We remained at Honeyholt for a month.
There were lords who would later call the delay excessive. They would look at maps untouched by rain, blood, and hunger, then argue that Oldtown should have been pursued while Ormund’s defeat remained fresh.
From a warm chamber, the road south would appear open. The Hightower host had collapsed, Lord Bulwer had changed allegiance, thousands of Redwyne soldiers were prisoners, and Ormund had escaped with only the hardest remnants of his army.
On parchment, it resembled opportunity. On the ground, it looked like nine thousand exhausted men trying to survive what victory had done to them.
The army required rest more urgently than another march. Companies that had entered the battle with full ranks now gathered around shortened cookfires. Officers commanded soldiers whose names they were still learning because two or three shattered units had been combined into one.
Armour needed repair, horses needed replacing, and men who had remained standing through the final count began collapsing once their bodies understood that danger had passed.
Honeyholt became a hospital before it became a fortress again.
Its halls, cellars, sept, storehouses, and covered galleries filled with the wounded. Beesbury servants surrendered private chambers to officers whose injuries required quiet, while common soldiers lay upon straw pallets arranged in long rows beneath whatever roofs could keep the rain away.
The healers worked until their hands shook. They cut away dead flesh, set bones, removed arrows, burned wounds closed, and decided which men could still be saved when there was not enough time for all of them.
Some survived the battle only to die during the first week.
Fever took men whose wounds had appeared minor. Crushed limbs blackened despite every poultice placed upon them. Burns worsened beneath bandages until the smell drove neighbouring patients from the room. The dead continued leaving Honeyholt by wagon after the fighting had ended, carried toward the growing burial grounds beyond the orchards.
The final loss remained four thousand from the force that had met Ormund in the field. Fifteen hundred Reachmen, two thousand Unsullied, and five hundred Dread Legion soldiers were dead, missing, or wounded too badly to return to duty. Some among the wounded might recover after months. Others would never carry a spear again.
I refused to count men lying between life and death as future strength merely because officers wanted their numbers to look healthier. Nine thousand remained capable of forming. Even among them, many were not ready to march.
Black Rat reorganised the Unsullied without ceremony. Companies reduced below usefulness were joined to others, their surviving officers placed according to experience rather than pride.
The process left gaps where familiar formations had once stood. Unsullied did not complain about the changes, yet their silence did not mean they felt no loss. Men who had trained, marched, and fought beside the same companions for years now found strangers standing at their shoulders.
During the first inspection after the battle, Black Rat stopped before one shortened company and studied the empty space where another rank should have been.
"We can fill the line," he told me in High Valyrian, "but we cannot replace what made it a company before Honeyholt."
"No army survives a battle unchanged."
"That is something commanders say when they need survivors to resemble the dead closely enough for the next fight."
His bluntness might have offended another prince. I had promoted him partly because he did not soften truth to protect rank.
"How long before the reorganised companies can march properly?" I asked.
"They can march now. Whether they can fight another battle at the end of that march is a different question. Give them two weeks without forced movement, and they will become reliable again. Give them a month, and they may become dangerous."
"They will have the month unless Vhagar forces us to leave sooner."
Black Rat’s expression remained fixed, but his attention shifted briefly toward the sky.
Every conversation eventually returned to Vhagar.
The Dread Legion recovered differently. The Legion had always carried more personality than the Unsullied allowed themselves in formation, and the deaths of five hundred veterans showed through anger, drinking, arguments, and the silence of men who usually had too much to say.
Jasper conducted the reorganisation with less patience than Black Rat but equal care. Surviving captains were moved where experience was needed. New serjeants were chosen from soldiers who had held formation during the worst of Ormund’s assault, not those who boasted most loudly after it.
Dick complained about every promotion because each one changed the pay records.
"You insist upon reorganising companies while I am still deciding which dead men received their final wages," he said one morning inside Honeyholt’s former solar. Ledgers covered the table, accompanied by sealed purses, lists of injuries, equipment claims, and letters intended for families. "Jasper has created six new sergeants, Black Rat has combined companies whose records were never designed to be combined, and Lord Bulwer wishes to know when his men will begin receiving royal pay."
"Tell Bulwer his men begin receiving pay once Rhaenyra confirms their pardons and they enter formal service."
"He will ask how long that takes."
"Tell him ravens fly more quickly when they are not carrying complaints."
