In the distance, the village of Brindlewood rested quietly. Smoke rose from a few chimneys, but otherwise it appeared untouched. It was like a quiet doe staring out from a forest at a busy city in the distance, for not far from the village was the military camp of the loyalist forces of Duskendale. The tents had been arranged in an orderly manner, and a few fires had been set, since it was about time for the afternoon meal. Some soldiers were walking about, having a chat. Others were with their superiors, engaged in training. Still others sat near their tents, sharpening their swords on whetstones or playing music from whatever instrument they could carry.
At the largest tent in the camp, the gust of wind that had picked up caused the flap to flutter like a banner. Under the flap, one could see a thin woman in light armor. She had one hand uncovered, her pale flesh visible over her slender knuckles and fingers. The other hand was metal, and still – almost limp. A helmet rested on the edge of the table, nose-guard hanging off the very end. The white hair of the woman was bundled up behind her head in a tight braid. As a commotion rose outside the tent, Rhaena looked up from the papers on the table before her. There were no maps on it – she really had no need for them, since Duskendale was so easy to navigate for most of her officers. Instead, there were lists of how many men they had raised, who was commanded by whom, as well as a handful of messages that had been arriving for the past day. One of them, the most recent one, announced the arrival of her husband.
The commotion had been a quick conversation that was over in a moment. It had sounded like someone speaking in loud terms, while another tried to calm them. What the subject matter had been, Rhaena wasn’t sure. As silence came over the area outside the tent, it was soon filled with the rising sound of clinking armor, and the familiar
thump-thump-thump of boots on the ground. All at once, the flap of the tent was pulled aside, and a tall man with long-flowing white hair appeared. He gave her a smile as his violet eyes settled on her. “Hello, my lady.”
Rhaena lowered her gaze to the papers before her. “Lord husband...”
Rhaekar stood there, as if considering something. Rhaena knew that when she treated him this way, it drove him insane. He never became angry, but he was clearly frustrated at what to do. He had been attempting to play blessed septon with her, being all smiles and cheerfulness even as her purple eyes bore daggers into his heart. She had been countering it by increasing the size of the wall she had before him. She really couldn’t think of anything else to do: when she heard his voice, she heard the words that echoed off the walls of the throne room, announcing his decision to go with Ser Daeron; when she saw his smile, she saw the look he gave the newly anointed King Daeron as the latter thanked him; when she felt the warmth of his body in bed, all she could do was feel a chill as she realized she was sleeping beside the same man who had tossed away the rightful claim of House Targaryen to another, lesser house. She was the true heir to the Iron Throne, and yet the Unicorn Prince had taken it away from her. Why? She couldn’t understand. It had been a deep betrayal – even deeper that it had been done by her husband.
As Rhaekar always seemed to do, he overlooked this offense. She expected him at any moment to use “the horn of the unicorn” he was so apt to use as a threat against inferiors who disrespected him. It had become something of a legend associated with him. “Lord Rhaekar thrust the horn of the unicorn across the kingdom and brought peace,” many had said. Elonne had even made mention of Rhaekar using “the horn of the unicorn” against Hugh Hammer. Rhaena had asked Elonne about that claim, since everyone knew that Hugh Hammer had died in a fire at a whorehouse. Elonne had smiled nervously and said that it was a rumor – a legend in some circles, even. Rumor, legend, or truth, it certainly to the aura that had grown around Rhaekar’s person. Nonetheless, he never seemed to use that “horn of a unicorn” against her. Indeed, just as he always had in the past, he simply shrugged off the offense and continued his line of thought.
“How many men are under our command?” Rhaekar asked.
“Just under three thousand,” Rhaena replied.
“And House Byrch? How many have they raised?”
“Just under two thousand.”
“Three thousand and a dragon versus two thousand and no dragon. Very good odds.”
Rhaena lowered her eyes to the table. She looked at nothing in particular. “Jem-Jem shall make short work of them.”
“Yes, indeed. Are you aware that your dragon ate a local farmer’s cow?”
“Yes. She was hungry, lord husband.”
“And the farmer was
livid. I was speaking with him on the way in here. I had to compensate him for the price of two cows before he left. I know campaigns often bring headaches to the smallfolk, but could you at least control your pet?”
Rhaena glanced at Rhaekar, only for a second, then back at the table. “I shall try.”
“Good.” Rhaekar fidgeted with his gloves, then took them off. His large, hard fingers curled and flexed as he relaxed his hands. Rhaena took notice, and the thought reminded her of… warmer times. Times in their marriage when they made love in a regular basis. Rhaekar had a strength she had never expected, and his hands often proved it. She felt a shiver – a mixture of want and disgust – as she remembered a time when she used to make love to this man who had betrayed her. Why was she thinking about that now? It had been a long time since either of them had made love, to be sure… but why think about it now?
“Where is Lord Byrch?” Rhaekar asked.
“In the Antlers.” Rhaena lifted up her eyes, staring out the waving flap of the tent. Beyond was the west. “Lord Buckwell is with him.”
