regroup, understood?"
That settled Theodore. "As you command, my Prince."
He peeled away, his contingent splitting cleanly from the main column.
"You're sure it wise to not bring him?" Brien asked.
Rhaenar shook his head. "Easier this way. We still have recruits who need the practice. They can chip away at simple work while we take our time. And Theodore needs to be on the far bank to manage supplies anyhow."
Brien winced. They were truly doing this.
"Lords will take offense."
"Let flies buzz," Rhaenar said.
Behind them, the column sang, boots drumming the road in the steady rhythm of Crunch, Crunch, Crunch!