Dick looked over the top of the ledger. "I have discovered that complaints weigh almost nothing. That explains why commanders produce so many."
His irritation had become a familiar part of Honeyholt’s recovery. While healers repaired bodies and smiths restored armour, Dick rebuilt the army through numbers. He counted arrows, grain, horses, shields, boots, tents, carts, and every other object soldiers noticed only when it was missing. The month of rest would have failed within a week without him.
Our stores recovered gradually. Longtable sent grain, salted meat, and cloth. House Footly provided replacement horses and several wagons. Lord Bulwer opened what remained of his local contacts, arranging deliveries from villages that had once supplied Ormund. Honeyholt’s own stores had survived the siege better than expected, though I ordered payment recorded for everything the army consumed.
We had come as defenders. I would not allow victory to turn us into another occupying host stripping Beesbury lands bare.
Lord Bulwer remained under honourable guard during the first week, as did his senior knights. He had sworn allegiance to Rhaenyra, but one oath spoken after abandonment could not erase years of loyalty to Oldtown. His men were kept in separate camps from the Dread Legion and Unsullied until Black Rat was satisfied that weapons could be returned without inviting another fight inside our own lines.
More than half the Bulwer soldiers chose to swear for Rhaenyra.
Some did so from anger at Ormund. Others believed Aegon’s death had ended the claim they followed. A smaller number had never cared deeply which Targaryen sat the throne and merely wanted a lord who would feed them and not abandon them beneath trees.
I accepted their service without pretending every oath came from conviction. Loyalty often began as convenience. What mattered was whether time, fair treatment, and shared danger turned it into something stronger.
Lord Bulwer met with me regularly during the month. Once his men were fed and his armour cleaned, he appeared less like a starving prisoner and more like the lord who had marched beneath Ormund’s banner. The resentment remained, though it had cooled enough to become useful judgement.
"Oldtown cannot raise another host equal to the one lost here," he said during our third meeting. "House Hightower has men behind its walls and retainers across its lands, but Ormund gathered heavily before marching on Honeyholt. Many of the strongest companies followed him north. Those not dead are now prisoners, deserters, or sworn to the queen."
"What of the city watch?"
"Numerous enough to hold streets and gates, but not trained for a field campaign. Ormund may place them upon the walls, although sending them against you would leave Oldtown itself dangerously thin."
"And House Redwyne?"
"The Arbor still has men, ships, and wealth. What it lacks here are the troops who marched with Ormund. Their capture removes several thousand experienced soldiers from the Reach. Lord Redwyne may recruit replacements, but sailors and vineyard levies will not become veteran infantry because someone gives them a spear."
I studied the southern roads upon the map. "Could Ormund call fresh strength from lesser houses?"
"Some. There will always be cousins, landed knights, and household guards willing to answer Oldtown. He might gather three thousand quickly if he empties every keep between the Honeywine and the coast. Perhaps more over time. It would not be enough to meet this army in the field unless Vhagar fought above them."
There it was again. Vhagar changed every count.
Without her, Ormund had reached Oldtown with hundreds of survivors and no realistic means of contesting Honeyholt. House Bulwer had defected. Redwyne soldiers filled guarded camps outside our walls.
Fossoway had already bent after Cider Hall, while Tarly, Blackbar, Merryweather, Footly, Caswell, Ashford, and Beesbury remained aligned with Rhaenyra. Highgarden maintained the neutrality that denied Oldtown another great Reach host.
The Hightowers could defend their city. They could not easily march another army out of the Reach.
With Vhagar, even a few thousand men might be enough. Aemond could burn supply columns, break formations, and force us to remain scattered while Ormund gathered strength behind him. Dravvaxx would eventually heal, but I did not know whether his wing would recover enough to face the largest dragon alive.
During the month at Honeyholt, Dravvaxx became the measure by which I understood time.
The first week, he barely moved.
He remained upon the rise north of the castle, sleeping through most of the day while the dragonkeepers cleaned the torn membrane and treated the claw wound beneath his shoulder. He ate little. When cattle were brought, he sometimes ignored them until hunger finally overcame pain.
The sight unsettled the soldiers more than his anger ever had. An angry dragon was still powerful. A dragon too tired to threaten men standing near his wounds reminded everyone that Sunfyre had come close to killing him.
I spent part of every day beside him. There were councils, inspections, letters, and disputes requiring command, yet I returned whenever duty allowed. Sometimes I spoke. More often, I sat against the warm scales near his forelimb and listened to his breathing.