“But that still amounts to only two-thousand. Most excellent work on the information, my lady.” He grinned at her, and Rhaena made the mistake of looking at him. He had a certain smile that he noticed he only gave her, and no other woman. He would curl his lips, and his eyebrows would raise slightly – very, very slightly. It was a subtle gesture, but a noticeable one for her. Once, in the beginning of their marriage, she’d seen him give her that look when she caught him watching her undress. It sent another shiver up her spine, which she attempted to suppress, though with less success than before. “I say we go and meet him. We put him to flight, lay siege of Byrch Hall, and see about ending this rebellion quickly.”
“Shall I give the order to move out then?”
“Yes. Let us see if we can defeat them in battle tomorrow, then end the war within a month.”
The next day, the Duskendale army came upon the Byrch army easily enough. As a dark fog settled on the field in the waking hours of the morning, Rhaena strolled from her tent (she had not slept in the same tent as Rhaekar) towards Jelmamza. She found the dragon chained to a large pole, though the chain was only loosely tied about her neck. Rhaena knew full well that Jelmamza would not depart from her, for the dragon loved her dearly, and she loved it. Even as Rhaena approved, Jelmamza lifted her now great head, dish-sized eyes staring across at her. The dragon had experienced quite a growth spurt in the past month or two, and though not as huge as any of the dragons boasted by the Conqueror or his sister-wives, she was still big enough to ride on, and would pack some damage on the field.
“Jem-Jem, my darling,” Rhaena cooed. The dragon blew smoke from its nostrils and leaned its head forward, offering it to Rhaena to pet. The lady did so, running her only true hand along the middle of the dragon’s forehead, rising up between its horns. “Did you sleep well? Today, we kill traitors.”
As the fog cleared, and the sun rose, the battle armies formed. Rhaekar commanded the western flank, while Lord Rolland Hollard, who had remained loyal, commanded the eastern flank. Rhaena commanded the center, which she observed from high in the sky. Atop Jelmamza, Rhaena could at last feel the wind against her flesh, and the superiority of her position above all others. At long last, she could feel
alive. She could feel
Targaryen. People had laughed and scorned her behind her back when the dragon in her first egg died, and again when her second dragon betrayed her. Her sister had been the successful dragon rider, while she had been seen as a girl cursed to live forever on the ground. Not anymore. The gods had been good to her. The rest of the Targaryens were dead, but this one – this young girl, high in the sky – still drew breath. And now, she rode her dragon, who likewise drew breath – and that breath was fire.
The armies advanced against one another, each column moving forward steadily. Rhaena observed the banners of House Byrch on the enemy’s western flank, and supposed that her husband would be facing up against Lord Byrch himself. Jelmamza flapped her wings a few times as she kept herself stable in the uplift, content now for circling the battlefield as the battle lines came closer and closer. In sporadic waves, arrows flew from both sides, landing and dealing deadly blows. In the center and eastern flanks, the forces advanced in slow, certain tempos, banners fluttering in the wind.
Rhaena leaned down. In a loud voice, heard above the flapping of Jelmamza’s winds and the gust of the wind, she declared, “Jem-Jem, burn them.”
The dragon let out a battle cry. She craned her neck, and at once both dragon and rider went down at a sharp angle towards the ground. Rhaena had no fear as the ground became as present before her as the horizon had been. As they neared the ground, just above the enemy’s center flank, Jelmamza lifted up her head and opened her mouth. A heat emanated from the the beast’s throat. A split second later, the dragon’s ugly face lunged forward. Fire blew from its mouth. The flames shot down like a great arm into into the middle of the rebel forces. Men cried as they were engulfed in flames. The dragon’s flames continued to spring forth from its throat, like the pouring of a waterfall. The reptile swung up, flapping its wings a few times as it straightened itself. The fire tore down the middle, then finally abated. Arrows flew up and around them. Rhaena felt the whiz of one by her ear, but she was untouched. As Jelmamza turned to her left, Rhaena glanced back. For a moment, she saw a line right down the middle of the enemy’s center column, with burnt corpses filling in the gap. A moment later, the enemy line reformed, as men tried to maintain as much discipline as possible.
Rhaena made another flame run, with as much the same result. Once again, arrows were lodged her way, and once again, they missed their mark. Now Rhaena turned to the other flanks. She saw that the western flanks for both forces had clashed mightily, and the hardest fighting of the battle so far had begun. By the way Lord Byrch’s forces had advanced further from the line, she presumed he had attempted a flanking maneuver. It was a poor choice: Rhaena knew that Rhaekar’s men were well trained, and all veterans of the Dance; Byrch’s men had done little more during the Dance than keep dust off the ramparts of Byrch Hall. Many of Byrch’s front-line men were in retreat, fleeing towards the rear. They moved through a line of men with large shields, who were pushing forward in an obvious attempt to turn the tide. Some of Rhaekar’s forces clashed against them, but made little headway.
