From King's Landing to the Stepstones stretched an endless expanse of sea.
King's Landing was warm and comfortable, yet no one could truly enjoy that peace.
For how could anyone ignore the suffering of their kin and pretend nothing was happening?
Never. Never again.
On the front lines, warriors shed sweat and blood.
Behind them, women, children, and the elderly shed tears.
On the days the army sailed for the Stepstones, the septons of King's Landing were busier than ever. Faith was the closest refuge people could grasp. When all roads ended, belief became irresistible.
The Targaryens did not join the common folk in crowding the Great Sept of Baelor. Within the Red Keep, they had a quiet chamber reserved for prayer.
The ancient Dragonlords of Valyria had believed in nothing—nothing but dragons and power. Even when they acknowledged gods, it was merely theater, a tool to placate slaves and the lowborn. In Essos, they had trampled faiths, burned priesthoods, erased entire nations.
When they had dragons, they trusted only dragons.
They mocked gods and temples alike.
When the dragons died, only the Seven remained.
The sept was solemn and serene. Seven crystal faces shimmered—Warrior, Maiden, Mother. Incense drifted through the air as prayers merged into a flowing river of whispers, quiet and devout.
Sunlight filtered through stained glass, casting sacred hues upon every face.
Rhaegar watched as his grandparents and mother prayed with true sincerity—praying for peace to come sooner, praying for the soldiers to return alive.
The House of the Dragon had already entered its twilight. And now, even its faith was genuine.
Compared to the earlier Blackfyre rebellions, Maelys Blackfyre's strength was not overwhelming. The first rebellion had engulfed half the Seven Kingdoms in flame. This time, the war was confined to the Stepstones.
But after the tragedy of Summerhall, House Targaryen had been left thin-blooded, with no great warriors to command its banners.
That was the reality of Westeros. War never truly ceased. Between Westeros and Essos, peace was a fragile illusion. The realm trusted warriors more than schemers, steel more than scholarship.
King Jaehaerys II was frail by nature, never raised to rule. His ascent to the Iron Throne had been an accident of fate.
Summerhall's wildfire had taken Aegon V, Prince Duncan, and Ser Duncan the Tall in a single night—forcing Jaehaerys onto history's stage far too early.
Had even one of those men lived, the king would not need to bear such weight alone.
As prayers continued, Jaehaerys's thoughts had already drifted thousands of miles away—to the Stepstones, the powder keg of the Narrow Sea.
I hope my presence brings Duke Manderly a little luck, Rhaegar thought.
The Stepstones.
The skies had only just cleared. The sea wind was cold and damp.
Ironborn longships lined the horizon, black hulls bearing gold-marked kraken banners snapping violently in the wind. They sailed the outer perimeter, escorting the transport ships carrying Duke Manderly and the main host.
The Ninepenny Kings had seized the terrain first, fortifying beaches across the islands.
Antlers, pits, sharpened stakes—defenses everywhere.
The longships spread out. Hardened Ironborn sailors maneuvered with brutal efficiency, securing the landing routes.
All eyes, however, were fixed on Bloodstone.
The largest island of the Stepstones.
Now under the control of Maelys Blackfyre and the Golden Company.
Maelys commanded the strongest force. The Golden Company—closest thing Essos had to a standing army—was disciplined, ruthless, and deadly.
The great lords would crack Bloodstone first. Lesser houses would mop up the remaining islands.
Many Ironborn cast resentful glances toward the ship of King Quellon Greyjoy.
In their eyes, this war was wasted opportunity. With the Iron Throne distracted, the western coasts lay ripe for reaving. Yet the old king had abandoned the Old Way.
Still, none dared defy him.
Quellon Greyjoy was a warrior-king—towering, powerful, sharp as a blade. Since Aegon's Conquest, no lord of the Iron Islands had ruled with greater authority.
Though forced into this war, the Ironborn remained what they had always been—children of the cold, cruel sea. Lean, gray-haired, born to strike fast and vanish faster.
They would not fight on land. Securing the sea was already the limit of their tolerance.
Ironborn blood was meant for reaving—not for kings.
On Duke Manderly's flagship, banners converged into a single tapestry:
the red dragon on black, the crowned stag, the roaring lion, the leaping silver trout.
The old kraken did not attend the war council. No one expected him to. The Iron Fleet alone had already tilted the balance of the war.
Without sea control, this campaign would have been doomed from the start.
Beneath the command banner, the lords gathered around Duke Manderly.
Closest stood Ser Gerold Hightower—the White Bull—cloaked in white.
Ser Jason Lannister, the Golden Lion.
Lord Hoster Tully.
And, crowding in uninvited, Count Roger Reyne—the Red Lion.
Outer circle: Prince Aerys, Ser Tywin Lannister, Ser Steffon Baratheon, Brynden "Blackfish" Tully, and the Bold—Ser Barristan Selmy.
By rights, Barristan should not have been present.
But a knight personally acknowledged by Prince Rhaegar—and by two kings—was a knight worth betting on. Duke Manderly had insisted the White Bull bring him along.
The oak campaign table was small, nearly swallowed by armored bodies. Few had seats. None complained.
To stand beside Duke Manderly was worth more than a thousand soft cushions.
Are we not the greatest knights of our age?
Roger Reyne was practically glowing. A man of his station had never stood in such company. Victory here might elevate House Reyne to the ranks of the realm's true powers.
"Cut off the Black Dragon's head, and the war ends," Duke Manderly declared. "The Ninepenny Kings are a loose alliance. Once Maelys Blackfyre falls, the rest will scatter."
Heads nodded. This much was settled.
"The terrain on Bloodstone is tight. Too many men will clog the field. Ser Gerold and I will lead the vanguard with Baratheon forces. Ser Jason, you hold the Lannister troops in reserve.
"If my banner falls, command passes to Ser Gerold. After that—Seven willing—Lord Hoster."
Hoster Tully stiffened but said nothing.
Ser Jason exhaled quietly. The hardest fighting would fall to Duke Manderly himself—a mark of true leadership.
"I, Jason of House Lannister," he said firmly, "accept. If my banner falls, command will pass to Count Roger Reyne."
Roger blinked, then nodded solemnly. Western men—Lannister or not—were his responsibility now.
Duke Manderly drew his sword and raised it skyward.
"Bloodstone will be the grave of House Blackfyre."
Steel rang as blades were drawn.
"The grave of the Blackfyres!"
"End House Blackfyre!"
Voices thundered into the sky, swords converging toward a single point.
The war had begun.