My own injuries healed quickly by comparison. The burns along my forehead and cheek blistered, peeled, and left new skin beneath. Most of my left eyebrow was gone, and the hair along that side of my head had been burned short enough that the healers finally cut the remainder to make it less absurd. Dick claimed the result made me resemble a criminal who had escaped punishment halfway through.
Rhaenyra would hate it. That thought hurt more than the burns.
I had not seen her since leaving King’s Landing. In that time, Daeron had crossed to her cause, Baela had died, Corlys had been murdered, Rhaenys had flown to Driftmark, Aegon had fallen with Sunfyre, and Aemond had taken Harrenhal. Every letter between us carried enough news to change the realm, yet no parchment could hold the conversations we needed to have.
By the second week, Dravvaxx began standing for longer periods.
The dragonkeepers removed the heavier bindings and replaced them with lighter reinforcements that allowed the wing to open partway. The main bone had not broken. That alone gave hope. The membrane could scar, and the torn muscles might recover, but only if he did not destroy their work by taking flight too soon.
I did not mount him. Each time distant horns sounded during patrol changes, his head rose, and his wings shifted. The instinct to answer remained. I kept a hand against him until the moment passed.
During the third week, he walked beyond the rise.
It was an awkward movement, his right wing held slightly away from the body so the healing membrane did not drag. Soldiers stopped to watch. Some cheered until Dravvaxx turned his head toward the sound and reminded them that his patience had not healed with the wing.
The dragonkeepers began controlled exercises after that. They stretched the injured wing gradually, inspected the scar tissue, and encouraged him to beat it without attempting to lift his full weight. Dravvaxx endured the work because I remained near and because cattle followed it.
By the fourth week, he opened both wings fully.
The right remained marked by a long, uneven scar stretching through the membrane toward the shoulder. It trembled when held too long, but it no longer collapsed. The dragonkeepers believed he might attempt a brief flight soon, though none wished to name the exact day while I listened.
"You have learned caution around me," I told the eldest keeper.
"We have learned that speaking a possibility aloud causes you to saddle it."
"That seems unfair."
"It has also proven accurate."
I allowed Dravvaxx another three days before the first test. He launched from the northern rise without armour, saddle, or rider. The movement was neither graceful nor powerful. He climbed only high enough to clear Honeyholt’s wall, circled once above the fields, and landed before the damaged wing lost strength.
The entire army watched. When his feet struck the earth safely, cheering spread from the walls to the camps. Even the Unsullied allowed spear shafts to strike shields in measured approval. Dravvaxx raised his head beneath the noise, silver eyes bright with something close to offended dignity.
He had flown. That did not mean he was ready for war. I made that distinction clear to every officer before ambition transformed one short flight into another campaign.
The month also gave us time to settle the prisoners. Thousands of Redwyne men remained under guard. They were moved into organised camps south of Honeyholt, surrounded by earthworks and watched by mixed companies so no single commander became too familiar with them. Common soldiers received adequate food, shelter, and work. Officers remained separated inside the castle or under stronger guard near the walls.
Several Redwyne knights offered personal oaths to Rhaenyra in exchange for release. I refused to decide their cases without the queen.
House Bulwer had changed allegiance as a body after being abandoned by Ormund. The Redwynes remained tied to a powerful fleet still in rebellion. Allowing individual officers to escape captivity by speaking convenient words would weaken the value of every genuine oath and return experienced leaders to the Arbor.
They remained prisoners. The decision angered them, though anger behind a guarded ditch was preferable to Redwyne captains returning to ships that could threaten Rhaenyra’s coast.
By the end of the month, Honeyholt no longer resembled the desperate castle I had reached moments before its gate fell. The walls had been repaired where possible. The northern approach was cleared of burned siege works. Fresh timber reinforced the gates, and temporary towers watched the roads leading toward the forest and Oldtown.
The forest itself had become quieter.
Our soldiers removed the last Hightower traps, buried bodies left in shallow pits, and cleared abandoned camps. Baela’s coffin had been sent under heavy escort toward Driftmark after Rhaenys’s reply arrived. The message contained few words. She confirmed that the body was to be brought home and promised that Driftmark would receive her with the honour Ormund had denied.
She said nothing about forgiving my refusal at the parley. I did not expect her to.
News from Harrenhal remained uncertain throughout the month.
