'A Bridge!
A Bridge!
A Bridge toward the Future!'
-Taken from 'The Red Prince' performed by the Mummer's Guild.
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Thus the main force of the Rhaenari followed the Blue Fork of the Trident.
They reached Fairmarket — a modest town with ample trade — and there Rhaenar remarked how, in ages past, the Storm Kings had once pushed their borders this far into the Riverlands.
Long before Aegon's Conquest, when House Durrandon ruled the Stormlands for thousands of years before the male line fell, and Orys Baratheon inherited their claim.
What struck Rhaenar most was how old these lands truly were, and how intact their legends remained.
His thoughts drifted to another life, where even with modern tools they still hadn't understood how certain pyramids were built, and most of antiquity had been stitched together with guesswork.
"What is history, Brien?" Rhaenar asked as they rode out of Fairmarket.
"The lies we agree upon."
"That answer is lacking."
Brien tried again. "History is the record of past events."
"And our collective mind agrees on the order and execution of said events?"
Brien brushed his fringe aside, green eyes bright. He knew Rhaenar well enough to extract his mood. "Ah. You're asking: what's the value of history if it's all just the stories we choose to keep."
"I think it's a shame," Rhaenar agreed. "The past will always escape us. Sometimes I think about days I used to dream and wonder if they even happened."
"And if they didn't?"
"Then what was the point?"
Brien thought about it. "I don't know. But true or not, such things make for good fun."
Rhaenar rolled his eyes. "Perhaps I shouldn't have asked a Loremaster about such things."
"What can I say? It's my nature. A bit of it lives in everyone, I think. Why else do children crowd around a village elder? Or why Chattington likes to embellish every step of our journey?
"Besides," Brien went on, "if the Brackens and Blackwoods are any indication — and men still can't decide who owns a windmill or a patch of dirt — what makes you think we could ever agree on the past?"
"I don't know," Rhaenar said, deflated. "The more I travel, the more I think about it. There's something woven into this country. Love? Dedication? Something. Whether there's a grand architect behind it all or I'm here by chance, it feels as though my heart keeps pulling toward an answer, whether I want it to or not. Does that sound strange?"
Brien hummed. "Such is our plight, to crawl through mud in search of meaning. No wonder we conjured so many gods. Man has always feared his own ignorance."
Rhaenar laughed. "What a cheerful thought! Maybe that's why we drink so much. To forget."
"Or it's our way of escaping ourselves, if only for a little while."
Days passed until they reached a place that embodied the past more than any tale: Oldstones.
The Rhaenari made camp on the hill where the ancient stronghold had once stood.
Rhaenar walked the ruins, trying to picture the high halls of kings gone, to carve the memory of House Mudd's glory into his heart. But the effort was futile. Only rubble endured.
He laid a hand on one weathered block.
"Now this is history, Brien. No song, no story. Just a cold reminder of what once was~"
They lingered a few nights, exploring the countryside and paying their respects.
On the eve of departure they held a feast. Laughter rolled across the hills. Rhaenar took Campmaster Evelyn's slim, albeit calloused, hand. They danced. The men cheered.
When the song ended, she drew him into an embrace and whispered, "I never want to leave."
Rhaenar chuckled. "That's the wine talking."
"I mean it."
"We could arrange for you to stay a while, if you want. Fix the place up."
Evelyn recoiled at the idea of parting from the leader she admired.
"No. Without you, I'd be dancing with ghosts."
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After Oldstones, Rhaenar faced a choice. His scouts reported that a force under Ser Harrold was riding to intercept.
The news irritated him. He wanted this journey free of courtly interference, and the last thing he wished was a demoralising clash with his own countrymen.
Rhaenar also knew Ser Harrold too well to expect negotiation; the man would obey his orders to the letter.
All he needed to do was plant his men across the road and refuse to move. Rhaenar's hands would be tied, much like how the protesters of his past life would chain to trees in order to halt deforestation.
With that in mind, he weighed his options.
Their original route included a detour to Seaguard, the proud fortress long known for defying Ironborn raids. It would have been a chance to study its design firsthand, to see what had allowed it to endure.
Alas, pushing toward the coast would give Ser Harrold more time to catch up.
Rhaenar was confident his men could out-march anything the Crown mustered, but if he meant to beat Ser Harrold to the King's Road, there was no room for delay — no more feasts, no more lingering.
No more fun!
With a heavy heart, he abandoned the plan.
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Their next stop rose from the river like a challenge.
The Twins.
Rhaenar understood why the place had earned its reputation. Two castles — perfect reflections — faced each other across the Green Fork, each set on its own man-made island.
The river here was too deep to ford, but the Freys had carved channels to make it deeper still.
This was a place built not for beauty, but denial to the true heart of The Crossing.
The bridge was a broad span of smooth stone arched between the mirrored castles. Wide enough for two wagons, and without access it would be hundreds of miles before the men could cross safely to the other side.
One glance told Rhaenar they weren't welcome. Armor glinted on the walls, bowmen at the ready. Hard expressions.
"Quite the welcome," Captain Asher murmured as the men studied the fortress from afar.