Suddenly, as if he had sprung out of the ground, Rhaena saw a familiar warrior clad in dark armor spring forward from the battle line. It crashed against the shield wall, just missing the thrusts of spears and swords. With one strike, the man cut down one of the men at enemy combatants, sending him sprawling to the ground. For a moment, a hole in the shield wall formed – a hole which the rider used to his advantage. He rode his horse forward, swinging his sword one way, and then the other, to deadly effect. His men, spurned by the bravery, swarmed towards him. Before Lord Byrch’s men could reform, the hole had increase, and the line was crumbling apart.
The rider had survived, though blood of his enemies coated his armor and his horse’s sides. As the battle reached this critical moment, he reached up and tossed his helmet away. Long, silver hair tumbled out and flowed about his back. He held up his sword and gave out a cry before motioning towards his front. Lord Byrch’s men were no long in retreat, but in a route, with Rhaekar’s men in pursuit. The entire enemy western flank crumbled. Several knights took Rhaekar’s flanks, holding their swords aloft and crying out:
“UNICORN! UNICORN! UNICORN!”
A heroic deed, Rhaena thought.
And so… dashing...
With the western flank destroyed, Rhaekar turned his men against the center. Rhaena renewed her attacks with Jelmamza. Soon both the center and eastern flanks gave way, and the Byrch Hall levies fell apart. The battle was won.
Casualties for Lord Byrch had been great. Duskendale had only lost about 150 men, while almost 500 men could be accounted for from the enemy side. These were losses Lord Byrch could not afford, and everyone knew it. His forces retreated to Byrch Hall, which the Duskendale army promptly besieged. Soon a circle of unicorns had surrounded the plain castle, their upraised forms dancing about on the banners.
Rhaena had not seen much of Rhaekar after the battle. It had only been a day between then and the beginning of the siege, and Rhaekar had spent much of it with some of his men on patrol, securing the area around Byrch Hall. He returned the next night, joining his wife in her tent. He walked in as she was in her chemise, brushing her hair and preparing for bed. She turned and shot him a sharp look with her purple eyes. “What are you doing here, lord husband?”
Rhaekar raised an eyebrow. He took off his gloves, which, like much of his dark armor, had been covered in the dust and dirt of that day’s travels. “We sleep in the same bed during peace. I presumed it would be no different during war.”
An uneasy silence fell in the tent… but in Rhaena’s mind, there was no silence. Emotions, thoughts, and feelings plagued each other, attacking and shooting barbs.
This insolent kingmaker! Kick him out! Kick him out at once! And yet, how handsome was he in battle the other day? Like a hero out of legend. Like someone from the tapestries of old. He was like Aegon the Conqueror, reborn. No, he is a traitor to the Targaryen line! He pledged loyalty to Rhaenyra, then betrayed her daughter! But was it really betrayal? And… was not the bed cold last night…?
“Was I wrong to presume as much?” Rhaekar asked. “I have never forced a woman to bed with me, and I am certainly not going to start as much with my wife.”
Rhaena’s mind suddenly went blank. She turned to the small mirror resting on the table before her. As the brush went back to her hair, a simple “Hm!” left her throat.
Rhaekar curled half his lip, then went over to the bedside. He untied his chest-piece, and began to disassemble it. They have no hope. Lord Hollard believes they might be done within a month or two. This war was far too easy.”
Though her face gazed at the Targaryen in the mirror, she watched the Valzyren out of the corner of her eyes. She watched as the chest piece came off, revealing the firm, broad shoulders and the slim waist. The tunic he wore did little to hide them – the sweat of the day had made them cling to him like a long lost lover. And… had it not been quite a while since they made love?
“Perhaps, lord husband.”
Rhaekar glanced Rhaena’s way, then back forward. He kicked off his boots, and then he began to tug at the tights clinging to his feet. “Rhaena… I know you have been upset with me. I cannot blame you. However, I must ask that you show more courteousness when you are around others. I cannot have Elonne or other servants thinking it is alright to insult me. I still deserve respect as your husband.”
Rhaena glanced down at her lap. Her hands, clutching the brush, were there. Her thumb ran along the handle gently.
“And Laena… I would like her to grow up seeing what a true relationship is like.”
Rhaena placed the brush on the desk before her. She turned her head, some of her silver locks tumbling over one of her shoulders. Rhaekar had taken off his shirt. She remembered their wedding night, when he had begun to undress. A wave of emotions came over her that she had not felt in months.
“If you do not love me, well...” Rhaekar sighed. “I cannot help that. But for Laena’s sake, and for the court’s sake, please, at least treat me as your lord husband.”
Rhaena stood up. She began to walk towards Rhaekar. Suddenly, she stopped. She stood there, a few feet from him, staring at him silently. Rhaekar turned and saw her. He tossed his tunic onto a nearby stool, and stared back. “What is it?”
Rhaena reached up and undid the knot at the top of her chemise. As she lowered her arms, it began to slide down her shoulders, her arms, over her body...
“I wish to apologize… lord husband...”