The first reports had placed Aemond within the ruined castle after Lord Simon Strong’s death. Vhagar was seen resting beyond the walls, too large for any courtyard Harrenhal could offer. Aemond’s men controlled the nearby roads, while riders loyal to him searched villages for information about Daemon’s movements.
Then the sightings stopped.
No great dragon shadow remained over Harrenhal. Scouts approaching from the east found signs that Vhagar had departed, though none agreed upon the direction. Some villagers claimed she flew south.
Others swore the dragon turned east toward the Crownlands. One merchant insisted he saw her heading north beneath storm clouds, while a captured rider said Aemond had left no man alive who knew his destination.
Aemond had seemingly disappeared.
He did not abandon Harrenhal entirely. Green soldiers continued holding the castle, but the prince and Vhagar were gone from sight. That made the fortress less immediately dangerous and the whole realm more so.
A dragon at Harrenhal could be marked upon a map. Vhagar unseen could appear anywhere.
Daemon and Jace remained west of the castle with the river and northern armies. Lord Humfrey Lefford continued retreating toward the Golden Tooth, harassed by riverlords but not yet destroyed. The road between Daemon and the Crownlands remained uncertain, because even if Vhagar no longer rested at Harrenhal, no commander could march beneath the assumption that she would not return halfway through the crossing.
King’s Landing might be Aemond’s target. Driftmark might be. The Reach remained possible. Oldtown now sheltered Ormund, and Aemond might decide the Hightowers required the protection of the only great Green dragon left alive. If he came south, our month of recovery would end beneath wings large enough to cover Honeyholt’s towers in shadow.
Each morning, watchers searched the sky. Each evening, they reported nothing. The absence became its own pressure.
At the end of the month, I gathered Black Rat, Dick, Jasper, Landrey, Lord Bulwer, and the principal Reach commanders inside Honeyholt’s hall. The army had rested, the wounded who could recover had begun returning to light duty, and Dravvaxx had flown three short circuits without reopening the scar.
Our position was stronger than it had been after the battle. It was not permanent.
"The Hightowers cannot gather another field army capable of meeting us here," I said. "Bulwer has defected. Their Redwyne infantry remains in our custody. Ormund returned to Oldtown with hundreds rather than thousands, and Highgarden still denies him the banners he needs to rebuild quickly."
Lord Bulwer inclined his head. "Oldtown will defend itself, but Ormund cannot march again unless Aemond brings more than Vhagar. Men will not join another Hightower host easily after learning what happened in the forest."
Dick studied the map. "That leaves us with the question of whether we advance toward Oldtown, remain here, or return east before something more dangerous happens elsewhere."
"We do not decide until the next reports arrive from the Riverlands and Driftmark," I said. "Dravvaxx can fly, but he is not ready for sustained combat. The army can march, though another forced campaign would undo much of this month’s recovery. Honeyholt remains the strongest position from which to contain Oldtown while we wait."
Landrey’s fingers rested near Harrenhal on the map. "Waiting gives Aemond freedom to choose where the next battle happens."
"Marching blindly gives him the same freedom while making us tired when he arrives."
Black Rat spoke in High Valyrian. "The unseen enemy wants every army to fear the place he is not. If we chase every rumour, we will defeat ourselves before Vhagar appears."
"He is correct," I said. "We hold until we know enough to move with purpose."
The decision satisfied no one completely. That usually meant it was sensible.
After the council, I returned to the northern rise. Dravvaxx stood beneath the late afternoon light with his wings folded. The long scar remained visible through the right membrane, darker and thicker than the surrounding flesh. He had healed enough to carry me again. Whether he had healed enough to face Vhagar was a question I had no desire to test.
I rested my hand against his neck and looked north-east.
The Hightower threat in the Reach had been contained. Their host had been destroyed, captured, or scattered. Oldtown could no longer send an army capable of challenging us in the open. Honeyholt stood, and the queen’s banners flew across lands Ormund had expected to punish into obedience.
For one month, the army had rested. For one month, our wounded had healed, our dead had been buried, and our surviving companies had learned how to stand beside new faces. For one month, Vhagar had not been seen.
That absence was the only threat our victory had not contained. Somewhere beyond the horizon, Aemond Targaryen and the largest dragon alive were moving without banners, ravens, or scouts able to tell us where.
The Reach was quiet. I did not mistake quiet for safety.