"What if they don't let us cross?" Captain Zane asked.
Sari Sicai rolled his shoulders, confident as ever. "Give me some rope and a dozen good men — we'll scale the walls at nightfall."
"No," Rhaenar said. "This was expected. The Freys are a young House by Westerosi standards. Self-made, prideful. Words will work where swords can not."
He left the bulk of the host behind and rode forward with a small escort, stopping before the western gate.
"I am the Lord of the Crossing!" a voice called from the battlements. "Who goes there?"
Rhaenar narrowed his eyes. "A little young to be him, are you not?"
"My lord father has gone south to swear fealty to King and heir. I hold the crossing in his stead. I ask again — who goes there?!"
"I am Rhaenar Targaryen, and I seek to pass."
"For what purpose do you cross our bridge? Swear an oath to me now!"
Rhaenar almost smiled. He had done his homework. This was the Frey children's game. All about an oath, a catch, and a trap. A tradition born of their own beginnings. Clever little upstarts.
"I swear I seek to lead my men north to visit the Wall, and mayhaps to pay my respects to your father, Lord Frey."
"I heard it!" the young Frey crowed. "You may not pass!"
Sari scratched his head. "The fuck?"
"I've lost the game," Rhaenar said. "You're meant to slip 'mayhaps' into the oath so it can't bind you. It appears little Frey is smarter than he looks."
He raised his voice to the walls. "Before you send us away, will you at least grant me entry to negotiate an alternative?"
Whispers rippled along the parapet before a reply came.
"Only you may enter!"
"Not happening," Sari said at once, hand on his blade.
Rhaenar waved him down.
"Should there be foul play, Sundance will descend and burn this bridge to rubble. Something tells me they won't take that chance."
He looked back up at the gate. "Very well! Only I shall enter!"
They chose to meet at a small table set squarely on the bridge.
Rhaenar had to admire the theatrics. The Freys were proud of this crossing — and, in truth, it deserved pride. It was a masterpiece of stone and stubborn ambition.
"My apologies for arriving unannounced," Rhaenar began as he took his seat. "It was never my intent to frighten you."
Little Frey sat opposite him, defiant. "Spare the courtesies. You want to cross our bridge. What will you give us in return?"
Rhaenar stroked his chin and pretended to think.
Then, with deliberate gravity, he offered something absurd. "Two gold dragons for every soldier. Sixty silver stags for each beast of burden. And the weight of each man in copper pennies."
In truth, had Lord Frey been present, Rhaenar had prepared an entirely different proposal — one built on long-term investment, steady returns, and mutual gain. But before a child, he gambled that immediate treasure would dazzle more than strategy.
The lad was sharper than expected. "This payment is with you?"
Rhaenar kept his irritation carefully in check. "No," he said, "but my word is my bond. Should that not suffice, I will leave this sword, Blackfyre, in your care until payment is received in full."
The boy's eyes widened. Such an item could buy a Kingdom! The maester at his side whispered something into his ear. He shook his head sadly.
"I wish I could accept, Prince Rhaenar," the lad said, tone now with more respect, "but we have orders from the King to deny your passage."
Rhaenar twitched.
"Even at the threat of violence?"
The maester answered, producing a letter from within his robes. "The King has assured us, quite explicitly, that it will not come to that."
Now Rhaenar's anger flared. He took the letter, read the words written in a careful, deliberate hand.
Rhaenar fixated on the line that sealed the checkmate:
'No matter what he says, know that my son will cause no harm to you or your property. This I swear, as your King.'
Seething, Rhaenar rose but managed a polite smile. His Father was half correct, at least.
"Thank you for your time."
The Rhaenari watched with baited breath as their Prince reemerged from the gates.
Relief and instinct to cheer flashed across their faces until they saw the look on him: the stern brow, the promise of death, the unmistakable glare of their leader.
Silence fell.
Rhaenar ignored them. He seized an axe from an equipment porter and began hacking at a nearby oak.
Gorgeous George, who had spent his youth felling trees with his father, said, "Uhh, my Prince? What are you doing?"
"What does it look like?" Rhaenar barked. "We have to cross the river somehow." He paused to wipe sweat from his brow. "So quit gawking and lend a hand!"
For a moment, everyone froze, staring at one another.
Then they laughed.
"Bahahaha!"
"That's the Prince for you!"
"Crazy son of a bitch. I'll follow him to the end!"
"Time to earn our pay, cunts!"
The bridge was finished on the seventh day. Or at least, that's how the annals would record it.
By then, Theodore and company had arrived on the other side of the Green Fork.
The Freys watched in horror as the construction unfolded, yet none dared sally forth to impede their progress.
Once crossed, Rhaenar cast one last look at the bridge — a testament to the skill and organization of his men — before spinning Moonsong and riding away.
When the legion disappeared from view, the Freys wasted no time dismantling it.
Months later, wagons would arrive at the Crossing, payment in hand to cover the cost of the timber the Rhaenari had requisitioned.
With a message left behind:
'Mayhaps, next time, you will accept my offer.'
It did not take long for this feat to echo across the continent.