Chapter 3: The Three Heroes of King's
Landing
King's Landing.
Once the commander for the Stepstones expedition was decided, the pace of war throughout the capital visibly quickened.
The clatter of spears, swords, and iron armor echoed through the streets, drowning out all other sounds.
Since there was no choice left, only war remained.
Aegon IV Targaryen—the promiscuous, amorous, and absurdly prolific mediocre king—had left the sparks of chaos behind even on his deathbed. Like a stallion that refused to die quietly, he had scattered disaster across the realm.
The shadow of House Blackfyre had loomed over Westeros ever since, unwilling to abandon its desire for the Iron Throne, stubbornly claiming it as its rightful inheritance.
Again and again, the Blackfyres had raised their banners in rebellion, plaguing five generations of House Targaryen. Though every uprising had ended in failure, the repeated wars and large-scale bloodshed had scarred the realm deeply.
Fortunately, by this era, dragons had long since vanished from the world. Otherwise, Dragonseeds slaughtering one another would have been a calamity even more terrifying than the Dance of the Dragons itself.
"Maelys Blackfyre—the Monstrous. A kinslayer. Captain-General of the Golden Company."
The voice was calm, firm, and authoritative.
Within the Hand's Tower, Ser Ormund Baratheon, Hand of the King, issued his orders. Ravens came and went from the Red Keep in a constant stream.
"This year, the Blackfyre bloodline will be extinguished," he continued. "And the Seven Kingdoms will finally know peace."
The vast lands of Westeros were being mobilized.
From the Iron Islands, the Westerlands, and the Riverlands, to the Crownlands and the Stormlands—forces from multiple kingdoms were gathered, determined to end the war in a single decisive strike.
People were tired.
Tired of blood.
Tired of fire.
Tired of tears.
And most of all, tired of the Blackfyres' endless rebellions.
The Blackfyre line was already withering. Killing the rampaging Maelys would bring everything to an end…
The reception chamber within the Hand's Tower was far smaller than the king's audience hall, yet no less refined. It was quiet and dignified, decorated with Myrish carpets, golden round windows, and a mural depicting a dragon standing beside a stag.
House Baratheon had always been a steadfast pillar beneath House Targaryen. Who could have imagined that after a few turns of fate, dragon and stag would one day become bitter enemies in another era?
But no one present paid the décor any mind. Their thoughts had already traveled thousands of miles away, toward the distant battlefield.
Ser Ormund Baratheon wore a dark leather surcoat, the crowned stag of his house fastened proudly at his chest.
"Prince Aerys Targaryen. Steffon Baratheon. Tywin Lannister."
His gaze passed over the three young men standing before him.
"The finest young men of our generation," he said slowly. "The future of the realm."
For a brief moment, Ormund seemed to see his own youth reflected in them—unrestrained, ambitious, and sharp-edged. Back then, his smile had been just as bright as a drawn blade.
Tywin, with golden hair and pale green eyes.
Steffon, black-haired and blue-eyed.
Aerys, silver-haired, with striking indigo eyes.
Each bore the unmistakable marks of their lineage.
They tried to appear composed and mature, yet traces of youth still lingered in their expressions.
Young, tall, and vigorous—each of them was like a newly forged sword, gleaming and untested.
When called, all three bowed, respectful yet proud.
They were the golden generation of King's Landing—the heirs and future lords of Westeros.
Their ancestors' glory weighed upon their shoulders, and their hearts burned with a desire to earn even greater honor upon the battlefield.
At this moment, a swaddled infant lay in Prince Aerys's arms.
Prince Rhaegar Targaryen.
"And of course," Ser Ormund added, his tone softening slightly, "the hope of the next generation—Prince Rhaegar."
His eyes lingered on the child, as though he could already glimpse a peaceful future reflected in the infant's gaze.
Rhaegar respected the old man deeply.
Unfortunately, there was no perfect plan yet that would allow Ser Ormund to live a few more years.
Rhaegar's eyes shifted toward Tywin.
The golden-haired youth was undeniably handsome, but a faint, barely concealed gloom lingered beneath his calm exterior.
The exploits of the Laughing Lion were already spreading across the Seven Kingdoms, yet Tywin bore the weight of endless rumors. Other houses increasingly looked down upon House Lannister, and that quiet disdain only fed the fire in his heart.
At this time, Tywin was likely accumulating strength at every moment, driven by a sense of duty to restore and defend the lion's pride.
As for Prince Aerys and Steffon Baratheon, they appeared far more open and straightforward.
Aerys, at least for now, was not too bad. He still looked every bit the charming young prince—especially with Rhaegar's birth filling him with joy. At this point in time, father and son were still genuinely harmonious.
The elders were desperate to bind dragon, lion, and stag together—hoping the three would grow up as close friends and form an unbreakable alliance.
The alliance of Dragon, Lion, and Stag was, in truth, a brilliant strategy. The lions provided gold, the stags provided soldiers, and with the support of Dorne, the Reach, and the Riverlands, House Targaryen's power would eclipse that of any rival.
Unfortunately, this flawless arrangement would one day be rendered meaningless—when Aerys went mad and overturned the table himself.
Rhaegar felt a flicker of annoyance toward Aerys, though his infant body left him powerless to escape his father's embrace.
Moreover, Aerys's eventual descent into madness reeked of conspiracy. Was it the Three-Eyed Crow? Or the influence of the Citadel and its maesters?
Rhaegar intended to uncover the truth.
To change the future, time was his greatest advantage.
"Maelys Blackfyre is powerful," Ser Ormund said steadily, "but we are stronger. The Iron Islands and the Westerlands stand with us. Maelys is a kinslayer—the Seven themselves despise such men. He will meet a wretched end."
The curse of kinslaying was no mere superstition. In Westeros, it carried crushing psychological weight and universal hatred.
"I will personally cut off Maelys Blackfyre's two heads and reclaim the Blackfyre sword," Prince Aerys declared with fervor.
Rhaegar almost rolled his eyes.
Aerys was exactly the type of man who knew he was not exceptional—yet stubbornly believed he surpassed everyone else.
He possessed no overwhelming talent, no extraordinary martial skill, yet he always thought himself superior.
"War is no game," Ser Ormund said gravely. "You must all safeguard your lives."
On the battlefield, politicians delivered speeches, nobles chased glory, and parents sacrificed their sons.
Swords and spears had no eyes. War was filled with uncertainty and lethal chance.
All three young men nodded solemnly.
In truth, as members of the second echelon, they would be deployed with care, surrounded by elite guards. Even so, Ser Ormund remained uneasy.
The realm's most promising youths were priceless assets.
What worried Rhaegar most, however, was Ser Ormund himself.
The War of the Ninepenny Kings would end in victory—but Ser Ormund Baratheon would die of his wounds.
Prince Aerys, a man who rose too quickly and too early, thrived on praise.
What he truly lacked was a seasoned statesman like Ser Ormund at his side.
By blood, by authority, and by experience, Ser Ormund was one of the few men Aerys would not dare ignore.
According to tradition, Ser Ormund would act as regent—delaying the day when Aerys and Tywin slowly turned from allies into rivals.
A way had to be found.
A way to keep the Hand of the King alive.